Page 18

Chapter

Fourteen

L ucas directed Miranda to pull up in front of a stunning beachside home—a gleaming white, three-story manor that merged old Southern grace with sleek coastal design.

With wraparound porches, oversized windows that framed the ocean, and wisps of Spanish moss trailing from the palms out front, it looked like something out of a luxury travel blog.

A place for champagne brunches and soft jazz, not family dinners.

How his mother had lived there alone, Lucas still couldn’t wrap his head around. But the place had touches of Savannah everywhere—blue-and-white planters, antique lanterns on the porch, crepe myrtles at the gate. She’d designed it to feel like home, and from the way she talked, it had worked.

Miranda stared at the house, her brows pulled together in confusion. “This isn’t what I had in mind.”

“You said you wanted quiet,” he reminded her smoothly. “This is my mother’s house. This is where we’re having dinner.”

“I thought we’d go to a restaurant or something,” she said, voice flat with disbelief. “Not this.”

He shrugged and unbuckled, his tone unapologetic. “Her beach is private. No drunk spring breakers, no bad karaoke echoing from rooftop bars. Just waves and a glass of wine on the porch.”

He stepped out of the car with a slow stretch, careful not to knock his head on the roof of the Hyundai, then circled around to open her door. She blinked in surprise, hesitating just long enough to make him wonder if she’d pull some power move and refuse the gesture.

But then her fingers slid into his, and he helped her out. Her skin was warm, her palm smooth. The contact sent a jolt of something electric through his arm.

He didn’t let go.

Instead, he curled his hand around her wrist, tugged her a step closer. She stumbled—still light, graceful—and her other hand pressed flat against his chest to steady herself.

Suddenly, they were chest to chest, her face tilted up to his. Close enough for him to smell her perfume—citrus and vanilla and something faintly wild. Her eyes searched his with something cautious but curious, a flash of heat hiding in the hesitation.

He didn’t give her time to second-guess.

He dipped his head and captured her mouth with his.

She inhaled, startled, but her lips softened beneath his almost instantly, parting for him like she’d been waiting for this.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth in a slow, deliberate stroke meant to claim and coax and unravel.

His fingers slid up the line of her spine, brushing over her zipper, before cradling the back of her neck.

She made a low sound in her throat—a mix between a gasp and a moan—and her hand clenched over his shirt, nails grazing his chest, brushing the sensitive line of his nipple.

He inhaled sharply against her mouth.

She chuckled, the sound rich with promise, and pulled back just enough to breathe. Her eyes gleamed as she licked her lips—lazy, provocative. “This isn’t over, is it?”

He stared down at her, desire humming in his blood. “It’s just beginning.”

The kiss hadn’t been planned—hell, it probably wasn’t smart—but he couldn’t stop himself.

Some part of him had wanted to remind her that she wasn’t just some polished executive who commanded boardrooms. She was his.

And she deserved better than some hotshot rookie with a flirty grin and a wicked curveball.

Even if she didn’t know she was his yet.

He took her hand and led her toward the house, silently praying his mother was on the back porch or still chopping herbs in the kitchen and not watching the show from the front windows.

He hadn’t exactly thought this through. His body was tight with arousal, half-hard and growing increasingly uncomfortable in tailored trousers that didn’t hide a damn thing.

And of course, that was when the front door swung open.

His mother stood on the threshold, beaming, arms open wide like a hostess in a one of those Food Network shows.

Lucas instinctively shifted, positioning Miranda slightly in front of him like a shield—and a distraction—and marched them up the walkway before she could second-guess dinner and bolt.

He might be walking into a domestic ambush.

But hell if he was going in alone.

M iranda’s face still burned from the kiss. Not just a kiss— that kiss. It had been searing, possessive, a claim staked without words. She felt branded by it, like Lucas had marked her with heat and certainty and a warning to anyone else who dared look at her like they had a chance. As if.

She wasn’t the kind of woman to mix business with pleasure, and certainly not with a player. No matter how charming or well-built the guys on the Knights were—and, fine, they were practically superhero casting rejects—she didn’t date athletes.

She preferred a man in a perfectly tailored suit. Or better yet, a tuxedo. The kind of man who could command a room with a glance and silence it with a whisper. Sophistication over sweat. Sharp edges over raw swagger.

