Rock Chick Redemption (Rock Chick #3)(117)

We’d just sorted things out. I’d taken a huge chance on us. I’d even promised to move to Denver. I didn’t want everything to go bal s-up in less than a day. I was hoping he wouldn’t take what he just heard as an indication of his future life and run, hel bent for leather, to the next state and far away from me, my Mom and my Dad.

His hand came up and he trailed a finger down my hairline. He watched his finger, then his hand curled around my neck and his eyes came to mine. “I know that,” he said.

Obviously, he wasn’t in fear of a nutty future life, or, maybe, he was just resigned to it.

Either one worked for me.

I lifted up and touched my lips to his and then settled on the pil ows again.

After I’d done that, I noticed the amusement was out of his eyes, the lazy was stil there but there was also intensity.

“Any hope that your Mom went with your Dad to find buttermilk?” he asked, his eyes on my mouth.

I knew what he was asking and my melted bel y did a funny, but pleasant, twist.

“She was in her robe,” I pointed out.

His lips came to mine. “Yeah,” he said against my lips and I could hear the regret.

I smiled against his mouth and watched, close up, as his eyes went languid.

“Kids!” Mom yel ed from somewhere in the house.

Hank pul ed away a bit, shook his head and smiled. It was a good bet he hadn’t been cal ed a kid in a very long time.

“Yeah?” I yel ed back.

“I’m taking Shamus for a walk. I got the key from the hook by the door and I’m locking you in. You two rest,” Then we heard the door open and shut and she was gone.

Hank didn’t hesitate, his arms came around me, he rol ed me to the side and his face went to my neck.

It was clear we weren’t going to “rest”.

“How much time do you think we have?” he asked.

“Not long,” I answered honestly. Mom wasn’t exactly into exercise.

Hank’s lips came up my jaw to my mouth.

“We’l be fast,” he murmured there.

“No, Hank, I need to get up. Mom’l be back –” He took my hand in his and pul ed it between us, wrapping my fingers around him.

He was rock hard.

My bel y twist turned into a dip and I felt a spasm between my legs.

“We’l be fast,” I said.

He grinned and then he kissed me.

* * * * *

We were sitting around the dining room table. I was wearing my nightie with Hank’s plaid, flannel bathrobe wrapped tight around me. It’d been washed, like, a mil ion times and it was huge, soft and snugly. It smel ed like him and, the minute I put it on, I decided I never wanted to take it off. Dad was pointedly eating a donut, glaring at Mom and shunning her buttermilk pancakes.

H e had found buttermilk and I suspected this was not only because he usual y gave in to Mom (because he loved her), but also because he knew it was my favorite breakfast (and he loved me too).

Stil , the donut was his way of not giving in completely.

In front of me, Mom set down a stack of two of her light and fluffy pancakes, smothered in butter and syrup, with two slices of bacon on the side.

She rounded the table carrying a plate and set it in front of Hank.

“There you go, Hank. Eat hearty,” she said, patting him on the shoulder and returning Dad’s glare.

I looked at Hank’s plate. On it was an enormous stack of five pancakes and half a dozen rashers of bacon.

Hank stared at it for a second, not quite able to hide his surprise, before his eyes lifted to mine.

I gritted my teeth.

“Mom!” I snapped. “The entire offensive line of the Chicago Bears could not eat that much food.” Dad looked at Hank’s plate, then his eyes went to Mom.

“Jesus, Trish. You’re gonna put the boy in a food coma.

He’s a cop, he needs to stay alert.”

I looked to Dad.

“Would you two quit cal ing Hank a boy? He’s a grown man, for goodness sakes.”

“He’s your brother’s age, Roxanne Gisel e, therefore, he’s a boy to me,” Dad returned in his Dad Voice.

I gave up and looked to Hank.

“You don’t have to eat al that,” I told him.

Mom sat down with her own plate and got al mother on Hank.

“Yes you do. You need to keep your strength up.” I frowned at Mom. “He’s not recovering from pneumonia.

Trust me, he does not need any help keeping his strength up.”

Dad burst out laughing.

Hank sat back in his chair and grinned at me.

“Don’t be lippy,” Mom said to me then turned to Hank.

“She’s always been lippy. Came out bawling and never shut up. I’ve spent thirty-one years of my life tearing my hair out because of her lip.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” Dad mumbled into his donut.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mom snapped at Dad.

“Nothin’,” Dad was stil mumbling but his eyes slid to Hank and he rol ed them.

“Do not rol your eyes at Hank, Herb. What’s he going to think of us?” Mom clipped.

That’s a good question. I thought.

“Figure the boy needs to know early what he’s gettin’