Full Disclosure (Homefront: The Sheridans Book 2) (8 page)

“It’s so peaceful out here, Ryan.” Trying
to rein in the feelings burgeoning inside me, I pull my hand from his and hug
myself, wishing it was his arms wrapping around me right now. “I’d give my left
arm for one of the homes with this view.”

He laughs. “You’ll have to give more than
that, because I’m keeping the waterfront stretch here off limits. We’re making
a nature preserve and a biking trail. Can you see where that bend is, about a
quarter-mile down the river?”

The moonlight is bright, but I still have
to strain my eyes to see. “Yeah, I do. Just barely.”

“I’m putting a playground at that point. A
nice place where parents can sit on the benches and let their kids run off some
steam.”

“This just doesn’t sound anything like
what you’ve built before.”

“It’s not. And the change is long
overdue.”

“What do you think your father will think
of the plans?”

His shoulders sag slightly. “I’m not
really sure. I haven’t run it by him. It’s pretty easy keeping things quiet
with him working from home now. He’s always been so focused on building
more
,
rather than building
better
. I’m hoping he doesn’t take this as a slap
in the face.”

“I’m sure he won’t.” I reach for his arm
to give him gentle reassurance. Just a slight touch was all I intended, so I’m
surprised when he steps closer to me.

“Thanks for letting me show you,” he
says, his hand tracing along the side of my arm.

“Does Logan know?”

“Yes. I told him not to tell anyone yet,
though, so you probably know it even before Allie does. I wanted to make sure I
had all my permits ready before I made anything public. I’m thinking I’ll
announce it at the Buckeye Festival. The mayor wants me to give a speech,
anyway. Thought the timing might be great. I’m going to bring the plans, too, and
a model of it so that people can see what it is we’re building. I don’t want
them thinking I’m ripping through this land just to build another strip of
tract housing.”

“Are you kidding? When the moms in the
carpool line hear about that riverside park you’ve got planned, you’ll be a
hero at Orchard Acres.”

“That’s the last thing I want.”

I watch his lips as he talks, and can’t
help noticing how perfectly they fit along with his chiseled features. He has a
bit of evening shadow on his jaw and I want desperately to feel it. Would it be
as rough as I imagine? Would the skin on his face be as warm as the touch of
his hands in mine?

I’m aching to taste him.

“What do you want then?” I ask, hoping
the question insinuates all I intend it to.

His fingers curl themselves around a lock
of my hair and tuck it behind my ear. I can see the debate behind his
eyes—probably similar to the one I’m hearing in my own brain right now.

I shouldn’t kiss him.

This can’t go anywhere. Not with my
history. So it will inevitably crash and burn making me the protagonist of the
gossip over the water coolers of JLS.

He’s my boss.

I need this job.

I don’t want things to get awkward.

I don’t want—

And then I feel my feet go up on
tippy-toes till my lips touch his and all sanity leaves me. His lips skim mine
lightly at first, tentatively, as if the movement is a question rather than a
command. Then I feel their full softness against mine, such a contrast to his
chiseled, patrician features. And warm—so warm against the chill in the
air that I instinctively press harder, wanting more of his flesh against me.

As he slides his hand to the small of my
back, I arch toward him so that I can feel each taut muscle beneath his shirt
pressed against my breasts. There is such gentleness in his kiss, incongruous
to the air of authority that defines him at the office. Tenderness that almost
seems unsuitable residing in a man with such a fierce, domineering form.

My fingers curl, fisting his shirt,
raking my knuckles against the hard planes of muscles on his back, and my
brazen touch seems to shatter his resolve, all control leaving him as he parts
my lips and I taste him for the first time.

His tongue is warm and slick in my mouth,
lighting a fire inside of me as I succumb to the raging heat, lifting my hands
from his back to his head and pulling him closer, wanting more of his potent,
masculine taste in me. Sighing—or maybe it was more of a desperate
gasp—I feel my breath intermingle with his, and am rendered incoherent. I
couldn’t say my name right now. My knees wobble, and he tightens his grip on
me, owning me in his possessive grasp, and I feel his erection against me.

