“If you’re not careful,”—her throaty rasp ran through his veins like honey-fired lust—“we’ll burn the potatoes.”
He compressed a pressure point above her heel. “You care?”
“No.”
“Good.” Jason repositioned his fingers and squeezed the depression along the outer edge of her Achilles tendon.
Roxana arched against the thick cushions and tipped her chin toward the sunset-tinted sky. Jason laid her foot on the cushion, then moved onto his knees at the front of the lounger. The flagstone’s uneven edge bit into his knees.
She propped onto her elbow and flashed a wicked grin. “God, I love you.”
He yanked Roxana closer to the edge of the cushion and ran his hands up her calves. “Lift your hips.”
Her ass lifted off the cushion. Roxana was the best thing that had happened in his life. He’d give and give and give so that she never wanted for what she deserved; a stable home, toe-curling sex, and whatever else fell between sanctuary and bliss. He hooked the waist of her shorts and underwear and snatched them down her thighs.
The backyard gate clanked against its unmoving lock. Jason froze for a breath of a second before his brain moved into threat detection.
“Roxana?” a familiar voice called, rattling the locked gate again, “Are you back there?”
Not a threat but a nosy neighbor. Jason cursed. Roxana wriggled her shorts into place faster than he could suggest they not say a word.
“No one answered the front door.” The metal gate handle caught with a series of clicks as the neighbor tried to gain access. “I can smell the grill.”
“Some detective work,” he muttered.
“You know she won’t leave.” Roxana pulled his face to hers, smacking him with a loud kiss. “We’ll pick this up later.”
She was right, but still, he protested the interruption by throwing himself onto the lounger.
Roxana smoothed her clothes and called, “Coming.”
“That’s not what it sounds like when you cum,” he deadpanned.
Laughing, she stepped toward the gate. “You’re pitiful.”
“Least, give me a kiss.”
Roxana changed course and returned to his side. He hooked his arm around her leg and dropped her to his chest, finding out once again, one kiss was never enough.
CHAPTER TWO
Mojitos didn’t have any calories if a sexy man made them, right? Roxana swirled the mint sprigs at the bottom of her glass. With the arrival of August, the evening sky came earlier each day, a bittersweet reminder that, despite the sweltering days, fall loomed with its cooler, shorter hours.
The back door shut as Jason took the two stairs onto the patio in one stride. He balanced two glasses in a palm and seared her straight to her toes with a devilish glint that promised to rehash what had been interrupted before dinner. He removed the near-empty glass from her hand and replaced it.
Roxana rested the back of her head against the patio chair. “Is it my birthday?”
The corners of his lips curled. Jason angled his chair toward her so that he could rest his drink close at hand. Roxana laid her bare feet on his lap when he relaxed. He lifted her foot and crossed it over the other. “Maybe it’s mine.”
She only panicked for a nanosecond. “In your dreams.”
Softy, his thumb caressed the indentation above her ankle. “Already living it, babe.”
“Me too.” Fireflies danced over the grass and into the trees, turning the narrow yard into an endless expanse of dark night sparkled with glittering lights. She still marveled at the illusion the same way she had as a kid, and then she laughed to herself.
Jason raised his brows.
“There were so many kids on this block when we were little.” She took a sip of her mojito and set it down. “My mom was good friends with their moms, and during the summer, we rotated Friday night dinners in the backyard. One summer, all the moms wore matching t-shirts with fireflies surrounding the words ‘I’m lit.’” Roxana laughed. “We wanted those shirts bad, but they’d giggle like they had an inside joke, telling us we could get them when we were older.” The happy memory made her smile then laugh again. “You know how Dylan was so much older than Hagan and me? Half the time, he’d try to explain how everyone’s mom dipped into their wine cooler stash on Friday nights. But, ya know, whoosh.” She swooped a hand over her head. “We didn’t get it.”
Jason chuckled, and she appreciated how well he listened. He’d never pushed her to talk about Dylan more than she wanted to. When she talked about her brother, who had died during his Secret Service detail, Jason somehow knew what she needed, whether that be a shoulder to cry on or a willingness to let her vent like a raving lunatic.
“Your mom had another good week,” he pointed out.
Roxana nodded, accepting that Hagan and Jason had been right. It was past time for Mom to live in a facility that specialized in long-term care of women incapacitated by strokes. If they’d had the financial means to put her in a skilled nursing facility, they would have. After Dylan had died in the line of duty, Dad had suffered a heart attack. Then a series of strokes came for Mom.
The crushing weight of the American Dream had been saddled on her and Hagan’s shoulders when they were not more than kids. Pensions and life insurance offered pennies for every dollar they were magically supposed to know how to cover. A mortgage, funeral costs, home modifications for their wheelchair-bound mother who never spoke again… “She did.”
“You did too,” Jason added.
Roxana smiled over the lump in her throat. “Thanks.”
He squeezed her ankle.
“I don’t know how you and Hagan pulled it off.” The facility was out of their financial reach, but they’d made it work after she’d reached a guilt-driven breaking point. “But I’m forever grateful.”
Roxana had served as Mom’s caretaker for years, filling the shoes of every specialist that they couldn’t afford as Hagan worked the best-paying job he could find on the other side of the world.
Then came the flu.
Or was it a cold?
Allergies? Cancer? Gout?
Roxana experimented with the thermostat like a mad scientist when Mom woke in sweat-soaked nightgowns. After noticing Mom’s suddenly thinning hair, Roxana tried special hair treatments and packed meals with vitamin supplements only to wonder the menu change could explain her mother’s weight gain.
It wasn’t until a drizzling, early spring morning that the answer came. Roxana took her mother for a yearly gynecological exam. Without the complete list of unexplainable symptoms, the doctor diagnosed what was so damn obvious. Menopause.
Roxana had fallen apart in the exam room. Not because her mother had entered menopause, but because menopause never occurred to her. Hampered by age, inexperience, and dwindling insurance benefits, she’d focused on stroke victim’s aftercare, playing the roles of physical and occupational therapists, dieticians, nurses, and medical aids, only to miss a basic life change. Crying, she’d apologized to her nonreactive mother through the drive home.
She told Hagan and Jason that she was in over her head, and they moved heaven and earth to find Mom the facility that she’d always needed.