Page 46 of The Homemaker (The Chain of Lakes #1)

Chapter Forty-Four

Alice

If you’re going to fuck everything up,

do it royally.

Callen gives me a bath, then he wraps me in my robe and makes a cup of tea as I sit on the sofa and stare at the mesmerizing flicker of the electric fireplace under the television.

“Thank you,” I murmur when he hands me the mug.

“You’re welcome.” He sits next to me on the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees, head bowed. “Are you okay?”

I think about it for a few seconds. “Yes.”

“Can I ask what happened in your past? Is this about your friend who died? And can I ask how Murphy, your boss’s daughter’s fiancé, knows more about your past than I do?” He peers over his shoulder at me.

“My fiancé died, not my friend.” I give it a moment to sink in. When Callen’s gaze flits from the mug back to me, I continue. “I needed to escape life. So I rented a place not far from here. Murphy was the owner, the vacation rental host.”

I observe Callen and the subtle shifts in his expression. The details don’t matter, but I’m not sure he’ll believe that.

“Were the two of you close during your stay?”

I sip my tea then return my attention to the fireplace before answering with a tiny nod.

“How close?”

I don’t answer.

“Because the look he gave me earlier made me feel like an outsider, like I wasn’t the guy who was supposed to be in your bed.”

“I’m not sleeping with him,” I say as if parsing hairs at this point really matters.

“But you want to?”

“Callen …”

“It’s a simple question, Alice. Do you want to fuck another woman’s fiancé?”

I flinch.

“Wow.” He stands, rubbing his temples. “If you have to think about that answer, then I have mine.”

“Callen—”

He holds out a flat hand and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry for your loss years ago, and for what triggered you tonight. If you ask me to stay, then I’ll stay. But if you want me to go, then I will. And I don’t have to come back, if you’re ready for whatever this is to end.”

I don’t know what this is.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

I don’t know who I am.

Callen walks past the sofa then stops and leans over the back of it, pressing his lips to the top of my head before whispering, “You have my number.”

The next morning, I wake at my usual five o’clock time, and I go through the motions. Meditate. Jog around the lake. Shower. Breakfast.

I arrive at the main house just before seven. Exchange shoes. Tie my apron. Smooth a hand along my ponytail. I cling to routine like my life depends on it. But my steps halt when two tired eyes meet mine.

Murphy slowly stands from a stool at the kitchen island. His hair is chaotic like it’s been a long night. Wrinkled white T-shirt. Dark jeans. No shoes.

I open my mouth to speak, but he holds a finger to his lips before jerking his head to the right.

After a second, I wordlessly follow him to the basement stairs.

We take a sharp right at the bottom until we reach the bedroom at the end of the hallway.

Sometimes Vera comes down here to hide from Hunter.

She says it’s the most quiet room in the house.

Murphy closes the door after I step past it.

I turn to face him, wringing my hands together. “How is Mr. Morrison?”

“Are you okay?” Murphy asks like my question doesn’t matter. The anguish on his face hits me like a twenty-foot wave coming onto shore.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

He pushes off the door.

“How’s Mr. Morrison?”

Murphy brushes his knuckles down my left cheek. I close my eyes and lean into his touch. When his hand disappears, I open them again. The intensity of his gaze locked to mine makes all the questions vanish.

It’s eerily quiet, except for my heart thrashing around in my chest as he slides his arms around my waist to untie my apron. Not a muscle in my body protests, not a flinch of hesitation or flicker of doubt.

Did Hunter die?

Where are Vera and Blair?

And why can’t I make finding the answers to those questions my number one priority?

After he discards the apron onto the floor, Murphy ducks his head and whispers, “Hi,” in my ear.

Shivers skate along my skin when he kisses my neck while unbuttoning my dress. After he slides it off my shoulders, I reach for the hem of his T-shirt. He grabs the back of it at the neck and pulls it over his head. Our mouths collide, tongues exploring familiar territory.

With deft fingers, he unhooks my bra and I discard it to the floor.

Murphy gently clasps my wrists behind my back, making my back bow.

My hard nipples brush the smattering of hair on his chest, causing the ache I feel at my core to intensify into something stronger than I imagined. And dear god … how I’ve imagined.

He drops his head, kissing and nipping my neck while tightening his hold on my hands so my chest pushes out just a little more.

“Ohhh …” I cry for a brief second before biting my lower lip to silence my reaction when he sucks my nipple into his mouth and tugs it with his teeth. He moves to the other side and does the same thing.

I bite my lip until I swear I can taste blood. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been this aroused, on the verge of orgasming. My knees wobble, and he grins against my skin while releasing my nipple and hands at the same time.

I stab my fingers into his hair, curling them into tight fists to pull him to me for another deep kiss. His hand dives into the front of my underwear, stealing what little breath I have left in my lungs as two fingers thrust into me.

“Don’t you ever fucking try to leave me like that again,” he says in a deep, unwavering voice, our foreheads pressed together while we share labored breaths, mine hitching every time he drives his fingers deeper.

Like that.

He’s not asking me to be his. He’s asking me not to lose my mind like I started to do last night after giving Hunter CPR, like I did the night the car slid on the road in the rain.

Murphy removes his fingers and hunches before me, sliding my underwear down my thighs.

I hiss, and then my jaw unlocks in a silent cry as his tongue spears between my legs.

