Coming Apart at the Seams (6 page)

The line to the newest romantic comedy was long and composed entirely of women. Apparently, there were a lot of single gals in Cambridge looking for something to do on a Saturday night.

“Ugh, do we have to wait?” Bebe groaned.

“Patience is a virtue,” Teagan replied.

Bebe scowled. “I have enough virtue, as you well know,” she replied bitchily, hefting her hot pink bag over her shoulder.

Teagan snickered at the other woman's comment. At twenty-five, Bebe was still a virgin, partly by choice, partly because of a lack of opportunity, at least according to her.

Bebe's eyes narrowed. “You're not exactly experienced.”

Teagan shrugged, unable to dispute Bebe's assessment. She was a cliché: the quintessential good girl.

Her thoughts, meanwhile, were a heck of a lot less pure than her body. In her imagination, she got down and dirty with Nick Priest almost every night. Her vibrator had received quite a workout over the past several weeks.

She always felt a little guilty whenever she fantasized about Nick. The poor guy had no idea thoughts of his six-pack abs and tight backside got her off night after night. He would probably be horrified she moaned his name when she came.

Even though they'd spent so much time with each other over the past seven weeks, he still treated her the same way he always had: she was a good buddy, one of the guys, his best friend's little sister.

If they were dating, they probably would have passed the point where they were exclusive and having sex. She saw him two to three times a week. He'd stop by and they'd go out to dinner or he'd show up at her door with takeout. They'd spend the rest of the evening talking, maybe watch a little TV, and then he'd leave.

They usually spent Saturdays together, too. Nick would show up midmorning, and they would spend the rest of the day doing something fun or touristy or both.

They'd attended two Red Sox games, gone on a walking tour of Boston's historic neighborhoods, visited Paul Revere's house, and explored the New England Aquarium. In addition, they'd celebrated the Fourth of July on the banks of the Charles River, drinking beer and enjoying the Boston Pops Fireworks Spectacular.

He never called or texted, and they never made plans in advance. He just showed up.

Teagan was ashamed to admit she looked forward to his visits so much she'd started to decline other invitations because she didn't want to miss him, if and when he knocked on her door.

Today she'd waited until early evening for him to show, and when he hadn't, she'd felt a bewildering mix of emotions. Mostly, she'd been disgusted by herself for being too available. She had turned into the pathetic girl who sat by the phone, only she sat near the front door.

She'd spent more time with Nick over the past several weeks than she and Jason had spent together during the final year of their relationship. He'd always found a reason not to see her. She shook off memories of her ex-boyfriend. She didn't want to ruin her night out with Bebe.

“We should have bought tickets for the movie in advance, because it will probably be sold out by the time we get to the front of the line,” Teagan noted.

Bebe's shrug clearly conveyed her lack of concern. “I'd rather get some ice cream from Tosci's.”

“Why didn't you say so? I'd choose ice cream over a movie any day.”

Tosci's, or Toscanini's officially, had the best ice cream in the United States, maybe the whole world, and Teagan wasn't the only one who thought so. She made a mental note to take Nick there soon.

Bebe and Teagan abandoned the line at the movie theater and headed off toward Central Square, where Tosci's was located. As they strolled along the busy sidewalk, Bebe returned to their previous conversation.

“Speaking of sexual experience, have you heard from Jason in a while?”

“I got an email from him a few days ago.”

When Jason had broken up with her, she'd accepted his decision gracefully. She hadn't cried or begged, and she hadn't tried to change his mind. No guy was worth humbling herself like that, especially if he didn't want her in the first place.

“Do you think he wants to start something with you again?”

“No, I don't think so. His emails are friendly, but we don't talk about anything important when he calls. I think he just wants to stay in touch.”

“Would you get back together with him if he wanted to?”

She considered Bebe's question. At one time, she'd thought she and Jason would get married and have a family.

Even though they hadn't enjoyed the kind of passionate relationship her parents had, she had been content with him. She had never expected to experience an all-consuming kind of love like her parents had found. It was rare.

“I'm not sure how I would react if Jason told me that he wanted to get back together. I'm not in love with him anymore, but we do have history together.”