And I know—oh, how I know—how
desperately I want to feel him inside of me. The thought of it shocks me, even
though it shouldn’t. And I remember a thousand reasons I should stop this right
now, the first and main reason being a little boy I love more than life itself.
Yet I still can’t do anything but savor the taste of Ryan, stroking my hands
against the masculine stubble along his harsh jawline, and opening completely
to him, tracing my tongue against his teeth as his body melds, hard and
forceful against mine.

A fluttering above us has us stopping
cold, and me ducking about twelve inches.

“What was that?” I gasp.

“Probably a bat.”

My eyes bug out. “Geez, a bat? Oh my
God.”

“Apparently, nature is protecting you
from me tonight.”

“Yeah, but who will protect
me
from nature?”

His fingers trace my jawline, up to my
ear and tuck a lock of hair neatly away before he bends to kiss my lobe.
Bat,
what bat?
I’m suddenly thinking.

“He only wants the insects. He’s not
interested in you. I, on the other hand…”

His hands move up the side of me, so
close to my breasts, which feel full, so heavy with blood flow. And I want him
to touch me—there—so desperately that I turn my body so that he has
little choice. He reaches my softness, lightly caressing me, and I’m certain my
nipples must be hard as pebbles right now beneath his fingertips. The pressure
of his hand against me makes me realize all the other parts of me which desire
his touch, one in particular, the searing heat pooling between my legs.

This is insanity, complete utter insanity.
But it feels more natural, more normal than anything I’ve ever felt. At this
moment, I’m not feeling like a sensible mom, a single mom, a mom struggling to
pay her bills, a mom whose every waking minute is spent beating back the
memories of a past that will always haunt me every time I see the blue eyes of
my child. Blue eyes that aren’t mine.

Right now, as I savor the subtle massage
of his hands on me, I feel all the same desires that any average 24-year-old
would be feeling right now. “Normal” has shades of a bewildering exquisiteness
for me that I am treasuring now, lapping it up like I will never get a chance
at this again.

His tongue plays with my ear before I
hear him whisper. “I shouldn’t be doing this with an employee.”

“I shouldn’t be doing this with my boss,”
I counter, but instead of telling him to stop, I move my hand to the hardness of
him beneath his zipper. If that doesn’t tell him how I feel, how much I want to
stop thinking, stop rationalizing, I don’t know what will. It’s a move I never
would have thought I’d make, but I can’t resist and refuse to regret. The feel
of his heat, his rigidity against my hand has rendered me out of control. My
body revels in this feeling, so grateful to be absorbed in a sensation powerful
enough to edge out years of fear and guilt and questions that have seethed
inside of me.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks.

“No. Oh, God no—” The words barely
escape my mouth before I feel his lips on me again, and his hand moving from my
breast. His mouth makes a path to my ear, then down my neck, till he turns me
away from him, and the chill of the air against my breasts has me longing to
press against his chest again until—
mercy
. His hand slides beneath
the waist of my skirt and I can finally feel his palm against me, heading to
where I desperately need his touch.

Fingertips reaching the border of my
panties, I silently urge him to keep going, sucking in my breath so that his
wrist can reach further past the waistline of my skirt.

I gasp when I feel his fingers threading
into my curls, and I press my heat harder against him, wanton, desperate. My
moisture wets the tips of his fingers and he uses it to massage my clit.

“Oh, God,” I murmur, feeling myself
climbing higher and higher as the circles he makes with the pad of his thumb grows
harder and tighter. Then his hand moves, slipping a finger into my moisture and
my entire soul shatters against him, shuddering, vibrating as the orgasm
consumes me.

His palm cupping me as I quake against
his hand, his finger moves gently inside me. My folds grip it shamelessly till
the last spasm travels from my core to my breasts, and then out to my
fingertips, leaving me limp in his arms.

Holy shit.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

Holy—No, wait. Did he just say
something to me?
My
brain starts to flicker, as though it had lost capacity during some
inexplicable power surge and now the emergency generator has just been switched
on.

I’m breathless, and slightly mortified as
his hand moves from my moisture, up to my belly, and past the confines of my
skirt.

Did that really happen? Or am I having
some kind of wild sex dream? Because as long as it’s been, I wouldn’t be the
least surprised if it’s the latter explanation rather than the former.

