Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(22)

Pushing a stray strand of her honeyed hair off her face, he allowed the back of his hand to graze her cheek. “Ace,” he whispered.

She swallowed before she quietly answered, “Yeah?”

He didn’t know what to make of any of this, if it was real, or the stuff that didn’t feel real in the middle of the night when his mind walked the line between escaping reality and facing it. “I’ll let you get some sleep.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed… or sleepy. “Okay.”

That he couldn’t tell which one solidified his decision to leave.

“Lyon,” he said in way of explanation.

“Oh. Oh, of course.” She pulled her stretched leg in and started to stand. Before she did, he drew the parted robe over her legs, brushing his knuckles along the inside of her knee.

Like the moment he helped her stand at the dock, and the other morning when he’d shielded her peaked nipples from his son’s view, Evan recognized her reaction for what it was. Attraction.

A whole hell of a lot of it.

His eyes went to her parted lips as she sucked in a breath.

Then she stood and backed up her porch steps so abruptly, his hand still hovered in midair, no longer on her skin. He shot a look over his shoulder in time to see her slide the patio door open and step inside.

“Good night.” She slid the door to, but just before it closed, he heard her mutter, “Sorry, Rae.”

A second later, the kitchen was dark and Charlie was nowhere to be seen.


*


In a horrible Forrest Gump impression, Asher pointed to Deelightful and said, “That’s my boat.”

Evan snorted.

“You can be Lieutenant Dan.” Ash elbowed him, then stepped onto the dock and leaned in to check out the mode of transportation Evan couldn’t believe he’d been allowed to rent.

“More like I’ll be Skipper to your Gilligan after you wreck this thing into the rocks.”

“Who’s Gilligan?” Lyon asked, snapping his lifejacket crooked.

Evan fixed the straps. “Uncle Asher’s long-lost cousin.”

Asher did a good job driving, surrendering the vessel to Evan after cracking open a beer he’d smuggled on board. They dropped anchor for an hour to swim. Lyon had been learning to hold his breath underwater in class, and he insisted on showing off by putting his face in the water while he kicked. Evan had to smile at the image of his son clumsily moving through the water, the bright orange floating vest inhibiting more than helping him.

Despite her dislike for the water, Rae would have been proud.

On the deck, he opened the cooler and passed out lunch. Cheetos, ham sandwiches, Pringles for himself, another Miller for Asher, and one of those disgusting Go-Gurt things for Lyon.

Evan had taken a huge bite of his sandwich when Ash spoke.

“Find any babes for the boat yet?”

“You’re the rock star. You flush ’em out.”

“Charlie’s a babe,” Lyon chimed in with a grin.

Evan looked at Ash but gestured at his son. “See what you did to him?”

Ash smiled. “Atta boy, Lionel. Call ’em like you see ’em.” Then to Evan, he said, “Need to take the boat out for a night trip. Call your sitter for little man there, and come out with me.”

He found himself smiling in spite of himself. Sure, Ash was dancing with immature, but Ash was also Ash. He had no need to bury who he was, at his core. Somehow, who Ash used to be and who he was now blended together seamlessly.

Then again, he had no wife, no kid. Minimal responsibilities.

Like Ash had always been a musician, Evan had always been an artist. And not only one-half of the “Penis Bandits.” He remembered losing hours poring over comic books and attempting to draw the characters, or entering art contests but never hearing back. He’d once painted the inside of his closet solid black and then in white painted a pair of eyes and the outline of a figure that made his mother shriek the next time she’d opened the door to hang up his clothes.

When puberty hit, his focus shifted from art to art and girls. Then Rae entered the picture… and, man. There’d been no going back. He was twenty-three to her twenty-one when they got married, which was crazy young, and they’d behaved like it. Fighting over stupid shit all the time. But the makeup sex, ah, the makeup sex with her had always been worth it.

The Achilles’ heel in their otherwise picture-perfect marriage had always been the fact that he painted late at night. Back then he’d spent countless hours on new tattoo designs. Rae would be up breastfeeding Lyon, and unable to go back to sleep, Evan would wander to the freezing-cold utility room, crank on the space heater, and start drawing.

So into it, he often didn’t notice how much time had passed until Rae interrupted him at five a.m., dressed in her scrubs, ready for work.

Those arguments never ended well. And never ended with makeup sex.

“And then what?” Ash was saying, and Evan tuned in to see his friend talking to an animated Lyon.

He described a battle from his favorite iPad game—Evan had refused to let him bring the five-hundred-dollar electronic on the boat, much to Lyon’s chagrin—his cheeks lifted, a dimple denting one of them, his smile broad and genuine.

Passion for a video game. Evan didn’t get it.

He started to apologize and tell Lyon not everyone wanted to hear about Clashing Clans, when Asher asked, “What are you battling for in this game?”