Full Disclosure (Homefront: The Sheridans Book 2) (11 page)

He touches my arm. “You can tell me,” he
says. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

In his eyes I see more tenderness than I
think I’ve ever seen in another human being. It’s as if he knows, even though I
know that’s impossible. Even my parents don’t know.

I could tell him. I could tell him about
that night, what little I remember. I can tell him about the shame I felt,
waking up in that bed, alone and naked. The disgust with myself. The anger. The
guilt. The questions that remained unanswered to me.

Then the terror three months later,
finally giving in to the possibility that I might be pregnant.

One drink was all I remembered—
is
all I remember of that night. One drink couldn’t have knocked me unconscious. Had
he slipped something in it that night, I had wondered? Could I blame him? Or should
I continue to blame myself?

I’m closer than I’ve ever been to saying
something, staring into Ryan’s eyes. My breath catches when I open my mouth,
but no words come.

Thank God, no words come.

“We better get back out there.” I finally
say, pulling my eyes from him just as I feel the salt of a tear slip down my
cheek.

Turning, I take a few steps and reach for
the door.

“Chocolate eggs,” he says behind me.

It’s just random enough that I stop cold
in my tracks. “What?”

“Chocolate eggs. That’s my big secret.”

I turn around to face him. “You like
chocolate eggs?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, who doesn’t? But
it’s the foil wrapping that always gets me into trouble.”

My face contorts. “What are you talking
about?”

“I can’t stand that people just crumple
up the foil wrapping. They let the inside show with the outside. It bugs the
shit out of me.”

I feel my jaw drop slightly. “I’m not
sure what you mean.”

“They just crumple it up, you know, into
a careless little ball. Then you’ve got this wad of pink and silver foil
staring at you.”

There’s a silence between us as I try to
picture what the hell he’s talking about. “So how do you like to wad up the
foil?” I dare to ask, curious beyond measure about this unknown quirk of the
powerful Ryan Sheridan.

“You should flatten it out. And then fold
it inwardly, you see? So that only the pink part of the foil shows.” He
pantomimes the motion with his hands and I stare at them, mesmerized. “Or
better yet, you can just keep it flat and not wad it up at all. Smooth it out. That’s
always the best.”

He’s dead serious, and I don’t want to
laugh, so I stare at him in disbelief. “It must be hell for you at Easter
time.”

“You have no idea. My brothers caught on
that it would bug me by the time I was about ten, and they’d just wad the foil
up haphazardly just to piss me off. I woke up one morning with about twenty
wads of foil on my pillow. They always were a pain in the ass. It just—I
don’t know—irks me. Looking at it is like hearing fingernails on a
chalkboard. I have to fix it.”

Again, my eyes stay locked, ever so cautiously,
on his. “And you’re telling me this why, exactly?”

“Because I’m trying to tell you that we
all have issues, Kim. And if your issues cause you to not want to date me, then
I can respect that. But I don’t want you walking out of this room upset because
you think that there’s anything more wrong with you than with the rest of us.”
He brushes his fingers against my chin. “Everyone’s a hot mess, Kim. It just
depends on whether we’re able to cover it up or not.”

I step toward him again, all instinct
this time, and accept the hand that he offers me.

“So this... egg problem you have. That’s
the worst of it?”

“Nope. That’s just the beginning. Staples
are my other problem. It makes me crazy when people staple things and the
staple isn’t horizontal to the top of the paper.”

“Really?”

“Really. It just looks wrong.”

Frowning, I picture it. “Okay, I’ll buy
that. But wouldn’t it make more sense to staple it at an angle so that when you
flip to the next page, it falls more naturally?”

He winces dramatically, purely for my
benefit, I’m sure. “You’re killing me when you talk like that, Kim.” Reaching
into his pocket, he pulls out his wallet. “And this…”

He opens the billfold and the first thing
I notice is that the guy actually carries hundred-dollar bills, which I rarely
even see, much less carry. But after I get beyond that, I notice that every
bill is facing the same direction. And all the denominations are in order.

Realization dawning, I cock my head
slightly to the side. “Oh, wow. You’re OCD, is that it?”

“Hell, yes. I’m probably just this side
of needing to be medicated,” he says in a half-joking, half-serious tone.

“Except at Easter time.”

“Yeah. The receptionist in the front
lobby at JLS puts out a big bowl of those foil-covered eggs and I pretty much have
to call in sick for a few days till it’s empty.”

I laugh. “You’ve never called in sick in
your life, I’m betting.”

“In my fantasies, I do at least once a
week.” He gently pulls me an inch closer to him, the gesture only being warm
and not sensual at all. “My assistant Deborah knows. She’s always sure to staple
things the right way, thank God. Talk about job security. I’d double her salary
before I’d let her leave me. Hannah’s doctor says that’s probably why she’s got
ADHD. The two sometimes go hand in hand. I guess she picked the wrong dad.”

I square my shoulders toward him. “I
think she picked a hell of a dad.”

“I try.” He shrugs. “So I told you mine. You
tell me yours.”