“Oh … god …” I pinch my eyes shut and curl my fingers into his hair, yanking it hard as pleasure claws along every nerve fiber in my body.

When I stumble backward in my wedge pumps, he falls forward onto his knees, grabbing my ass like he’s starving for me, humming his pleasure, fingers digging into my flesh.

My knees buckle, and I lower to the edge of the bed, but Murphy keeps his face planted between my legs, releasing one of them from my underwear so he can spread me open, devouring me with his unrelenting tongue.

I arch my back, body twisting and contorting while one hand keeps ahold of his hair and my other leverages the bedding beneath me.

“Murph …” I pant. “Murphy, I’m … ”

He releases his grip on my leg, and I hear the soft grinding zip of him unfastening his jeans as his tongue flicks my clit one last time, and I orgasm.

My head thrashes from side to side, heart drumming erratically in my chest, a deafening echo shooting to my ears. “Yesss …” My abs tighten, body pulsing as I feel like I’m transported to somewhere only we know, that place we used to go eight years earlier.

Just as my vision returns, he towers over me, shoving his jeans and briefs down just far enough to release himself. This is the Murphy I remember. The ravenous, impatient man who can’t be bothered with removing all his clothes before thrusting into me.

“Oh, Jesus!” I gasp when he does just that.

“Alice,” he drags his tongue up my chest, and his hand slides behind my knee, “you’re so fucking gorgeous. I want to die inside of you, baby.” Murphy sucks the skin along my neck while his pelvis rocks into mine.

His hooded eyes snag on my breasts when he lifts his torso, hands flat on the mattress next to my head. The bed grinds, creaking as it slides a fraction, padded headboard softly drumming against the wall.

“Why are you blowing up your world?” I whisper, eyes heavy, heart bursting from my chest, wanting nothing more than to claim the man inside of me.

Behind my eyelids, I see us eight years ago on the sofa, Murphy driving into me while Leslie Gore’s “You Don’t Own Me” plays on the turntable. We released within seconds of each other, and he murmured in my ear, “But I want to.”

I don’t know what this means or if it means anything beyond an uncontrolled attraction we’ve had since the day he greeted me in the backyard with Arnold Palmer. But I know Murphy Paddon will be okay. I didn’t break him.

He moved on with an enormous capacity to love. His heart stretches beyond its limits. Mine just sort of … breaks.

When we kiss, it feels like the rest of the world vanishes. Maybe it feels that way because I’ve simplified my world, giving little regard to all yesterdays and tomorrows. But Murphy has a life. A real life. He has more to lose. More people who he can hurt. Accountability and responsibility.

Have we come full circle? Am I his escape? Does he need this for perspective?

The questions die when we release; my fingers loosening their grip on his back. For thirty seconds, everything is perfect. Utter contentment. Every cell in my body vibrates from pure joy and euphoria.

“Murphy.” His name tumbles from my lips.

What have we done?

Before vulnerability and regret have a chance to fill the space between us, he rolls to the side, hugging my body so close to his there is no space for anything else.

If he’s warring with his conscience or second-guessing leading me down here, I’d never know it. I feel nothing but his patient lips pressed to my forehead and gentle hands caressing my bare back.

“Hunter had a heart attack. They placed a stent. And he should recover just fine, thanks to you,” he says.

I don’t know what to say. Did I really do anything? All I remember is the feeling of drowning.

“Are Vera and Blair here?”

“No. Vera stayed at the hospital last night. Blair came home after the procedure, but she headed back to the hospital before you got here. Hunter wanted his Hermes throw blanket and Sea Island cotton sheets.”

I kiss his chest next to my hand over his heart. “I hope you comforted her. Held her. Loved her.”

Seconds turn into minutes, and he doesn’t respond. They weren’t questions, anyway. I just don’t want him to think I can’t understand how much she means to him even if I’m the one in his arms.

I slide out of his hold and collect my clothes from the floor, stepping past the door to the bathroom across the hallway. When I return, Murphy’s dressed, sitting on the end of the bed, head bowed, hands folded between his legs. I seem to have this effect on men.

“I want to clean the wood floors where the paramedics came into the house. Make sure all the laundry is clean. New sheets. Replace flowers in the vases. Get groceries.” I shrug. “I want everything to be perfect when they come home.”

He narrows his eyes for a beat before relinquishing a nod. “He won’t come home for a few days. You should go to the hospital. He’d love to see you. And Vera and Blair would too. They are incredibly grateful that you were here for him.”

“I wasn’t here. Not when it happened. I forgot my phone and came back to get it. Callen surprised me and said he tried calling me. That’s when I realized I’d left my phone. Maybe they need to thank Callen, instead, for coming to see me.”

Murphy stands and takes two easy strides toward me.

He frames my face. “Alice, you are incredibly special. And I feel like everyone knows this except you. Tragedy is an unavoidable part of life. But I think the biggest of all tragedies is feeling unworthy.” He brushes the pad of his thumb across my lower lip before kissing me .

Every kiss with Murphy feels like a last kiss.

“Baby,” he whispers, “I need you to feel worthy. I want you to dream.” His lips catch my tears the moment they escape.

“I can’t.”

“Why?” He ghosts his lips along my cheek.

I close my eyes and grip his shirt to steady myself. “Because I’d dream of you.”