Public Relations (21 page)

Each time she reached for a sugar cookie or an ornament, he let his eyes linger on her curves. He longed to know her full breasts and the swell of her hips by heart. The softness of her belly and the taste of her pink nipples.

Georgia swiped at Peter’s cheek with her thumb, yanking him off a path best left untrodden.

“Glitter,” she said, holding up two fingers covered in sparkly residue.

His stomach wobbled with warm, gooey emotions. Perhaps the eggnog gave him Dutch courage, but rather than retreat, he smiled. “Thanks. If Niall had seen it, he’d start up with the Tinkerbell jokes.”

“Tinkerbell?” Niall shouldered between him and Georgia to hang an ornament. “Nah. You’re more Captain Hook.”

Peter gave him a “what the fuck are you talking about” frown, and Niall gave Georgia his customary shit-eating grin.

“Who does that make me?” She voiced the question with the bite Niall deserved. “Wendy?”

Niall lifted a Santa cookie from the platter and casually examined its gaudy icing.

“Well, Peter’s last name sure as hell ain’t Pan.” Niall snorted. “So that’d have to make you Smeed.”

“Um…” Georgia jerked her thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m going to heat my cocoa.”

As Georgia left, the warm glow broke, spraying icy drops of anger in its wake. Peter stiffened his spine, all thoughts of Christmas spirit relegated back to the box he’d long ago labeled Crock of Shit.

“True.” Peter rounded on his youngest brother. “How could I forget you’re the resident expert on never-never land.”

“You’re just pissed because I didn’t need your charity to make something of my life. No matter what they think, unlike everyone else here, you know I never took your handouts.”

The skin beneath Peter’s eye twitched. He fisted his hands and reminded himself he wasn’t twelve and this argument couldn’t be won. Not when his brother was an immature, puffed-up prick.

His mother hovered close, talking with Georgia by the kitchen door, so he lowered his voice. “If you ever make Da feel like a charity case, I’ll take you out. So help me.”

Biting the head off his Santa cookie, Niall stared Peter down. Chewing, he asked, “Did I tell you they let me pay off the house last month?”

“What?” If there’d been a chair close by, Peter would have collapsed into it. He’d been trying to get them to let him pay off the remainder of their debts for years. They’d always insisted on paying him back for everything he’d done. Every last cent. Even the boathouse.

Everything he’d worked for—all he’d ever wanted to do—had been to take care of them and keep them safe. Only Kevin and Liam had accepted his help in any permanent way, each funding their educations and starting their careers with the financial assistance Peter had willingly provided.

Niall grinned, his mouth stuffed with the rest of the cookie. “Not bad for a Lost Boy, eh?”

“Fuck you.”

The music faltered, and Peter realized he’d spoken the words a little too loudly. He glanced over Niall’s shoulder, and his mother’s gaze skittered away. Even she wouldn’t take him on in this temper. Georgia, however, tilted her head in silent question. Was he okay? He looked away, unable to answer, because he really didn’t know.

“We should cut the cake!” His mother placed one hand on Georgia’s shoulder and shepherded her into the kitchen.

Peter went to his father’s side, leaving Niall alone by the desserts. “Want to open our presents together, Da?”

“Opened ’em last night after you went to the boathouse.” The elder Wells glanced in Niall’s direction. “Niall’s couldn’t wait or it’d spoil.”

“Oh.” Peter cleared his throat around a sudden restriction. “Sure. I’ll, um, yeah. Open mine then.”

They hadn’t said a word about the travel package he’d had Emma book for them to the Caribbean. His parents loved the beach, so he pretty much got his father the same thing every year. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea? Did he even like the gift? He’d always thought he and his mother had, but now he wasn’t so sure. About anything.

By the time they’d finished cake and presents—Niall had conveniently forgotten to bring one for him—Peter’s mood had dropped to an all-time low. His family clustered around the coffee table on the sofa and the chairs they’d dragged from the kitchen. God, he wished his parents would let him put on an addition for a dining room.

“Thanks for the sweater, Ma.” He leaned forward to give her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll wear it in Aspen.”

“I’m so glad, dear.” Empty cookie plate in hand, she stood and went to the kitchen. Never good with small talk, his father followed her.