My breath catches at the feel of his body
heat reaching me, only a couple inches away from me now. “Mine’s a little more
complicated.”

If I were anyone else, I’d be telling him
everything right now. But I’m not. My parents don’t even know. My best friends?
Clueless. It’s safer that way. Safer for my child, and that eclipses any need I
feel right now to dump my baggage on this man or anyone.

Instead of pushing me, he simply says, “I
understand. But now that you know my secret, you might want to at least
consider dating me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’ll feel a lot less like a
hot mess if you’re hanging around a guy whose blood pressure spikes at the
sight of chocolate eggs.”

His smile nudges out the last vestiges of
sadness I feel in my heart.

“Besides,” he continues, lightly resting
his hand on my waist and pulling me closer, “if the whole thing goes south,
you’ll have the security of knowing you can expose me as a completely OCD boss
to
Vanity Fair
. They’d pay you a boatload of cash for that story.”

I feel the awareness of a faint smile
touching my lips. “I’d never do that.”

His mouth is only inches from mine.

“I know,” he says, and every cell in my
body applauds when I feel his lips on mine.

The touch is light, and his hands never
wander. Instead, they rest lightly on my hips, their gentle pressure seeping
into me, making my body cry for so much more than he seems willing to offer me
right now. He lips taste like Sam Adams and feel like pure temptation as they
sweep across my mouth.

Needing to feel that closeness that I’ve
craved, my hands reach upward to his face, tracing the jawline, then downward
to his neck, till they rest on his broad, hard shoulders. Inhaling sharply, I
pull him closer, that instinctive urge to fuse myself with him impossible to
ignore.

If I had my way, I’d do more than just
kiss him now, despite the fact that we’re surrounded by the sight of kid art
taped to the wall, and the smell of finger-paint and Play-Doh. Every square
inch of my skin is begging to feel his warm hands on me, and if there was a
lock on that door I’d be tempted to throw down one of the nap mats and make
love to him on the floor.

Because right now, I’m not thinking, I’m
only feeling. Just like that night in the woods. And if I could just leave my
brain out of the picture, I might be able to actually have sex again.

As his mouth tentatively explores mine, I
nearly tell him this. I nearly beg him to get me out of this damn school and let
me do what any other single 24-year-old woman would do when she’s magnetically attracted
to a man.

But just as I pull my face an inch from
his to urge him to take me to my conveniently empty townhouse, he presses his
finger to my mouth and tells me, “Now how about we go back out there and buy
some of that silent auction loot? I brought cash that I’m itching to spend on
things I don’t need.”

He steps backwards away from me, and nudges
his elbow in my direction so that I can latch onto his arm.

“Okay,” I say quietly. I shouldn’t be
walking out there on his arm like this. I know the carpool line will be buzzing
with gossip on Monday morning and I won’t be able to extinguish it with lines
like, “
We’re just friends
.”

But I can’t let go of him.

- RYAN -

A Goddamn lightning bolt.

I can’t help remembering the words of my dad
yesterday as I step out of the classroom with the touch of Kim’s hand in the
crook of my elbow. Wanting to keep it there all night, wanting to show the
world that we are invariably linked, I savor the sensation. But I don’t want
her to disappear on me again, so before we step into the gymnasium, I take her
hand from my arm and touch it to my lips briefly, and then let it drop to her
side.

Even though it kills me to do it.

We spend the next hour dodging in and out
of conversations with other parents and reading the descriptions of the silent
auction items. She aims for the smaller items, while I eye the larger ones.

My bids are more ambitious than Kim’s,
but I’m careful with the numbers I write down on the sheets of paper. I could
easily win every one of these prizes, and the school would be thrilled with the
money. But the other parents wouldn’t get the chance to feel a part of the
action. So I hold back, letting myself get outbid on most of them. And when I
pick up the pen next to the sheet that lists the twenty babysitting hours,
earning a deadly glare from Sarah Ridout, I set it down again, not making a bid
at all. One of her five sons is in Hannah’s class. She needs that babysitter a
hell of a lot more than I do.

Kim points out the set of kid-sized
Adirondack chairs that was painted by Connor’s pre-K class. It’s got all the
kids’ handprints, and they even managed to paint their names on it. But I
suspect the teacher was pretty liberal with her help because the writing is far
too legible for a bunch of four-year-olds.

I can picture those chairs in her
backyard, but I see her crestfallen face when she gets outbid by someone else.
I glance down to see who outbid her. Natalie Brimswall, and wouldn’t it figure?
I think she’s still mad at Kim for rescuing me from her that morning in the
carpool line.

Well, I can take care of that.

I move my eyes toward the other class
projects. Hannah’s made a stained glass project with all their initials on it, designing
it with some kind of computer program they’re learning. Imagining Hannah
wielding glass-cutting knives is enough to make my hair stand on end, and I can
only assume that the teacher is the one who actually did the cutting of the
glass. I hope.

“Aren’t you going to bid on Hannah’s
class project?” Kim asks.

I shoot her a smile. “It’s smarter to
wait until the last minute. Let all the lower bids fight it out and then make
my move.”

