The Other Man (19 page)

“You have nothing to be sorry for.
 
This whole plan was hatched by Rafael and me.
 
I’m the one that volunteered us to cook tonight.”
 

Well.
 

That was something.
 
Nothing he did or said was ever what I expected.
 
I was constantly caught off-guard, mostly in a good way, and I wondered if this man would ever stop surprising me.
 

CHAPTER
 

NINETEEN

By the time we finished shopping, Heath was fairly twitching with impatience.
 
Standing around or even moving leisurely made him very antsy.
 

As soon as we got into my car, I saw at least part of the reason for it.
 

He was all over me in a flash, mouth on mine, one hand diving into the bottom of my dress, the other into the top.
   

In the store, he hadn’t so much as touched me, and I hadn’t minded or been surprised.
 
He didn’t strike me as the type who liked PDA.
 

But here, with the most superficial veneer of privacy around us, he didn’t, or couldn’t, hide his ravenous hunger.
 

“We’re just a few minutes from my house,” I gasped into his mouth.
 

He groaned and wrenched himself away.
 
With impatient movements, he put the car in gear and started to drive.
 

He seemed to have himself in hand by the time we made it to the house.
 

It took two trips between the both of us to get all of the groceries into the kitchen.
 

I was unloading the first bag when he pressed in behind me, mouth going to my neck, his big hands palming my breasts.
 

I leaned back against him, my eyes rolling up in pleasure.
 

“I have a lot of prep to do before dinner,” I told him, trying (and failing) to use a firm tone.
 

“At some point today,” he breathed into my ear, “I’m going to snap and take you.
 
I can’t spend this many hours with you in a row and not have you.
 
That’s a fact.
 
You want it to be now or right around the time your sons show up to have dinner with us?”

He made a very good point.
 
A very good, panty dropping point.
 

“Better we do this now than later,” he continued.
 
“Trust me on this.”

My hands covered his, just one of many signs of my acquiescence.
 

I didn’t let him take me in the kitchen, but it was a close thing.
 

We made it to the bedroom, but only just.
 
The bed was far too ambitious.
 
We ended up on the floor, on hands and knees with mad abandon, a few feet shy of our goal.
   

He gripped handfuls of my hair and rode me, hard and fast.

We were showered and re-dressed, a good hour later, before we got to the task of tackling dinner.
 

I could cook to impress.
 
It was a fact that I took pride in.
 
My gourmet chef father had taught me from the time I was a small child.
 
But I didn’t want to overdo it for this meal.
 

I wasn’t planning to make anything too highfalutin.
 
My boys were used to that sort of thing, but I didn’t want to be inconsiderate to Heath.
 
I was certain from what I’d gathered about him that he liked simpler food.
 
And that was fine.
 
I could do simple and give it a nice gourmet edge.
 
Sometimes that was the best food of all—the simple and superb.
 

I’d decided to go with a chestnut soup with bacon and chives for an appetizer, green beans with shallots, hazelnuts, and tarragon accompanying a comfort style beef bourguignon pot pie for the main course.
 
And, after briefly and frustratingly trying to grill Heath about his preferences (the man would never tell me what kind of food he liked), I decided to go with a classic chocolate mousse for dessert, because who didn’t like chocolate mousse?
   

It was a bit alarming how good Heath was at being a sous chef.
 
Alarming because he knew his way unerringly around every inch of my kitchen.
 

When I needed bay leaves, he knew which shelf in my extensive spice collection to search.
 
When I asked for a star anise pod, he didn’t have to ask where or what it was.
   

Some part of my brain kept picking at that, but I was having too nice of a day, so I brushed it off.
 

He was so efficient, in fact that I wound up giving him a break from the position about an hour before my boys were set to arrive.
 

He didn’t seem to mind at all, just grabbed an apple, set himself away from me on the far side of my large kitchen leaning back against the counter and ate his apple while he watched me work.
 

I was fine with that.
 
I had grown to love the way he watched me.
 
It was amazing how fast I’d become accustomed to being studied like prey, how much I’d come to crave it, when I knew precisely what was at the end of that intent stare.
 

That wasn’t to say that I wasn’t distracted by his idle self.
 
He could distract me by doing absolutely nothing.
 

Hell, he was legitimately distracting me right then just by eating a freaking apple.
 
I loved, seriously
loved
, how he consumed it with purpose and intensity as he did everything, it seemed.
     

It was a treat to watch him devour it in big succinct bites, going to the very last bit of fruity flesh until you wondered if he would devour the core or not.

“You aren’t going to like how your pot pie crust turns out if you keep looking at me like that,” he told me.
 

Biting back a happy smile, I turned my back on him and went back to cooking.

God, I loved all of his little quirks.
   

My boys, Rafael and Gustave, arrived at the same time though they came in their own cars.
 

Raf came with a bouquet of white daisies, and Gustave brought pink carnations.
 

My father had taught them this when they were very young.
 
Always get flowers for beautiful women,
he’d told them more times than I could count.
 
And, as I was the only daughter to my doting father, he’d been sure to point out to them,
and there is no woman on this earth more beautiful than your mother, so she can never have too many flowers.
 

