“Madison,” I growl.
“Relax.” She waves me off, not the least bit intimidated. “Don’t go around full-naming me, Dexter.”
It’s cute how she thinks using mine proves some kind of point. I level her with a look that has made many a sailor quiver in their boots.
“Fine,” she huffs when I don’t give her the reaction she wants. “Come with me.”
Gingerly, I rise from my seat, handing off the peas to a smirking Skye, and follow Maddey upstairs, leaving the rest of her squad to fend for themselves.
The wall along the stairs has a gallery-worthy display of photos. The crazies from downstairs are featured in them, but what surprises me is my own presence in several of the images.
I may have kept my distance physically from Maddey by not returning home much through the last handful of years, but that hasn’t meant I’ve been absent from her life. Tyler was always dragging me into their video chats, and her friends downstairs rotated through most of them.
This display is a visual representation of all the things Maddey holds dearest in her heart. Each picture of me is a shot in the feels.
I snort when I spot one of us from Halloween almost twenty years ago. Maddey is dressed as Tink, me as Hook, and Tyler drew the short straw of having to don tights to be Peter Pan while Connor and Justin got away with dressing as Lost Boys. Ah…you just realized how we got our nickname?
I’ll need to remember to spend some time looking over the rest later.
Passing bedrooms and bathrooms has me wondering again how she’s able to afford so much house. At the end of the hall, she turns left, not to the right for her bedroom.
Curious, I step into the room, not at all prepared for what I see. Like her bedroom, one whole wall is made of glass, with the same French doors leading to the attached deck. In the corner is a chrome and glass desk with a large hot pink leather chair behind it.
Another wall comprises three large white bookshelves filled with copies of her books and what I’m sure are some of her favorites. There are Funko Pop! dolls along with mugs and frames of modern Disney pop art.
Holy shit! She has cardboard cutouts of guys, and even a Team USA hockey jersey signed by the entire Olympic roster.
Maddey heads for the dove gray couch on the wall opposite her desk, leaving me to inspect her inner sanctum without comment.
This space couldn’t be more her if it tried.
Looking at Maddey sitting on the couch, one leg bent under her, a throw pillow with Just one more chapter written on it hugged to her middle, and framed pictures of all her book covers in an artful collage on the wall behind her, the pride I feel for her is staggering.
With the hitch in my step finally gone, I make my way over. My arm drapes over the back of the couch as I angle myself to face her, our close proximity making my body hum.
We sit in silence, each waiting for the other to be the one to break it, both of us having been taught you learn more by holding your tongue.
For all her earlier bravado, the longer we sit, the more her cracks start to appear. There’s a little V between her blonde brows, the corners of her blue eyes have a slight squint, and I’d recognize that McClain clenched jaw anywhere. She’s pissed, but it’s the way her fingers pick at the seams of the pillow that tells me she’s scared too.
She’s put up a good front, not wanting to seem weak in a family made up of tough military men, I’m sure, but what she doesn’t realize is being scared and asking for help when some creep starts sending you “gifts” doesn’t make you weak.
There’s a reason SEALs operate in teams and the US military has a no-man-left-behind policy. Time to teach her why.
Chapter Seven
Eight months.
That’s how long I was able to bury my head in the sand, pretending nothing was wrong and I could take care of myself.
I must have put up a good front, because it’s only now that the kid gloves have come off and Justin has called in the big guns. Guess having your stalker send things to your home instead of your PO box changes things.
Who knew?
Silence stretches, and if my Jiminy really were a cricket manifestation of my conscience like Pinocchio’s, he would be chirping his ass off right now.
I like the strong silent type as much as the next girl, and holy hell, don’t even get me started on alpha men—that and alphaholes are all I write—but I have a feeling I’m going to be itching for my taser a lot while Dex is here.
Well played, Justin.
My pain-in-the-ass, I know he means well but I still want to punch him brother had to go and call the one person who has never backed down from challenging me or been charmed into indulging my whims.
Sammy, my oldest and dearest friend? Yup, I totally played that card to keep him from pushing me.
Ryan? We’ve had a number of fights about what I should do, but I know just what buttons to push with him to maintain my independence.
Paul, Justin’s SWAT partner, was the easiest to turn down. Plus, I’m pretty sure he just offered in an effort to keep the peace between my brother and me.
Nope, Dexter Stone only ever does what he wants, and no flashing of dimples or puppy dog eyes will sway him. Hell, even the Halloween costume he wore in the picture I caught him looking at of when he dressed as Captain Hook was one he donned willingly, practically saying, “Hell yeah I’ll be a badass pirate.” Well…without the badass part, because he was nine and Peggy Stone—always Peggy Stone, never just Peggy—would have smacked him for cursing.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
His fingers drum pinky to forefinger on the back of the couch, waiting me out.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
My nose twitches like a bunny with the effort of not being the first to break.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
I will not be the one to give in. No, nope, not happening.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
I drop my gaze, unable to look into his chocolatey eyes without melting. They have always been one of my favorite features on him, even when he would scoff and say they were doo-doo brown.
Instead I focus on the bend of his knee…except I get more distracted the longer I look. The hems of his shorts are pulled taut, stretched by the hard muscles of his thighs, the tan material scrunched across the tops of them from sitting.
Do not look at his dick, Madz. Do not do it.
I look at his dick.
What? It’s not my fault. The wrinkles in the khaki are like bookends to his package. See? Fashion is to blame.
Plus, I haven’t had sex in a long time—a really long time, like I’m practically revirginized and the only thing keeping my hymen from growing back is my vibrator.
Not gonna lie, I hate my friends just the tiniest bit when they tell me how they need to jump their men after reading one of my sex scenes. I mean, I love them dearly and having people love my words is everything, but my water bill is a bit out of control with the amount of quality time I spend with my shower massager.
I feel like I should write a thank you note to Uncle Sam for the body he helped mold with the rigorous special ops training. Holy hell, the way Dex’s white t-shirt is stretched across his muscles is practically indecent.
Where’s a bucket of water when a girl needs it?
I wonder if I could convince the guys to have a wet t-shirt contest under the guise of needing teaser pictures.