Just picturing Lucas in a tux sent a shiver down her spine and made her thighs clench. The man was already dangerous enough in a crisp suit. In formal wear? He’d be lethal.

She forced her brain to switch tracks—anything to stop thinking about Lucas and the kiss that had left her breathless and unsteady. But the damage was done.

And of course, that was when the front door opened.

His mother stood there, arms open wide, eyes gleaming with a knowing spark.

Shit.

She saw the kiss. And she was already matchmaking.

Miranda hesitated, feet dragging, but Lucas’s hand was firm on her back, steering her forward. No escape.

It had been years since she’d seen Trudy Wainright. Once upon a time, she’d daydreamed the woman might be her mother-in-law. That was a different lifetime. Now, she had no idea how to act around someone who had once almost been family.

Trudy made the choice for her, pulling Miranda into a hug that was warm, strong, and more comforting than Miranda expected. Her walls slipped for half a second, emotions bubbling close to the surface—too close, after the week she’d had.

When they pulled apart, Trudy studied her at arm’s length, those sympathetic eyes softening. “Miranda, honey, I was so sorry to hear about your father. How are he and your mother doing? I meant to call, but I know how chaotic hospitals get.”

“Dad’s home now. Probably driving my mom insane. I hired an aide to help out, but, well… my father isn’t the easiest patient.” A wry smile tugged at her lips, echoed by a ripple of laughter from all three of them. Seamus Callahan’s reputation for control and intensity was legendary.

Lucas’s hand pressed lightly to the small of her back, his thumb tracing a lazy, teasing circle that sent shivers skittering across her skin despite the Florida heat.

All she wanted was to close the door, grab him by the tie, and finish what they’d started in the driveway.

Judging by the smug curve of his mouth, he knew it too.

Fine. Two could play this game.

She leaned into him, shoulder brushing his chest, hand grazing his belt line—subtle, deliberate. He tensed slightly, and she knew— knew —he was doing everything he could to keep her in front of him.

Time to test the theory.

She stepped casually to the side, just out of reach.

“I’m sure my mother would love to hear from you,” she said to Trudy, voice smooth.

Trudy’s expression shifted, briefly shadowed by memory. “Yes, men are so difficult when they’re sick. Jacob was like that too. Had the most even temperament until the cancer. Then he tested every limit of patience we had. I ended up doing most of the care myself.”

Lucas went rigid beside her. His hand tightened on her waist.

“I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “Mom, I would’ve come home.”

Trudy waved it off with a flick of her hand. “Nonsense. I managed. I’m not exactly helpless, and your siblings pitched in before they left for college. Your father wouldn’t have let you quit Harvard to play nursemaid. He was so proud of you. Always was.”

She stepped back and gestured them inside. “What am I doing keeping you out here like a couple of missionaries? Come in!”

Miranda entered the house with Lucas at her back, his tension still radiating off him.

The interior was a blend of clean coastal design and lived-in comfort.

Whitewashed walls, wide oak floors, gauzy curtains floating in the breeze.

It was elegant, sunlit, and unpretentious.

The kind of place where you could sip sangria barefoot while reading The New Yorker on a rainy day.

“Thank you for having us, Mrs. Wainright,” Miranda said as they walked through the hallway. “We didn’t want to trouble you. We were happy to eat out.”

“Trouble? It’s not every day I get my son to visit me in Florida. And please, call me Trudy. You always did.” Her smile turned wistful, eyes glinting with memory. “Now go on out to the deck while I bring drinks. I made lemonade—hope that’s all right?”

Lucas led Miranda through the house, fingers briefly brushing her lower back. Every time he touched her, her body lit up like a pinball machine. On the deck, she sank into a white wicker chair with a sigh and let her head fall back.

“God. What a day.”

Lucas leaned against the railing, arms crossed loosely, looking unfairly good as golden light caught the sharp lines of his profile. “Still glad we didn’t go to a noisy restaurant?”

She cracked one eye open. “Maybe. But this feels intimate. You brought me to your mother’s house. After kissing me. And now she thinks we’re dating.”

He shrugged, maddeningly casual. “We needed dinner. I needed to see her. That’s all she sees.”

“Please. She’s already planning our wedding. She wants grandkids, Lucas. She’s knitting baby booties in her head as we speak.”

As if summoned, Trudy tapped on the glass with a tray. Lucas moved to open the sliding door and took it from her.

“Thanks, Mom. That looks heavy.”