Unbound (The Men of West Beach Book 2) Page 7

  “Hello,” the woman said, her welcome about as warm as a man-eating tiger inviting us into her lair. She reminded me of the evil queens in the princess movies I’d watched obsessively as a kid, the cold-hearted bitches that cast sleeping spells and stole voices from mermaids and locked little girls away in towers.

  So when Lucas answered with, “Hello, Mother,” I nearly choked on my own gasp of surprise. Maybe I’d misjudged. Maybe the woman was the kind of person who just gave a bad first impression, but was actually warm and fuzzy once you got past her crunchy exterior.

  Except . . . nope.

  Lucas played the gentleman by introducing me to his mother, explaining that I would be joining their planning committee. And that was as much as it took for me to realize I’d been spot-on in my initial assessment of her. The lady was a witch with a capital B.

  Maybe it was my outfit, or maybe it was just my presence in general—hard to tell for sure. But she’d taken one look at me and made an effort to raise her frozen eyebrows in what I could only assume was distaste. She made it clear that, designer duds or not, I was less than welcome.

  Without reciprocating the introducing, she shot Lucas a barbed look. “We may as well get down to business.” She brushed past all three of us and led us to a large, impersonal dining room, where she took the head of the table—of course—and we waited while a woman in an old fashioned black-and-white maid’s uniform—because, of course again—came in carrying a tray loaded with tea and cookies and dainty little chocolates. I felt like we’d landed in 1910, and suddenly my sparkly top seemed an even more unfortunate choice. “The sooner we get matters settled, the sooner we can all get back to our lives.”

  I kept glancing nervously at Lucas, who seemed unfazed by his mother’s condescending tone. I was determined to keep an open mind. Maybe she’d been roped into this committee the same way I had . . . under false pretenses.

  “Agreed.” His voice was calm as he pulled out a chair several seats down from his mother. I was still trying to make sense of where I fit into all of this when his eyes locked meaningfully on mine and I realized he was holding out the chair for me.

  Okay, yeah. Sitting is good. As I settled down, Lucas’s hands skimmed over my bare shoulders as he pushed the chair in. It was brief, but it made my breath snag.

  Lucas took the spot next to mine, forming a human buffer between me and his mother, and even though I’d never been one to be intimidated by people who considered themselves superior to others, like Lady MacBitch here, I couldn’t help being grateful for his instinct to shield me.

  Where Lucas managed to stay cool and collected, stoically shooting looks my way, as if checking to see how I was holding up, Aster took a different approach. Under the older woman’s unblinking scrutiny, Aster seemed to shift into chatty overdrive. She reached into her Louis Vuitton bag and dredged out stack after stack of papers and reports, presumably all gala related. She started spreading the papers in front of us as she launched into a crawling string of statistics, citing how many people had already RSVP’d—impressive numbers, I had to admit—and the deposits that were still owed to the caterers—the figures were staggering—and showing us timelines and table layouts and her proposals for seating charts, all of which looked as complex as blueprints for the Space Shuttle.

  Just when I was starting to zone out, daydreaming about stripping Lucas out of that stuffy suit of his, Aster dropped the name of the DJ they had on retainer for the gala, and I literally gasped out loud.

  All eyes turned to me, and I pretended to clear my throat. “Sorry,” I said, feeling super awkward for even reminding them I was still there. “Got a little frog in my throat.” I reached for the delicate teacup and took a sip, wishing it were filled to the brim with tequila instead of boring Earl Gray.

  Aster scowled at me and went on with her little speech, and this time when she mentioned the DJ, I realized no one was trying to pull a fast one on me. This guy wasn’t some wedding DJ who had a day job doing taxes and spinning records on the side. He was the real deal. One of the most well-known, well-connected artists in the industry. His fee alone must’ve set them back an arm and a leg.

  Lady MacBitch just stared at Aster’s papers vacantly. It was impossible to tell whether she was unimpressed by the reports or if she’d mastered the art of sleeping with her eyes open.