“You also have history with Nick Priest,” Bebe said archly.

Teagan sighed in exasperation. “Bindu Banerjee, I've already told you that Nick and I are just friends.”

“That's what you say, but you sure do spend a lot of time with him. Don't you wonder why he seems to prefer your company over anyone else's?”

“Not really. He doesn't know anyone else in Boston.”

Bebe snorted. “He's hotter than hot. He's a conflagration, and I'm sure he could find company if he wanted to.”

“Conflagration? Do you have to show off your Ivy League vocabulary all the time?”

Bebe ignored her teasing. “Maybe he's secretly in love with you and afraid to say anything.”

Teagan laughed. “Oh, Bebe, you are
so
wrong.”

She couldn't imagine Nick being in love with anyone. In all the time she'd known him, he'd never had a steady girlfriend or anything remotely recognizable as a relationship.

She'd never even seen him with the same woman twice. More than likely, he had a stable of women he called whenever he wanted sex, and they dropped everything when he got in touch, eager to get their hands on his hot body.

“If you met him, if you saw us together, you'd know how wrong you are,” Teagan continued. “He's bored, and I'm convenient. I'm his platonic booty call.”

Bebe choked. “There is no such thing! In fact, that's an oxymoron.”

“You know what I mean,” she replied, waving her hand.

“So you're telling me you feel nothing for him but friendship?”

“That's right. Nothing but friendship.”

And lust. I can't forget that.

*   *   *

Judging by the frown on Teagan's face, ten o'clock on a Sunday morning was too early for Nick to show up at her condo. It had taken several minutes of intermittent knocking for her to come to the door, but finally she'd answered.

As he took in her wild hair and slumberous eyes, he was blindsided by the thought she might have company. A sour taste flooded his mouth, and he swallowed to get rid of it. He must be hungry.

He had wanted to visit the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum today, and he'd thought Teagan might be interested in going with him. But maybe she was busy.

Maybe someone had kept her up late last night, kissing her pink mouth and caressing her curvy body. He scowled, uncertain if he was annoyed because he was thinking about her naked
again
or because he was thinking about her naked with someone else.

She stared at him for a moment before opening the door wider and gesturing for him to come in. He breathed a sigh of relief. She was alone.

“Do you want some coffee?” she asked, her voice husky from sleep. “I definitely need some.”

She turned toward the kitchen, and he trailed after her. She wore a fuzzy robe that was the exact color of the pistachio mousse Letty had made last week, and he wondered if it would feel as soft as it looked.

Settling himself on one of the metal stools situated around the granite bar, he hooked his feet in the rungs and focused his gaze on Teagan. As she stretched up to reach into the cabinet, the tie of her robe loosened.

He sucked in a breath. Was she naked under that robe?

God, I hope so.

What? No, you don't!

Her robe fell open as she measured coffee into the coffeemaker, and he exhaled, in relief, not disappointment, damn it, that she wore something underneath it. But then she turned to fill the coffeepot with water, and he got a good look at her pajamas. A scrap of black material barely covered her tits, and a tiny pair of matching shorts barely hid her crotch.

The color made her skin look like fresh powder at his favorite ski resort, and he could see the hard points of her nipples against her top and the enticing indention of her belly button above the waistband of her bottoms.

He tore his eyes away, but it was too late. The hard-on he'd woken up with had returned, and he cursed under his breath.

Her head jerked toward him at the sound, her eyebrows winging up her forehead. “What?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled.

He enjoyed Teagan's company, but if his body kept acting this way whenever he was around her, he was going to have to stop hanging out with her. It was impossible to avoid touching her altogether, and walking around half hard wasn't comfortable.

He'd always had complete control over his body, unlike his mouth, and he didn't know why it got excited around Teagan. She was his
friend
and his best friend's little
sister
.

He'd been having sex four times a week, sometimes five, with a couple of women he'd met at the gym, so it wasn't as if he were sex-deprived. He might need to add another woman to the rotation, maybe someone dark-haired and blue-eyed.

Teagan pulled her robe closed and cinched the tie around her waist before leaning against the counter. She yawned, not one of those delicate ones that women give behind their hands, but a jaw-popping one.

