She loved that he was making such an effort with someone she cared about—it said a lot about the man. She was used to making casual friendships on her travels, and this had the potential to be anything but. She felt safe, grounded, and desired with him.
Two of those three things terrified her and neither of them involved lust.
He pivoted, taking in the room. “Now, Bucky, be a good boy and no climbing on Edie’s furniture.”
Bucky lay down on the rug and went perfectly still. He’d come such a long way.
Reid picked up a photo of Edie and Papa John. “Is this your grandfather?”
“Yeah, he was a Chicago firefighter, but he died before it happened.” She found him watching her closely. “Before the fire.”
“Holidays must be tough for you, ma belle.” He put the frame down. “When’s the last time you spent one in the US?”
“Six years. It’s not hard to find some ex-pat deep-frying a turkey on a beach somewhere. I haven’t gone without.”
His look was searching, grave. “What were they like?”
She blinked. “My parents?”
He took her hand and sat her down on Edie’s bed. “Just curious to know about the people who made this beautiful girl before me.”
Oh, wasn’t that lovely. She took a breath and waited for the pain to wash over her. Sometimes it snuck up on her with the scent of gardenias, her mother’s perfume. Sometimes it was a short, sharp shock with a glimpse of a dead politician on TV and her father’s voice ringing clear as a bell in her head. That guy’s a crook!
For now, the ache stayed at bay.
“Mom—Libby—was a high school teacher. History. She loved to garden and paint—I inherited none of her talent.”
“The watercolor by your bed. That’s hers.”
“Yes, it is. When I saw that Calla lily in the pot, I couldn’t believe it. It’s the same flower. Did you buy that?”
“At the garden center the night before you stayed over the first time.” He looked diffident. “To make the place more welcoming.”
It had worked. Her mother’s favorite flower, the subject of the one thing Kennedy had saved from the flames, was waiting for her in Reid’s guest room like a sign from the universe.
“She was also a good cook.”
“You got that from her.”
“I did!” She laughed, remembering those days at her mom’s side in the kitchen. “My Dad, or Benjamin—and he preferred the full name, no Ben or Benny—was a poli sci professor at IU. Indiana University in South Bend. He was a big fan of seventies TV, donuts, and embarrassing me in front of my friends. John F. Kennedy was his hero.”
“Hence the name.”
“Yep. When I was mad at him for something, I’d yell that JFK was a mafia-loving philanderer who almost caused World War Three with the Bay of Pigs invasion. How dare he name me after that loser?”
She’d completely forgotten that and the memory was like a whiskey dram of warming nostalgia to her heart.
“A little more intellectual than the usual teen rebellion.”
“Yeah, it was. The dinner table was never dull. A history teacher and political science professor with a kid named Kennedy. We had a dog, too—Peanut, because Jimmy Carter was a peanut farmer before he was president. Dad thought Carter was ineffective but a good palate cleanser after the Nixon-Ford debacle. His words. Peanut was always wedging himself under the sofa. Such a dummy.”
“So, you’ve been a dog person forever.” His hand stroked the inside of her palm, such a comfort.
“I have.” Of course, if Peanut had made it out, her dad wouldn’t have gone back in to find him. All because Kennedy had made a fuss about her best friend. Why had she done that? Crying about her dog so much that her father had tried to soothe his daughter by playing the hero.
She looked down at Bucky with his missing eye and his multiple scars and cursed the person who had abandoned him, or worse, so that he ended up in the lake. Reid might have had it under control in those frigid waters, but the last time she let someone else do the saving, her world stopped spinning. Her father had died inside the house looking for Peanut under the sofa. Her mother, later at the hospital, from her injuries and smoke inhalation.
These days Kennedy did the rescuing—puppies, players, and herself.
“It seems like another part of my life, so long ago, yet sharp enough to still feel it deeply.”
Still stroking her hand, still holding her gaze. Just giving her the space to let it out.
She sniffed, wiped a stray tear. “Luckily I had Edie to help get me through. I was hell to live with those first few months. She was a real trouper.”
“She thinks that about you.”
“Yeah, we’re quite the mutual admiration society. I’ve really missed her. She doesn’t have anyone. Not really.” Neither did Kennedy, but that was largely her fault. Arm’s length was the safest distance. “Edie said I was always welcome. She loves me like I’m a blood relative, though I’m not.”
“She loves you because you’re Kennedy. It might have started out that way but you’re not defined by your relationship to her husband. Edie cares about you, not her husband’s granddaughter.”
“I love her, too.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Of course you do. I know you’re an open person about some things—your sexual demands, your James Garner obsession, your criticisms of me—but with other things, personal things, it doesn’t come so easy. I’m honored when you let me in a little.”
A little could so easily give way to a lot. To everything.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered, repeating the words she’d said earlier, only now they were imbued with a heartwarming magic.
“Me, too, though, I’m a little worried.”
“What about?”
He leaned in close and whispered, “I’ve never played bingo.”
She laughed, loving this playful side of Reid. “Oh, they’re going to eat you alive.”
28
Reid wasn’t big on relaxing. Long, restful baths were not his thing. A couple of guys swore by cold water immersion (Kaminski did it during the second intermission, which everyone thought was nuts). Reid was not about to jump on that train.
But no one had told him that a hot, sudsy, candlelit bath with a woman you were obsessed with might be almost as good as sliding into her tight, fuck-me body.
“This was a great idea,” Kennedy murmured, reading his mind. She covered his much bigger hand—currently cupping one gorgeous tit possessively—with her small one.
“Just what I was thinking.” His lips trailed along her temple over damp curls and soft skin. The last few days had been busy, but whenever he and Kennedy crossed paths it inevitably led to his bed, the shower, or here. (There had been one enterprising moment against the kitchen counter.) The cage door was open—off its hinges, in fact—and they couldn’t get enough of each other.
Talking about her parents had loosened Kennedy up. She might think Reid reserved but she was as tightly-wound as him when it came to sharing what was in her heart. Not that she was treating him like a therapist, but something had unlocked between them.