  It was also impossible to imagine how this seemingly detached matriarch had raised the hot-blooded man I’d spent the past two months tangled in the sheets with. I felt bad for Lucas, for what his childhood must’ve been like. How on earth had he become such a warm and fun-loving man after living in the icy shadow of this woman?

  Aster paused to take a breath and Lucas leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked far too relaxed. “Looks to me like all our bases are covered.” His eyes cut pointedly to Lady MacBitch. “I told you, Aster’s doing a great job.” I hated the sting of hearing Lucas praise his sort-of fiancée. “So, I guess you really didn’t need me here after all.”

  Lady MacBitch’s nostrils flared, but only slightly, and it was the first real sign of emotion I’d seen from her—that is, if you could classify “nostril flare” as an emotion. Then she answered Lucas. “I said it before and I’ll say it again, the gala is a family matter. Inviting outsiders will ruin everything.” The everything was wired with tension, and I was suddenly certain the outsider in question wasn’t Aster . . . but rather, me.

  Something passed between them that reminded me of the warning looks my mother used to give us kids when we were out in public. Somehow, even without saying so, she’d let us know we’d crossed the line. That if we didn’t settle down at that very moment, there’d be hell to pay when we got home.

  That was the unspoken conversation occurring now. Lucas’s mother was warning him to settle down. I didn’t know what it was about, exactly. What invisible line he’d butted up against. But it was part of whatever “family matter” she’d mentioned. One that didn’t involve me.

  But Lucas seemed to have an ironclad skin when it came to his mother. “You’re being a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

  Her lips twitched. “I’m never melodramatic.” Somehow, I doubted there was a person in this world who would buy that statement.

  Fragile? Of course not.

  Tender-hearted? Not on your life.

  But melodramatic . . . I was pretty sure that was par for the course with Lady MacBitch.

  Lucas’s bitter laugh made me itch to leave. This was more than just a conversation about venues and galas, this was an age-old feud between a mother and her son.

  “Maybe I should wait in the car,” I said to no one in particular, getting up from the table.

  But Lucas reached over and pushed me back down. The perverse fact that his grip on me, even while he was practically seething with anger toward his mother, sent white-hot waves of desire coursing through me, wasn’t lost on me. “Stay,” he insisted. And the determination in his voice made me settle back into my seat.

  I glanced at Aster, thinking maybe we’d finally found our common ground, that somehow we’d wandered into this uncomfortable minefield together. But Aster was taking an every-woman-for-herself approach as she aggressively avoided eye contact with me.

  I was on my own.

  Lucas’s ironclad skin was starting to show signs of wear as he uncrossed his arms and leaned his knuckles on the table. “The fact is, Mother, you’re only on this committee as a courtesy. Aster and I are in charge.” There was a pause, and the awkwardness factor in the room soared through the roof. Then Lucas made it worse, when he threw a live grenade into the mix. “If you have a problem with that, you can always quit.”

  Her already chilly eyes turned to frozen ice chips. If this had been one of my childhood movies, this would be the part where Lady MacBitch unleashed her fury on the townspeople and burned the kingdom to the ground. The vein in her neck pulsed as she answered, “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of quitting. But I also won’t let y
ou ruin this. It’s far too important.” She reached for her tiny china teacup before adding, “If you insist on bringing in outsiders . . .” She cut a sideways look at me, and my mouth went dry. I didn’t know why Aster wasn’t an outsider too, since there didn’t seem to be any love lost between the two women. But it was definitely me she objected to. “I will be forced to call the credit card company and cancel the deposit on the final payment to the venue.”

  “You wouldn’t!” It was Aster who’d given up on composure and shrieked from the other side of the table. She bolted up so fast her chair almost toppled over behind her.

  Lady MacBitch smiled. As much as an ice queen could smile. “I would,” she said, finally taking a taste of her tea. “In fact, I’d be doing you a favor, really. The place is entirely wrong. The mood is . . .” She considered her son over the top of her delicate cup before finishing, “Adam would have hated it.”