There’s a hula lesson up on the stage
that I refuse to participate in, even though they did manage to slip a fuchsia
plastic lei over my head at some point. I watch Kim up there, though. My eyes
soak in the sinuous sight of her, arms extended, attempting to sway to a hula
rhythm. She tells me afterward that she thinks she doesn’t quite have the knack
for it, but I inform her she looks as sexy as sin trying.

Our school’s headmaster announces when
the final minute of the silent auction begins and people are suddenly crowding
around the tables, fighting for pens to write down their names on the sheets of
paper.

I send Kim a wink as I pull a pen from my
pocket. I’ve been to enough silent auctions that I know all about the battle
for pens in those final seconds.

“I’ll be right back. This is when I do my
damage,” I tell her. I move through the crowd, my long arm reaching through the
throngs of parents and writing down my name in various places. It’s darn near
getting violent toward the last ten seconds, especially near the class projects
which seem to be garnering the most interest.

Swallowed up by the crowd at the tables, I
lose sight of Kim as the headmaster’s voice on the microphone starts counting
down.

“10, 9, 8, 7, 6…”

Kim emerges at my side again, handing me
a fresh Sam Adams, and I want to kiss her for it. But I don’t think she’d
appreciate that in this crowd.

“Figured you might need this,” she says,
lifting her chin to the bottle as I take a pull on the cool drink. “Got
everything you wanted?”

I gaze at her. “I always get what I
want.”

Natalie bustles through the crowd,
collecting the sheets of papers in front of the items and hands them to the
headmaster. Kim stands silently next to me, looking defeated despite the smile
that she’s pasted on her face. I can tell how much she wanted those Adirondack
chairs.

Ever the sport, she claps wildly when my
name is announced as the winner for the TV, the week in the dog resort, and
Hannah’s class project. And I feel a pang of guilt for not telling her that
those Adirondack chairs that Connor’s class painted are as good as hers. But I
want to make sure that Natalie or some other parent didn’t outbid me in that
final second. I bid high, which I’m sure will raise some eyebrows. But I
couldn’t give a damn.

“And the winner of Mrs. Schumacher’s
pre-K class project, the colorful Adirondack chairs is… Ryan Sheridan.”

Her eyes widen at the unexpected name and
a few of the parents fire me a questioning look till they see me standing next
to Kim. And they know—they
must
know on some level that she’s
mine.

She looks at me, questions in her eyes.

My mouth eases upward. “Call it a gift
for a loyal employee.”

Her mouth drops open a little. “You
bought them for
me
?”

“Well, I sure didn’t buy them for Hannah.
She won’t even fit in those anymore.” I dare to touch her briefly, lightly, on
her elbow, and lower my head toward her. “And I certainly wasn’t going to let Natalie
go home with them.”

If it weren’t for the hundred and fifty
pairs of eyes watching us right now, I’m thinking she might actually have
kissed me right now. The appreciation is that evident in her eyes. “Ryan, that
was so nice of you.”

I give a careless wave of my hand through
the air. “Come on. Let’s go claim our prizes.”

Although I already feel like I claimed my
prize. It’s Kim. Because for whatever reason, her presence at my side stirs
something that I’m not even sure how to define. Like the sensation of slipping
on the flight gloves that were once worn by my grandfather every time I take
Amelia out for a flight. It just feels right.

Grateful I had the foresight to drive my new
SUV here tonight, I load Kim’s chairs into the back, right behind the TV. It
gives me a totally legit reason to follow her back to her place to deliver her
winnings.

I shadow Kim back to her townhouse,
sliding into the parking space next to her Toyota. It’s dead quiet, so far off
the road at this time of night. With Logan and Allie gone and the other two
townhomes still vacant, the only visible light is the one that is above Kim’s
front stoop. I should really tell Logan to install more lighting in the parking
area.

“Do you think your mom will have Connor in
bed yet?” I ask, remembering she prefers it that way.

“Probably. But he’s staying at my parents
tonight. Mom didn’t want to be driving home this late.”

Damn if my cock didn’t come to life at
the moment I knew I’d be alone with her, even momentarily, in that townhome.
But I rein myself in. I don’t know what’s making Kim hold back. Most women I’ve
dated have tried to squirm their way
into
my life rather than claw their
way out of it.

So I just give her a nod and pick up the
TV while she digs for her keys in her purse.

“Why are you carrying the TV?”

“Because I can’t stand the thought of you
watching your Star Trek reruns on anything but the latest technology.”

She shakes her head. “No, no, no. I can’t
let you get that for us.”

The TV’s not heavy, but it’s wide and
awkward to carry. “Well, if you don’t open that door, I’ll be dropping this and
then no one can use it.”

“Ryan, really, I—”

Her voice cuts off abruptly, and my eyes
follow her gaze as I make the way to her door behind her.

What the hell?
The sight of two broken windows in the
front of Kim’s townhome has me stopping cold.

I put the TV down on the ground, needing
to know my fists are free in case the person who did this is still lurking
around here.

“Get back in my car, Kim,” I tell her. “And
lock it.”