Swing (Landry Family #2)(10)

The rumble starts in my chest, and I watch my hand reach for the phone. My brain tells my hand to stop. It warns my heart not to have too much hope that my mother will answer, and if she does, that we’ll have a nice conversation.

Warning in hand, I dial the numbers and wait as it rings, once, twice, three times before she answers.

“Hello?” she breathes into the receiver.

“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

My heart leaps in my throat and I can feel my pulse in my temples. My mouth goes dry as I wait to see what she has to say.

She takes in a sharp breath and blows it out in one long, drawn out action. “Hello, Ryan.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. Ryan, I’ll have to call you back shortly. Your father will be in soon, and I need to be ready. You know how he hates to wait.”

Forcing the words to come out of my mouth, my hand not to drop the phone, I tell her it’s fine and even manage a laugh. And before I know it, I’m sitting on the sofa watching the shadows move across the wall with the setting sun. She won’t call me back. Not tonight, not tomorrow. This is a fact, the way it is, but it doesn’t mean it still doesn’t sting. I wish it didn’t, I tell myself it doesn’t. I lie.

Grabbing the remote, I flip on the television and wander through the channels until it lands on some reality drivel. The noise helps fill the house and keeps me company as I go into the kitchen and pour a large glass of red wine.

Taking a sip, I consider heading downtown and grabbing a drink in a public place. Getting out. Fresh air and all that. Even as I’m thinking about it, I slide under a blanket on the sofa and take another drink.

The show on the screen is about a dysfunctional family. I’ve seen it before. They fight and carry on but at the end of every episode, they reunite. Make amends. Reconvene as a family. And, as I do every time I tune in, I wonder what that feels like. Even the arguments are appetizing to me because they have each other. Looking at the picture of my parents and then at my phone again, it hits me again that I only have me. I could die tonight and it would be days before anyone finds me. Pepper would probably send the police because she needed feedback for her soup.

“In, out,” I breathe, filling my lungs with oxygen and closing my eyes. As soon as they do, I see Lincoln Landry. His rugged jawline, the way those blazing eyes light up when he’s toying with me. The way his hand, large and calloused, cups his chin as he waits on me to process an innuendo, makes me shiver despite the flannel pajamas covering my body.

“I deserve a cupcake for that,” I say out loud, mentally patting my back for holding my ground against him. “Maybe two.”

There’s something about him, about the way he looks at me, that makes it absolutely clear he would be a force to be reckoned with if he had an opening and wanted in. Not that I need to, because I’ll probably never see him again, but I must keep that door closed.

As if on cue, his smirk pops in my mind. I throw the blanket off and sit my wine on the table in front of me.

“Why, God?” I say into the air. “Why couldn’t he have tormented someone else today?”

Stomping towards my bedroom, I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands. That or risk pouncing on his delectable body if I ever see him again.



Lincoln

“Hey,” I drawl as unassumingly as I can. My hand adjusts around the plastic handles of the craft store bag. It was my first and last visit there. Besides the thirty-four million paints and brushes, there are nearly as many mommy types that apparently know who I am.

I mean, of course they do, and I’m not averse to some MILF action. But all of them at once with no security? It got a little hairy for a minute.

Danielle looks up from her planner and removes a pair of black glasses. My brain is racing, picturing her lying on my bed, her hair up just like it is now in a messy pile on the top of her head and dressed in nothing but those fucking glasses.

“Can I come in?” I ask, my throat a little parched. I sit the bag on the chair in front of me and just take her in. She’s this mixture of sophistication and sex appeal, something that’s hard to pull off but she does perfectly. She could’ve stepped out of a charity meeting with one of my sisters or off a swimsuit cover, one I’d buy the fuck out of. “I’m early.”

“You aren’t early,” she smiles, standing. “You aren’t on today’s schedule.”

“Maybe not yours.” I flash her a grin that always gets me what I want. “I have an appointment with Rocky.”

“I believe I told you there are no paint supplies here today.”

“You did. That’s why I brought some.” I dip a hand into the bag and pull out three finger paint kits. “See? One of my best traits is that I’m always prepared.”

“Maybe I was wrong about you.”

“Why is that?”

“You keep alluding to these best traits of yours, and they’re things like preparation. Maybe I overestimated you.”

It takes a full three seconds for me to find my voice. I’m not used to being on this side of the conversation. “Preparation is half the battle, Ms. Ashley.”

“And the other half is follow-through.”

“Trust me, babe. I follow through. There’s nothing I like better than executing so well it knocks everyone else out of the game. Driving home the win. Being so fucking good that my name is the only one they remember.” I pause a second to watch her react. “If you would like to see my best attribute, I’d be more than happy to demonstrate.”