“Late night?” he asked.

He told himself he was way too interested in what she'd been doing, but that didn't stop him from leaning forward to hear her response. She nodded, but surprisingly she didn't elaborate. He narrowed his eyes. Was she purposely not telling him what she'd done last night?

“Doing?” he persisted.

The coffeemaker beeped, and Teagan pushed away from the counter without answering. She opened the cabinet, pulled out two mugs, and filled them with coffee.

Grabbing some half-and-half from the fridge, she splashed a generous amount in his mug, just as he liked it. She dumped a huge amount of sugar into her coffee, and he shuddered at the thought of how sweet it would be.

She placed his mug in front of him before picking up hers. She gazed at him over the rim of it as she blew on her coffee.

“So, you're bored,” she stated flatly. “You're desperate for company, and you want to do something touristy today.”

She took a small sip of her coffee, waiting for his reply.

“Right,” he answered, although he wasn't being entirely truthful.

He wasn't desperate for company. He knew other people in the city now. In fact, he knew more than a few in the biblical sense. And he definitely wasn't bored. How could he be when he spent so much time with Teagan?

“What do you have in mind?” she asked, pushing her tangled hair away from her face.

“Brunch. JFK Library.”

She stared at him, an unreadable expression on her pretty face. When she didn't respond, his stomach cramped a little at the thought that she might not want to go with him. The outing wouldn't be any fun without her.

After a long moment, Teagan nodded and left him in the kitchen, presumably to get ready. As he raised his mug and took a drink, he realized two things: he didn't like her coffee, and he didn't want to spend his free time with anyone but her.

“I had no idea my family had so much in common with JFK's family,” Teagan said as she stood in front of a large exhibit in the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum.

Nick looked over the plaque next to the exhibit, which traced the thirty-fifth president's ancestry all the way back to Ireland, where the Fitzgerald and the Kennedy families hailed from.

“Most Irish immigrants came to America because of the potato famine, you know, but my great-great-grandfather got here several years before that happened. We don't know for sure why he left Ireland, but we think he got into some trouble with the British.”

Nick cocked his head, interested to hear more about the man who built Riley O'Brien & Co. He loved history, and that was why he'd decided to major in American history at USC.

A lot of people assumed he had chosen history because it was an easy major. There were certain undemanding majors that jocks picked so they could maintain their academic eligibility, and history was one of them.

But he'd settled on history because he'd always been interested in the past and how it impacted the present. People would be surprised to find out he watched the History Channel a lot more than he watched ESPN.

“How d-d-d-did he get to the Bay Area?” he asked.

“We're not sure. My Grandma Vi was interested in genealogy, and she found out he came here on a coffin ship from Dublin. He arrived in Boston in 1839, and then he showed up in San Francisco in 1843.”

“Go on,” he prompted Teagan, using one of his many verbal tricks that encouraged other people to keep talking.

She stared at him. “Are you really that interested?”

He nodded emphatically, and she smiled. He stared at her rosy lips, watching them shape words he had trouble pronouncing.

“Well, once Riley O'Brien arrived in San Francisco, he opened a dry goods store. His store was known for having the largest selection and the best price—basically the Walmart of the 1800s.”

Her description made him laugh. She certainly had a way of painting a picture with a few words. It was just one of the many reasons he had so much fun when he was with her.

“One of the biggest mysteries about Riley O'Brien is where he got his money to open the store,” she continued.

He raised his eyebrows. By and large, Irish immigrants had been poor, and the ones who'd had money were usually involved in all sorts of illegal activities.

“Criminal?” he guessed.

“Maybe. But there might be another explanation. Grandma Vi found a book with a bunch of posters advertising fights across the U.S. in the early 1840s, and some of them referred to a brawler called the Irish Mountain. I think the Irish Mountain was Riley O'Brien.”

“Makes sense,” he agreed. He couldn't imagine many men who would have been larger than Riley O'Brien. “And the jeans?”

Teagan nodded, understanding his question. Sometimes he felt as if she could read his mind.

“It's kind of a long story,” she warned him.