They’d both taken it to heart.
 
More often than not, even on the most casual, quick of visits, they came bearing flowers.
 

I flushed in pleasure.
 
“You shouldn’t have,” I said.
 
I always said this, but never meant it.
 

I adored this ritual.
     

“Nonsense,” Raf said.

“Mother,” Gus chided.
 

They both sounded so much like their grandfather that it filled my heart with joy.
 

I embraced them, giving Gus and then Raf a light kiss on the cheek.
 

They both favored me.
 
My ex and I had similar coloring—dark eyes, black hair, dusky skin, and so did the boys, but their actual features, sharp straight noses, almond eyes, lush lips that stayed a natural dark rose in color, even their square white teeth, it all came straight from me, and I couldn’t have been happier about it.
 

Raf was taller, leaner than Gus.
 
And Gus, while still over six feet, had a shorter, more bulked up build than his older brother.
 
Small physical differences aside, though, anyone could tell at a glance that they were brothers and that I was their mother.
   

There weren’t many men out there as good looking as my boys.
 
They were outrageously attractive.
 
I’d seen it early on, made a point of keeping them humble, while still knowing their own worth.
 

Me being their mom helped as they adored me and didn’t disrespect the women in their lives because of it.
   

While my sons had a striking physical resemblance, personality-wise they were opposites in many respects.
 

Raf was so sensitive.
 
Not to himself.
 
Rarely for his own pain did he suffer.
 
He suffered for others.
 
It both broke my heart and overfilled me with pride to see the way he was moved.
 

Gustave, on the other hand, was insensitive to almost an extreme.
 
He was a fighter.
 
He could both take and land blows with precision.
 
He fought for everything he thought was worth his concern.
 
Causes.
 
People.
 
He’d always been a tank of a boy, designed to defend.
 

For being so dissimilar, I thought their personalities complemented each other quite brilliantly.
 

But when they fought.
 
Oh, Lord.
 
It was agony for all three of us.
 
Just the worst.
 
They hated being at odds with each other.
 
Went to great, careful, tedious steps to avoid it, so when it happened, it was usually unavoidable and
terrible
.
 

Terrible for me because my boys were hurting, and your children in pain is at least ten times worse than literal pain to yourself.
 

At least.
 

Terrible for Raf because he was sensitive, all criticism focused inward, and he kept it bottled up tight, rarely letting it lash outward.
 
But when it did go outward, and he said things that were usually true but that he knew were hurtful, he suffered double the impact.
 

Terrible for Gustave because, though he was the insensitive ying to Raf’s empathetic yang, he treasured his brother’s vulnerability, felt it was something he should protect, and so when it was not protected, he knew he had failed, and in his own resilient way, he was every bit as self-critical as his brother.
 

They had a row back in high school (over a girl) that I swear was more painful to go through than my divorce.
 
That bad.
 
Eyes were blackened, young hearts broken.
 
They hadn’t spoken to each other for nearly a month.
 

When they’d at last reconciled, we’d all been unutterably relieved.
 

They worked well as a team, and suffice it to say, anything else was unthinkable.
 

There were a tense few minutes, when I initially introduced Gustave, the younger, more volatile of my boys, to Heath, but all things considered, it was to be expected.
 

Me even having a love life was going to be an adjustment for them, and the reality of it in the form of a man like Heath, well, I just assumed that would not go smoothly right away.
 
I knew it would take time.
 

That being said, I could tell Raf had spoken to him, convinced him to behave, even if it was just with cool civility.
 

I’d take it.
 

I put the flowers in vases and set them as centerpieces along the middle of my large dining room table.
 

Without having to be asked, Raf began to set out plates and napkins, while Gus put out the silverware.
 

I hadn’t raised my boys to be idle little princes.
 
They always pitched in.
 
They’d moved out of my house knowing how to take care of themselves, and while Raf liked to tease his brother by announcing to me that Gus had girls doing his laundry for him at his dorm, I’d made sure he knew how to do it himself from the time he was thirteen.
 

Like tonight, for instance.
 
Since Heath and I had cooked, it was no question that the boys would be in charge of cleanup.
 
This was how I was raised and a system I’d passed on to them, because it worked perfectly.
   

My father would perhaps have cringed, but for convenience sake, we ate buffet style, filling up our plates in the kitchen and carrying them back to the dining room.
 

Clearly thinking the same thing, Raf smirked and muttered, “Grand-pere would have a fit,” as he carried his loaded plate out of the kitchen.
 

I entered the dining room last, but all of the men were still standing behind their chairs, politely waiting for me to sit first.
 

I felt near to bursting as I took them all in.
 
I couldn’t help feeling more than a twinge of pride at being surrounded by such magnificent men.

I said a quick prayer that they all wouldn’t kill each other and took my seat.
   

CHAPTER
 

TWENTY

No fists flew.
 
No dishes were thrown.
 
No profanity was spewed.
 

All in all, I counted the evening a victory.
 

Of course it wasn’t perfect.
 
Gustave and Heath did not meet and hit it off.
 
They didn’t bump fists, talk about sports and become best friends, but I’d known they wouldn’t.