“Oh! I’ve always wanted to go to Aspen.” Georgia smiled extra bright. “I hear it’s lovely skiing.”

Kevin played with the gift-wrap leavings, twisting a bow into new shapes. “Peter has a really nice place there.”

“You’re not taking Georgia?” Niall raised both brows.

“I, uh…” Caught out, Peter glanced to Georgia with an automatic “help me out here” expression.

Pink, then red, stained her cheeks, a prelude to her lie. “I’m seeing my father that week.”

“So?” Niall’s smile was tight. “Peter can afford to put you all up. It’s not like he’s shy about strong-arming people to his plans.”

Peter jerked forward, ready to throttle his youngest brother, but Liam intervened. A press of his hand to Peter’s sternum forced him to remain seated.

“Niall, shut up,” Liam said. “Georgia’s a guest.”

“It’s okay. I wish I’d had siblings to argue with.” Georgia opened a shortbread tin and peered inside. “Your bickering is fascinating.”

Liam laughed. “Well, that was blunt.”

Her conspiratorial wink made everyone laugh, even Peter. Tension diffused, Peter stood and went to the piano. He trailed his fingers over the keys.

“You remember ‘Four Hands’?” Liam asked, coming up next to him.

Recollections of rainy afternoons at the rec hall piano, watching Liam take lessons from Mrs. Hilly, then slogging through his own mediocre performances, drew a rueful laugh. “No. I think I forgot it on purpose.”

“You always did hate music lessons.” Liam sat on the bench and absently picked out a tune. “How come?”

Hands gripping the instrument’s edge, Peter lost focus on the room as memory loomed larger than his surroundings. “I felt like I should be doing something more important.”

Liam’s fingers stopped abruptly. “Thanks, Pete.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry.” Peter plowed a hand through his own hair. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Liam shut the piano lid and made to stand.

Peter placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “It’s not like that. Really.”

Sensing Georgia standing behind him, Peter left off the rest of his explanation.

“Then what is it like?” His most easygoing sibling balled his fists, and his chin jutted. “Because I can’t remember the last time you were at one of the shows I’ve been in.”

“I— Da…”

Fuck.

He couldn’t air his family’s dirty laundry in front of Georgia. He never should’ve come here this weekend. Scenes like these were precisely why he did his damnedest to avoid seeing his family at all. He turned away, intending to leave the room.

“I heard him,” Liam called. “I heard what Da said to you that day.”

Peter paused, not daring to look at his brothers or at Georgia. “It’s in the past.”

“Not for you.” Liam stepped up behind him. “You don’t have to be the man of the family, Peter. You never did. Da might’ve lost his arm, but taking care of us wasn’t up to you.”

Shoulders high around his ears, Peter refused to turn around. If his family didn’t need him, had never needed him, what fucking good was his life? Why had he worked so hard to make things better for them?

“Yeah. I get it, Li,” he said. This time he did leave the room, and he didn’t look back.

Ice pelted his face when he stepped outside and closed the back door behind him. Pulling up his collar, he ran across the yard and into the boathouse. Where a boat should’ve been. He stared at the murky water and found a mirror for his soul. Empty and dark. The door opened and closed softly behind him.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he said without turning around.

Georgia slid her arms around him from behind. He tensed. For long minutes neither of them said anything. Eventually, with her cheek pressed to his back and the soft rhythm of her breath registering as calm and steady, he relaxed.

He sighed and clasped her hands where they rested around his middle. He was so tired of keeping these secrets. Something about Liam’s admission had broken open the floodgates, and damned if he could muscle them closed again. Before he knew it, he was speaking.

“Da said…”

He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, reliving the day his father had caught him building a balsa-wood plane for Kevin when he was supposed to be collecting his newspaper money.

“He said if I’d spent less time screwing around and more time working, he might have his arm.”

She gasped but didn’t offer the words of sympathy he’d dreaded. He’d deserved his father’s censure, every word of it. Though he’d never told the story before, he only did so now because she remained silent in the face of his admission. Her lack of interruption compelled him to go on.

“I was twelve. We were on the boat, working. It was summer, and I wanted to be on vacation like my brothers.” A stiff breeze moved the water under the boathouse and made the boards creak. The hypnotic sloshing motion drew Peter further into his story. “As a consolation, and to stop my moaning, Da allowed me to bring my portable CD player. I guided the boat; he hauled in the traps. When the boat didn’t need to move, I was allowed to goof off.”

