Author: Kristan Higgins

“Do tell,” Ethan murmurs, watching my hands as I slowly undo the next button. He swallows.

“Move that cat,” I say, going on to the next button. Ethan obeys without taking his eyes off the pink lace of my bra. Fat Mikey lifts a leg to start a little inappropriate social grooming, but Ethan gives him a gentle shove with his foot, and the cat seems to sigh in disgust, walking off with his tail twitching.

Grinning a little and hoping I don’t look like a total ass, I sit on Ethan’s lap. “Glad to be back?” I ask, reaching to undo his tie.

“I suppose,” he says, smiling into my eyes.

“You suppose. Well, I suppose I’ll have to try to make you really, really glad.” I tip his face up and kiss him, a slow, wet, soft kiss. He slides his hands up my leg and makes a little noise in the back of his throat. His mouth is hot and hungry, but, feeling he deserves a little show, I break the kiss, then take his hand and put it over my heart.

“Did you bring me a present?” I whisper.

His eyes are unfocused. “What?”

“Do you have something for me?”

Ethan grins. “I do,” he answers.

“Will I like it?”

“I hope so,” he says with that smile. His thumb slides over the lace of my bra, and my girl parts clench hard and hot.

“I have something for you, too,” I murmur, definitely getting into the role of sex kitten now. I unbutton his shirt as slowly as I did my own, resting my hand over his heart for a second, gratified to find it pounding. Ethan’s hand slides up my back and unhooks my bra.

“Clever,” I whisper. “One-handed and all.”

“Thanks,” he grins, and whatever guilt I might’ve felt earlier that night is gone, and Ethan is all that matters.

This is new for us, this teasing little seduction. Being with Ethan has always been…well, fairly urgent. In the past, we’d pounce on each other. Clothes would be torn off, shoved aside, thrown around the room…not removed inch by inch. In the past, it was something more primal, less emotional. But this is more meaningful, more…

I want to tell him I love him, but the words stay firmly lodged in my heart. “I missed you,” I whisper again. It’s the best I can do for now.

His shirt is open now, and I turn my attention to his belt, trailing a series of biting little kisses down his neck while I unbuckle.

“I think I’ll go away more oft—” he starts to say, but his words are cut off as I kiss him again, fierce and hot, and he actually laughs, then shifts me so I’m underneath him on the couch, his weight hard and heavy and wonderful on top of me. I sling a leg over his hips, getting a groan as a reward.

Ethan kisses a particularly sensitive spot just below my collarbone, his beard scraping, his lips velvet and hot, moving lower. I moan and arch most wantonly against him. Smokin’, ladies and gentlemen. Smokin’.

Then I hear the sound, but hey. I’m horny. Ethan’s gifted at what he’s doing, and my brain fails to grasp the significance of the sound. Dimly I think Fat Mikey and ignore it in lieu of…oh, yes, Ethan’s hand is under my skirt, his fingers skimming, don’t stop that, big boy—

“Holy Mother of God! Marie, turn around!”

I convulse so hard that Ethan is bucked off like a cowboy riding an enraged Brahma bull, and instinctively, I roll onto the floor with him before my brain registers what’s actually happening. My sweater gapes open, my unhooked bra flopping ineffectively. My cat crouches under the coffee table, hissing since we almost squished him. Ethan’s pants are undone, his shirt half off, a red mark on his neck (for God’s sake, what was I thinking?). I scramble to close my sweater (and legs, gah!) and clutch a pillow to my chest.

My in-laws stand before me, horror-stricken, Gianni shielding his eyes, Marie with both hands over her heart.

“Ethan,” Marie wails, “for the love of God, what are you doing to Jimmy’s wife?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ETHAN ZIPS AND BUCKLES, JERKING HIS SHIRT closed. “Give us a minute,” he barks over his shoulder at his parents.

They obey frantically, almost falling over each other in a stampede to the door. “We’ll be right out here!” Marie calls, as if reminding us that they’ll be listening should Ethan and I decide to finish the deed. The door slams shut behind them.

“Forget to mention something?” Ethan bites out, buttoning his shirt with sharp, almost violent movements.

“No!” I snarl. “I didn’t know they were coming! They just moved!”

“Tell me about it,” Ethan growls. He won’t look at me. “I’m guessing you haven’t told them about us.”

Dang it! “No, I didn’t,” I answer, wincing.

“Well, this is just great,” he snaps. “Thanks, Luce. They weren’t going to approve under the best of circumstances. Now they think I’m a rapist.”

“Oh, Ethan, they do not,” I say, feeling the dangerous wriggle of laughter flopping around in my stomach.

His shirt is buttoned wrong, and seeing Ethan disheveled, he who’s usually so perfectly dressed, I feel a rush of tenderness. “Don’t worry, Eth. I’ll handle this.”

“Will you? That would be great, Lucy. Thank you so much.”

“This is not my fault,” I whisper. “I’m not your enemy here.” Ethan doesn’t seem to agree. “Now, are you ready? Can I let them in?” He glares in response.

Swallowing repeatedly, I open the door as if I’m letting in the Grim Reaper.

“Hi,” I say. My father-in-law, his expression as mad as Ethan’s, rubs his chest and doesn’t look at me. Message received, Gianni. I’m killing you. Fat tears drip from Marie’s face. “Come on in,” I say. Ah, jeepers. Their luggage is in the hall. A lot of luggage.