“Nothing particularly interesting.” I
finally answer him, half waiting to awaken to the sound of my alarm clock.

“Any chance you could have dinner with
me?”

A date? With Ryan Sheridan? Well, if that
isn’t a hell of a way to break my sex drought, I don’t know what is. Because if
this is what I find myself doing with him after volunteering for the school, I
can only imagine how an honest-to-God date will end.

Hesitating, I bite my lip, wondering if
my mom would mind babysitting two nights in a row. Or maybe Cass would be able
to come over?

Cass.
That’s it.
Cass would do
anything to see me date again. Hasn’t she told me that at least ten times this
past month alone?

No. Answer no, my brain orders me now
that it’s back on shift, but the damn word gets lodged in my throat.

“Sounds good,” I say instead.

“Great.”

I see the smile on his face in the
moonlight as he straightens my skirt for me, setting me to rights. His finger,
the same finger that penetrated me only seconds ago, bringing me to the heights
of desire, now curls beneath my chin, raising my face towards his.

“Think Connor’s in bed by now?” he asks.

Yes. I need to say yes. I need to force myself
back into a life that somehow seems so distant from this secluded bend in the
waters of Newton’s Creek right now.

“Maybe we should give him a few more
minutes,” I suggest, barely believing the words passed my lips.

He dips his mouth down to me again in
response, and I savor the pleasure of it, the joy of having a completely,
utterly
normal
reaction to the touch of Ryan Sheridan’s lips on mine.

- RYAN -

I’ve certainly fucked myself this time.

Soaring above the clouds in my Cessna, I
find my conscience admonishing me again, as my mind inevitably keeps wandering
back to the evening I spent with Kim last night.

I’m trying to feel regret—practically
pounding the idea of guilt into my brain. Yet every time I do, I reject it
summarily. I can’t feel the tiniest hint of remorse for what I did with Kim
last night. It had all felt too natural, too
necessary
, as though the
moment I touched her, I knew she was destined to be mine.

Which thoroughly sucks since she’s my
employee, and deserves a lot better than to be the topic of the gossip mill in
the JLS cafeteria every day at noon.

I can understand now why my father
preached the importance of not dating employees. Screw the ideas of possible
lawsuits or bad press. Those are nothing compared to the concern that someone I
already care about deeply might feel awkward every day when she comes into
work.

Yet I can’t stop myself from thinking
about her, counting the minutes till I get to see her again tonight. My body
aches to feel her close again, as though feeling her skin beneath my hands is
the most addictive drug on the planet.

It’s calm skies ahead of me today, or I
couldn’t afford the luxury of letting my mind wander to Kim as I fly. I have
precious cargo with me, a girl named Traci (spelled with an “i” at the end, she
proudly told me when we met) and her mom. Miles away in our wake, there’s a
storm system I’m trying to beat. So there’s no room for error.

And there won’t be an error. One thing I
know is that I’m a hell of a good pilot, a better pilot than I am a CEO, if the
truth were ever told. So I don’t feel the slightest worry, even with dark
clouds nearly nipping my tail.

The first time I flew in a single engine
aircraft, I was going to Canada on a fishing trip with my dad, grandfather, and
brothers. It had been my grandpa’s idea, forced on my workaholic father. It was
the year before my grandpa died and the last time I recall ever going on a trip
with my dad that wasn’t centered around business.

That might be why I always feel a sense
of nostalgia at the purr of my Cessna’s engine. It reminds me of the one solid
week in my life when my dad stopped being a CEO and was forced to be a dad.

Back then, we didn’t have the constant
intrusion of cell phones, so the goings-on at the JLS headquarters were a world
a way from our camping site north of the Great Lakes. Dad was a cranky
son-of-a-bitch for the first day. But then, he succumbed to the concept of being
unreachable.

Every day, before the crack of dawn, he
and Grandpa would rally us from our stiff bunks and fix instant coffee on an
old-time wood stove. We’d bundle up in our flannels and load ourselves into a
beat-up fourteen-foot aluminum boat that looked like it might sink at the end
of the season.