Georgia’s thumb played over Peter’s wrist, anchoring part of him in the present while his mind drifted into the past. He could taste the briny tang of the salt spray and feel the damp fog on his face. Aerosmith pumped its wild beat into his ears as the boat bobbed.

“I’d been daydreaming about the band Liam and I were going to form, with me playing lead guitar.” His rueful laugh cut off as memories washed over him with nightmarish intensity. “I was rocking out, and I never saw the jerk of the line or heard Da scream for help. He’d become entangled in the line.” Panic, as vivid as if he lived the moment in the present, spiked his adrenaline and increased his heartbeat. He was there, frantically peering through the fog and calling for a father he couldn’t see. “To this day I don’t know how long he was in the water.”

Heart pounding, breath quickening, his body relived the moment when he had turned around to find an empty deck, Da nowhere in sight.

“It would’ve been all right. He’d cut himself free but couldn’t see the boat. It was so foggy, and his voice seemed to come from everywhere.” Peter couldn’t breathe, but he choked the next sentences out. “I turned the boat around without knowing where he was. I hit him, Georgia.
I
did that to his arm.”

He cried, quietly, so she couldn’t hear, but the jerks of his body gave him away. Georgia turned him to face her and cradled his head to her shoulder. Another racking sob, two deep gulps, and he was done. Done crying for the first and last time about something he was as helpless to do anything about now as he had been back then.

Straightening, he gripped Georgia’s shoulders briefly in thanks, then turned away to dry his eyes with the heels of his hands. He cleared his throat and shook his head to dispel any lingering emotion.

“So, yeah. He’d cut the line and was treading water. He would’ve been fine if I hadn’t…” His voice caught. He cleared his throat again. “If I’d paid attention and not panicked.”

He moved to the stairway and sat, hunched over, with his elbows on his knees. Georgia joined him and looped one arm around his waist, settling against him.

“Is that why you went away to school?” she asked. “To get away from your family?”

The question caught him off guard. He recalled taking the entrance exam without his parents’ knowledge, then the acceptance letter coming in the mail. Ma’s relieved expression as he’d handed it to her with the words
“I’m going away.”

“Not really. More like I got in on scholarship and wanted to leave them with one less mouth to feed.” His answer sounded too pat, even to his own ears, so he dug deeper into the festering wound. “They didn’t want me around, Georgia. Nothing was ever the same. I was angry and a reminder. You know?”

“Yes. I do know.”

Where he expected sympathy and reassurances, she only leaned into him so her cheek rested against his arm.

“You’re not going to tell me I was just a kid and none of it was my fault?” he asked, fixated on his hands dangling, loose and helpless, between his knees.

She pulled back to stare at him. “Would you believe me?”

He’d battle-hardened himself against those lies for so long, needing to blame himself no matter what the school psychologist had said. When he’d refused to talk about anything, insisting he couldn’t afford to miss classes, the man had let him off the hook and he hadn’t had to go back.

Georgia examined him. Peter reluctantly met her gaze. Damp darkened her lashes, and tears moistened her eyes. Exhausted from talking, not wanting to answer her question, he moved his attention to her lips, and he sought some comfort there. Chocolate from the cake and cocoa met the gentle thrust of his tongue. She opened, and he swept in, tasting her fully. Standing, he scooped her up. She wound soft arms around his neck, pulling him deeper into the kiss.

His cock lengthened along his leg, growing heavy with awakening arousal as he carried Georgia up the stairs to the loft. He wanted this woman in ways he couldn’t begin to explain. He wanted her here. In the place he’d built with his own two hands. A place where he’d harbored so many dreams of family and of being welcomed back after he repurchased the home they’d lost because of him. The prodigal son. Then they’d insisted on paying him back with a mortgage through his bank.

“Let me take care of you, Georgia,” he said, laying her on the bed with infinite care.

Auburn hair spilling against the pillows, she leaned back and lifted one arm. More than willing to lose himself, he poised over her and gazed down. Her eyes searched his face, giving the impression she memorized him and tucked the image away for later.