“Ethan, how could you?” Marie demands, pushing past me. “Shame on you! Your brother’s wife! And Lucy, I have to say, we’re stunned! Stunned!”

“We never expected this of you, Lucy,” Gianni growls.

“But you expected it of me?” Ethan suggests tightly.

“Well, yes! You’ve always wanted what your brother had!” Gianni shouts.

“For Christ’s sake, Dad!”

“It’s just not decent,” Marie sniffles.

“Okay, settle down, everyone, settle down,” I say. “Look. This is awkward for everyone, right?” Three sets of eyes glare at me, two brown, one Mediterranean blue. Even Jimmy seems to glare at me from our wedding picture. Marie sees my glance.

“In front of Jimmy, even!” she sobs, fumbling through her giant black purse for a hankie. “Ethan, we’re so disappointed!”

Ethan presses his fingertips hard against his forehead. My mother is giving me a brain tumor.

“Why don’t you sit down, Gianni, Marie?” I suggest. They obey, blatantly avoiding the couch where, moments before, Ethan had been defiling their dear little Lucy. “Eth, could you make some coffee? Guys, would you like something else? Wine, maybe?” I ask. “I have some almond pound cake I just made today.”

“I couldn’t eat,” Marie lies staunchly, clutching her purse against her stomach.

“I’ll cut a few slabs, just in case,” Ethan says, not very nicely. But he goes into the kitchen, and some of the tension leaves with him.

“I’m very sorry you had to walk in on that,” I say quietly, taking a seat on the, er, couch.

“Not as sorry as we are,” Gianni growls. From the kitchen comes the sound of a cupboard slamming.

I swallow again. “Well, first tell me what happened. Why didn’t you call and let me know you were coming for a visit?”

Gianni sighs. “We’re not visiting. We’re back.”

I nearly choke. “Back?” I squeak.

“Arizona…it was so hot. So dry,” Marie says, frowning.

“Um, yes, it does have a bit of a reputation,” I murmur. “But by ‘back,’ what exactly do you mean?”

“We’re back!” Gianni practically yells. “That idiot Luciano, what does he know about anything? He’s running my restaurant into the ground! So yesterday, the ditzy broad who runs Valle de Muerte, she just happens to mention the waiting list to buy into the place, and I says to Marie, I says, ‘Marie, what are we doing here? We don’t belong out here with these dried-up cactus people!’ And the woman, she says she could sell our condo for ten grand more than we paid for it, and I says, ‘Do it, lady. We’re going home.’” He pauses for a second. “Besides, we missed the little guy.”

I hope Ethan heard that last little bit, but he’s slamming around in the kitchen with a vengeance.

“You could’ve called,” I say with a little smile. “Or knocked.”

“We thought you’d be sleeping, with the hours you keep!” Marie cries in her defense. “You gave us a key! Aren’t you happy to see us?” Her face oozes betrayal and a crushed heart.

“Well, uh, sure, I’m happy,” I stammer. “I’m very happy to see you! It’s just…well…you know. The circumstances.”

“We wanted to surprise you,” Marie says with a little pout.

“And you sure did!” I reply, forcing a smile.

Gianni closes his eyes and shakes his head. “That Ethan. What did I do wrong? First, that schifoso milkshake. Now, he’s arrapato for his brother’s moglie.”

A crash comes from the kitchen.

“He’s not a bad person,” Marie whispers, reaching over to pat her husband’s arm.

“Okay, look. Um…you’re right. Ethan’s not a bad person,” I begin. Talk about damning with faint praise. “He’s a very good person. And you know, he’s been so wonderful to me since Jimmy died—”

“And now we know why,” Gianni snarls.

“No! It’s not like that. He…” I pause. “Look. I love you both. And you knew I was, um…trying to find someone.” I resist the urge to look at my wedding picture. “Is it such a stretch to think that Ethan would be—” A contender, I’m thinking, but Marie jumps in.

“The next best thing?” she suggests. Her face wrinkles with the onset of tears. “When you put it that way, maybe it does make sense.”

“Well, no, Marie, I’m not looking for another—”

Gianni snorts. “If you’re looking for another Jimmy, you’re not gonna find him in Ethan, that’s for sure.”

“I’m not looking for another Jimmy,” I say slowly, blinking at my father-in-law. “Ethan’s nothing like Jimmy.”

“Tell me about it!” Gianni shouts. “His whole job is to get people to stop eating! That’s a slap in my face, an insult to my life’s work.”

“Maybe people don’t like your life’s work as much as you think,” Ethan bites out from the kitchen doorway. He carries in a tray of coffee, cups and a plate of cake slices and slaps it down on the table. “Maybe a milkshake is a welcome change to overcooked pasta and leathery veal.”

“You’re an ungrateful little—”

“Okay! Stop!” I order. “Ethan. Your parents are upset, okay? Settle down.” He glares at me. I turn to Gianni, who also glares at me. “Gianni, please don’t say things you’ll regret later. Ethan’s your son, too.”

“Just not nearly as good as St. Jimmy,” Ethan snipes.

“Stop it,” I whisper. Ethan, all bristling anger and mis-buttoned shirt, sits next to me, deliberately close. I take a deep breath. “So.” I glance at Marie for a little solidarity, but she’s eyeing the pound cake. I push the plate closer to her, and she takes a piece. “A few weeks ago, Ethan and I—”