Then we’d fish, loading up the boat with bass
and walleye till it seemed full-to-overflowing to my young eyes.

Dad taught me how to clean a fish that
week. I’d never even known he could before then. Each night, we’d build a fire
and talk—actually
talk
to each other. About school. About girls,
because I was just approaching that age. About Mom. About the new house Dad was
having built for us that was going to be three times the square footage of our
old house. We begged him for a pool as we sat by the campfire, and talked about
what colors we would paint our new rooms. Business at JLS had been booming that
year, which is why Dad now wanted to move us into a larger house. But never once,
not even with my grandpa, did Dad bring up JLS as a topic of conversation. Not
once. And even at my young age, that had baffled me, because I hadn’t thought
of my father thinking about anything except JLS for as long as I’d been alive.

That week, I’d had a glimpse into the man
my father really is, and I’ve held it with me through life.

When my dad was diagnosed with vascular
dementia about a year and a half ago, I started seeing that person emerge again
as he was forced to cut back on work. He’s not the impenetrable CEO anymore. I’ve
seen shades of vulnerability and fear. Even though it desperately pains me to
see this once-unassailable man question himself, it reminds me of that week in
the woods at the lake when I was actually able to see him as a human.

I wanted more vacations with my father. After
Grandpa passed, I wanted it even more, having learned that time is a fickle
bitch. In one instant, you feel like you’ll never get through a day, and then
in the next, you feel a week, a year, a decade slip away like sand through your
fingers.

Maybe that’s why I love getting up above
the clouds like this, feeling the warmth of my grandpa’s ancient flight gloves
on my hands, reminding me that now I’m the father, and I’m determined to
somehow find the balance between being a CEO and spending time with my
daughter—away from the smartphones and conference calls and agenda. I
wonder if that campsite where Dad and Grandpa took us is still open, whether it
still has the rustic charm it once had, or whether it’s given way to technology
and luxury.

I make a mental note to look it up online
when I get home.

Then my mind wanders in an odd
direction—toward Kim and her son. And I can practically envision them
with Hannah and me there, cooking fresh fish over the campfire every night.
It’s a crazy notion, especially when she’s made it clear that camping isn’t
high on her to-do list, and I felt her heart rate skyrocket when she heard that
bat flapping its wings above us.

But I still can’t resist the thought.

I give myself a mental shake, as I
approach Teterboro just over the New Jersey border, only twelve miles from
midtown Manhattan. It’s a short drive to the hospital where Traci will get surgery
for severe epilepsy.

I don’t ask many questions of my
passengers because they might not want to talk. I can respect that. But the
nonprofit I make these runs for gives me a little information just so that I
can be prepared.

Traci’s on nine medications and still
having more than forty epileptic seizures a day. Her best chance at a normal
life is surgery to divide the hemispheres of her brain. She’ll have to relearn
how to do everything—even how to see.

So I’m deeply humbled after we land when
she tells me—eyes wide and excited—about the thrill of seeing the
Manhattan skyline in the distance as we approached.

“I love it, too,” I agree. “I’m so glad
you gave me the chance to fly here. Will you let me fly you home after you’ve
recovered?”

She nods exuberantly, and catches me a
bit off guard when she hugs me after climbing out of my plane. My throat
catches—whose wouldn’t?—and I ache to hold my own kid again, remind
myself that she is well. Even though I’m only asked to make these runs once or
twice a month, these precious hours with these families makes me appreciate
every day that the only worry I have about Hannah is whether she’ll focus
enough to get through her homework tonight.

I’m lucky. So Goddamn lucky.

“I can’t thank you enough for doing
this,” Traci’s mom tells me after her daughter has climbed into the awaiting
car. “Driving is so hard on her at this point. I never know when she’ll have a
seizure.”

“It’s my pleasure. Call me when you need
a flight back. Or if your husband gets time off work and can join you in New
York while she’s recovering. I’m glad to fly him here.” I hand her a post-it
note with my phone number on it, and my first name. Just my first name.

I wear a different hat when I do these
trips, quite literally—a beat-up baseball cap advertising Pop’s donuts
that was given to me by a six-year-old cancer patient who lost her hair during
chemo. I wear it to remind me that sometimes the people I meet on these runs have
happy endings. Kaylee Mitchell did. It’s been three years and she’s in
remission.

