Page 3 of Salvaged Heart
“You are not serious?”
“As a heart attack.” He deadpanned, earning himself his first glance of acknowledgment.
Well, damn.
Would you look at that?
David Comma Beckham was quite the male specimen.
He stood a couple of inches taller than me and was all long lines, sinewy muscle, high cheekbones, and chiseled jaw. Dark hair peeked out under a backward cap like the universe was trying to play some cruel, sick joke on me. Kryptonite was Superman’s downfall, and backward ball caps were most certainly mine. He looked like a goddamn wet dream in his short sleeve navy henley.Surely that had been available in a larger size?It looked like it was painted on. But easily, the most heart-stopping feature on his face was revealed half a second later when he slid his sunglasses from his straight, lightly freckled nose, revealing two insanely blue eyes that sat beneath a questioning brow.
Oh! Right.He was waiting for me to respond.
Locking into his glacial stare, I grasped his hand in a firm shake that sent a ripple of current straight through my core and to my dick. “Nice to meet you, man. Thanks for coming to help out.”
He held my hand for a beat too long. Something unreadable glinted behind his eyes before he dropped it and gave the bro-iest nod he could muster.
“Don’t mention it. Happy to help.” Deep and smooth like whiskey, his voice was a punch to the gut.
This summer might be enjoyable after all.
“Well then, sister. I guess we better get inside and take a look around.” It took a herculean effort to pull my attention back to the five-foot-seven spitfire tapping her foot in annoyance in front of me. I made a mental note to ask her to teach me how she managed to look down her nose at someone half a foot taller than her. It was quite an impressive talent.
“I figured you would have torn through the place already and squirreled away anything of value.” Laurel was nothing if not predictable.
“See, I knew you would say that. If you had only answered your phone earlier, you would know I have been sitting on this dock for the last three hours waiting for your arrival. I wouldn’t want to lose your trust by going in without you.”
Truth was, the lawyer knew better than to give me a key, but she didn’t need to know that. It’s not like I couldn’t have broken in if I had wanted to.
“Why don’t you both get the house unlocked, and I’ll bring our luggage up?” Beckham lay a gentle peck on my sister’s cheek before taking long strides back the way they had come. I watched his ass flex and relax inside his khaki shorts as he went, my tongue darting out to trace my bottom lip subconsciously.
“Don’t even think about it.” Laurel snapped as soon as he was out of earshot. She tore the last dregs of the cigarette from my fingers and stomped it beneath the sole of her sandal.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
She hummed low in apparent disbelief.
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, Laurel. It’s going to be a long summer. Can we at least attempt to get along?”
She had every reason to hate my guts, especially after the last time we had been in each other’s presence almost seven years ago, but I was determined to try and restore some of our lost relationship. However, after our reunion, I felt like maybe things were even more fractured than I remembered. So much for time healing old wounds, or whatever the saying was.
We had been close once.
Well, as close as two hormonal teenagers fresh off the heels of nasty divorces and thrust together into a brand new build-a-family could be. That first summer, before we started school on our new side of town, we were all each other had. We’d set about exploring on our bikes, racing up and down the West Tennessee hills, causing mayhem. By the time the semester started, we had already created quite the reputation for ourselves as ‘those Mitchell kids.’
But I wasn’t a Mitchell at all.
My mother hadn't even taken the name after marrying husband number four–Alexander Mitchell. I think she gave up on that paperwork nightmare after the second go-around ended in less than three months. Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all that, she should have invested the time, as ten years later, the marriage to Laurel’s father was her longest yet–albeit, a miserable one. I guess when a marriage comes with a ridiculously large bank balance and multiple vacation homes scattered over Europe, your tolerance to overlook verbal abuse and a whole string of sordid affairs grows exponentially. Eitherthat or the Xanax strength she was now being prescribed made her so numb that the threats, taunts, and blatant infidelity glanced off her with little to no impact.
“You’re right.” Laurel finally announced after giving me a long, assessing look.
“Call the press! We might still have time to make tomorrow’s headline.” I gave her what was supposed to be a genuine, but I’m sure came across as a ‘you’re going to regret this’ smile.
“But…”
Of course, there was a but.
“Trust is something that needs to be rebuilt, Anders. I will be keeping a close eye on you.”