“Continue,” he directed, using yet another verbal prompt. He had a lot of them.

“We're not sure how Rileys came to be, exactly. It's urban legend, for the most part. Apparently, quite a few of Riley O'Brien's customers were angry the pants he'd sold them weren't very durable.”

“Prospectors?”

“No, the Gold Rush hadn't started yet. These were just regular working guys. Somehow he got the idea to make pants out of the same canvas material that tents were made out of. Of course, the material was a light color, and it showed dirt, so he sent a swatch of tent material to fabric manufacturers in France looking for a similar material in a darker color. They sent him a fabric called
serge de nimes,
which is basically serge fabric from the town of Nimes. That's why it's known as denim.”

“France?”

“Yes. Back then, the French were a lot more advanced than other countries in producing textiles. Riley O'Brien had to ship the denim in bulk from France to San Francisco, where he had a team of seamstresses to sew the pants.”

“Cool.”

He found the entire history of the O'Brien family fascinating. In fact, he knew more about Teagan's ancestry than his own. He didn't know the origin of his last name, and he didn't know where his ancestors were from.

Teagan shifted next to him, drawing his gaze. Her sundress was the color of watermelon, and a cardigan sweater of the same color draped over her arm. And just like watermelon, she looked cool and sweet and reminded him of summer.

She had twisted her dark hair on top of her head, leaving her shoulders bare except for the skinny straps of her sundress. It dipped a little in the front, revealing her abundant cleavage, and Nick wished for the hundredth time she'd worn something else—something that didn't make him think about running his tongue down the valley between those plump mounds.

They'd reached the end of the permanent exhibits, and Teagan turned to face him. “Do you want to see the special exhibit, too?”

He nodded. He was really excited about the exhibit, which was called
Moon Shot: JFK and Space Exploration.

“I'm so glad.” She smiled brightly. “I saw it advertised on the side of a bus, and I've been dying to see it since then.”

She shifted her brown leather bag from one shoulder to the other, and he noticed deep red grooves where its straps had dug into her creamy skin. It must be heavy.

For some reason, it bothered him that the bag had marred her
smooth skin. He didn't want her to have to lug it around any longer, so he reached over and gently pulled it from her shoulder.

Holding the bag loosely in his grip, Nick was surprised by how much it weighed.
What the hell does she have in it? A set of encyclopedias?

He transferred her bag to his shoulder, where it settled comfortably. He couldn't care less if someone saw him carrying a purse. There weren't many people who doubted his masculinity, at least not to his face.

Teagan smiled in appreciation. “Thanks. My shoulder was starting to hurt.”

Before he thought about it, Nick stroked the marks on her shoulders, running his fingers over them. Her skin was so warm and smooth, and he couldn't stop himself from tracing her delicate collarbone before touching the silky skin of her throat.

She swallowed, and he felt the movement against his fingers. She looked up into his face, her eyes a dreamy dark blue behind her glasses.

“Nick,” she said huskily, “are you only spending time with me because you're bored? Because you don't know anyone else in Boston?”

“No.”

“Then why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Frowning, he dropped his hand from her throat. He didn't know why he kept coming back to her door, time after time. He didn't know why he craved the sound of her voice, the sight of her smile, the music of her laughter.

He didn't know why he thought about her when they weren't together, even when he fucked other women. He didn't know why he was surly and bad-tempered on the days when he didn't see her.

He didn't know why . . .

*   *   *

Teagan didn't know why she'd asked such a stupid question when she already knew the answer: Nick spent time with her because they were
friends
.

She needed to keep reminding herself of that fact before she made a fool of herself over him. He already had enough women doing that.

She turned away from his golden good looks and headed
into the special exhibit, determined to focus on how President Kennedy had managed to get America to the moon before Russia.

As she studied a model of the Friendship 7 Project Mercury space capsule, Nick joined her. She gave him a sideways glance, noting that he managed to look manly even though he carried a purse.

His big hand pressed against the leather, holding it close to his body, and not for the first time, she noticed his fingers. They were long, tapered, and tipped with short nails. She really loved his hands, and when they were together, she stared at them a lot, imagining them on her breasts and between her legs.