But I also like that no one recognizes me
as a billionaire CEO when I wear my cap. Today, I’m just a guy with a plane.

I started doing this right after the
divorce. Hannah was still with her mother most of the time, back then, and I’d
been eager to take on an excuse to get my bird up in the air more often.

What I hadn’t expected is how much it would
change the way I value everyone in my life, especially my daughter.

Outside of being a dad, flying these
people to where they need to go is the part of my life that I cherish the most.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I watch
their car head off toward Manhattan. I slide it out and see my father’s photo
appear on the screen. A pinch of worry bites my stomach. My dad isn’t usually
one to call me on the weekends. Weekends tend to be Mom territory. I can’t help
immediately worrying about Hannah. She’s with them this afternoon. “Hey, Dad,”
I answer.

“Son. You still with Amelia?”

“Yep. We’re in Teterboro. Is everything
all right?”

“Fine. Your mother and Hannah are baking
a pie. When were you planning on heading home?”

“I’ll be flying out in a few. Just going
to fill up the tank and check the weather.”

“That’s why I’m calling. We’re under a
severe thunderstorm warning here. Your mother didn’t want you flying in it. There
are a couple tornados in Pennsylvania too, according to some weather
app
she downloaded on her phone or something.”

He says the word “app” with considerable
disdain. He hates his smartphone, probably more because Mom makes him wear it
on his waist just in case his mind gives way to another spell of vascular
dementia and he wanders off to God-knows-where. One of those apps he detests
will help us find him this time, hopefully without having to call the police.

“I was afraid of that,” I tell him.

“Your mother won’t like it if you fly in
this, Son. We were planning on keeping Hannah till late tonight, anyway. Why
rush home? You can stay in the city tonight.”

I lean against the side of my plane. “I’ve
got plans, Dad.” Or had plans, I correct myself, knowing that I won’t take the
risk of flying in bad weather just for a date. When I was single, I might have.
But I’m a dad now. My Amelia’s a solid craft, but I weigh risks a lot more
carefully now than I did before I had Hannah in my life.

“A date?” he asks.

I’m surprised he’s interested enough to
ask. “Yes,” I answer carefully.

“The woman Hannah was telling us about?”

“What?”

“The one who recused Lolli.”

“Uh, yeah. Actually, that’s the one. Her
son goes to the same school as Hannah.”

“And she works for JLS,” Dad adds
pointedly.

Shit
. Apparently Hannah covered a lot of territory. No wonder
he’s calling me. “Yes, Dad. She does. Is that a problem?” I ask, already on the
defense.

He makes a sound that I can only describe
as an audible shrug. “Hannah likes her. So I see no problem with it.”

Really? “Good,” I say warily, still
waiting for the catch.

 But instead of a catch, Dad changes
the subject, complaining once again about the nurse Mom hired for him and how
he feels like he’s got a full-time shadow now. I end the call about ten minutes
later, still slightly baffled by conversations like this with my dad—ones
that don’t focus on JLS business as usual—because they remind me of that
week in Canada, even though the reason he’s slowing his pace now is hardly
something to smile about.

Leaning on the side of my Cessna, I tap
on Kim’s name on my iPhone display.

“Kim?” I say at the sound of her voice.

“Hi, Ryan.”

“I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have
to postpone our date. I had to fly to New York and I’m stuck here because of
the storm.”

“That’s okay,” she says. I can hear the
laughter of kids in the background and Kim’s muffled voice saying, “Hey, boys,
no slamming yourselves into the wall.”

I grin and, knowing that she’s surrounded
by young ears, decide to not tell her how much I enjoyed last night… how much I
can’t wait to hold her that close, feel her body react to my touch again.

“Can we do it another time?” I say
instead.

She hesitates slightly, and it worries me
momentarily till she says, “Sure. Of course. Have a safe trip home.”

“Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow.” My
mouth curves downward as I end the conversation, noticing she hung up before I
did. She didn’t sound annoyed at the last minute cancellation, but I’m not
consoled by the tone I did hear.

She sounded relieved.

That can’t be good.