He had really nice forearms, too—tan and sinewy with muscle. She especially liked it when he wore a long-sleeved, button-down shirt and rolled up the cuffs in front of her. It was so erotic, and it always made her panties damp.

Right now, though, a short-sleeved USC T-shirt showed his forearms. It was ancient, maybe even one of the shirts he'd had since college, and the faded red cotton was soft and clung tightly to his torso, almost like he'd outgrown it a bit.

He'd paired the tee with khaki cargo shorts that had definitely seen better days. They were frayed at the bottom, and one of the pockets was missing.

She wondered if his shorts were loose enough to slip her hand in the waistband and run her fingers across his abs. Saliva pooled in her mouth at the thought of what might be under his shorts. She wanted a peek, just so her fantasies would have some basis in reality.

Pulling her gaze from his drool-worthy body, she found him staring at a picture of the moon with a rapt expression. She imagined he'd sported the same look when he was a little boy.

“You wanted to be an astronaut when you grew up. Am I right?”

“Yeah,” he answered without taking his eyes off the picture.

“Why did you want to be one?”

He met her eyes. “Because the moon”—he cleared his throat—“is far away.”

“And you wanted to be far away?”

He nodded, his eyes shadowed. He moved to stand in front of a glass display case that held a Project Mercury spacesuit, helmet, and boots.

Teagan digested his answer. She knew his mother had died when he was young, too young to remember her. She couldn't imagine growing up without a mother. She was a daddy's girl, but she and her mom had a special relationship, too.

“When did you stop wanting to be an astronaut?”

“I didn't.”

She frowned, wondering why he played football if he wanted to be something else. She strongly believed people should follow their dreams.

“Did you ever think of pursuing it?” she asked, moving to the next part of the exhibit, a lunar sample that was brought back to Earth by the Apollo 15 mission.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Too tall.”

She'd never considered Nick's height might be an issue. How strange that one of the things that made him a great wide receiver also prevented him from being an astronaut.

“You?” he asked.

She cocked her head. “What?”

“Your little-girl dreams.”

“Oh, I wanted to be a ballerina, just like thousands of other little girls. But I changed my mind when I was twelve or thirteen.”

“Because?”

When she didn't answer, he turned to spear her with his light green gaze. He raised his eyebrows, a silent question.

“Obviously, I don't have the body of a ballet dancer,” she replied, laughing self-consciously.

Nick's eyes narrowed before dropping to her chest, and she resisted the urge to shield her breasts with her sweater. She wasn't ashamed of her body, not exactly, but it was certainly more
robust
than she would have liked.

“No,” he said slowly. “You don't.”

Teagan wished she had lied and told him that she had wanted to be a lawyer when she grew up. Desperate to change the subject, she asked, “When do you leave for training camp?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh! I didn't know it was so soon.”

Nodding, he clasped her elbow to move her out of the way
as a large mass of people walked by. He dropped his hand to her waist, and the heat of it burned through her thin sundress.

They'd reached the end of the special exhibit, and he ushered her out the door with a hand on her lower back. He touched her a lot, casual contact that didn't matter to him but made her heart beat faster.

Once they were back in the museum's main area, she turned to him. Although she rarely bought anything at museum gift shops, she had a hard time bypassing them.

“I want to stop by the gift shop before we leave.”

He groaned, and she shook her head in exasperation. “Give me twenty minutes, and I'll meet you out front,” she promised.

He nodded and walked off, but she called him back after only a few steps. “I need my purse.”

Grinning, he handed it over before heading outside. She turned toward the gift shop, and she'd barely stepped over the threshold before she spotted something she just had to have. She quickly completed her purchase and walked outside with ten minutes to spare.

She looked around the grounds, enjoying the view. Located at the tip of the Columbia Point Peninsula, the museum overlooked the entrance to Boston Harbor and the islands to the east of Dorchester Bay. Pine trees, shrubs, and wild roses dotted the land around it.

Teagan spotted Nick about fifty yards away, sitting on a bench. His blond hair glinted in the sunlight, beckoning her toward him. When she sat down next to him, he shot her a surprised glance.