  “Adam?” Lucas ground out, as his steel facade finally slipped. His jaw went rigid and his fist clenched so hard his knuckles turned white. I got the sense that if Aster and I weren’t sitting here—and more likely, if this weren’t his mother—he would have enjoyed smashing her face in.

  But she was. His mother, I mean. And somehow, with an effort that I might not have found, Lucas managed to collect himself.

  After several really, really long seconds, he finally managed, in a low voice, “This has fuck all to do with Adam, and we both know it. You didn’t give a shit then. And you couldn’t give a shit now. Sometimes I wonder if this isn’t more about punishing me because I’m not him.”

  She didn’t recoil. In fact, she didn’t even change positions. But the flinch was visible—a tightening at the corners of her eyes. She focused all her energy on Lucas. “You have no idea what I give a shit about.” And somehow, hearing this woman say “shit” meant a million times more than it would have to hear Aster say it.

  Lucas looked stunned too, obviously as surprised to hear the word cross her lips as I had been.

  But Aster was oblivious. “Where would we find another venue to accommodate five hundred people, with only a month to go?”

  Lady MacBitch turned to Aster. “I guess that’s your problem, isn’t it?”

  LUCAS

  Hold it together.

  Hold it together.

  Hold.

  It.

  Together.

  I repeated those words until I threw open the front doors and finally took my first breath of air that wasn’t laced with the arsenic that spewed from my mother’s lips.

  Why the fuck did I ever think that woman could be reasoned with?

  Why had I ever let her draw me back in here in the first place?

  Because she’d given me her word she would behave, that’s why.

  Because she was Adam’s mother.

  I tried to scrub the past half hour from my memory as I inhaled deeply. But it was impossible, especially with Aster standing so near, and staring at me like a baby deer whose mother had just been shot by hunters.

  Goddammit.

  This wasn’t just about me, Aster had put in a shit ton of work too. Blood, sweat . . . and now tears. And fuck, I hated the tears.

  Goddammit, Mother.

  Grudgingly, and even more grudgingly because Emerson was there to witness it, I put my arm around Aster. Hugging her had never been easy. Even now, knowing this was what she wanted, needing me to console her, she was stiff and awkward. Like hugging a pole.

  Em had never been that. Stiff or awkward. Em was soft and pliable, warm and wet . . .

  Fuck! The last thing I needed was to get a hard-on, pressed up against Aster.

  Think about surfing.

  Think about the gala.

  Think about your goddamned mother!

  Christ. That did it. My dick went completely limp. I might never get hard again.

  “I think I’ll just grab an Uber,” Em said from where she stood on the driveway, and I wondered if she had any real intention of calling for a car or if it was just a bluff to break up my hugfest with Aster.

  Either way, I released Aster. Too much contact would give her the wrong impression anyway, soft dick or not.

  I turned to Emerson. “Don’t do that.” Then I looked down at Aster. “We can touch base about this later.” I didn’t give her room to argue.

  The nod she gave me was pitiful. “Sure,” she yielded on a sniffle, but I could see the accusation in her eyes. She wasn’t saying what she was thinking—I shouldn’t have brought Emerson. I should’ve left well enough alone. “I’ll call you tonight.”

  “Tomorrow would be better,” I told her, and I could tell from the crestfallen look that it wouldn’t be better for her.

  She’d been hoping to distract me tonight so I couldn’t do, or even think about doing, anything with Emerson.

  “Fine, then. Tomorrow,” she relented.

  Emerson ignored Aster as she climbed in the car, and I wondered if these two would ever put their claws away and play nice.

  Not likely.

  Aster hadn’t given Em much of a chance. She’d made her mind up about Emerson right off the bat, and I’d never really known Aster to change her mind about . . . well, anything.

  I got behind the wheel and started the engine before glancing over to Emerson. Unlike Aster, who was wearing her emotions like a billboard right now, I had no idea what was going on in Em’s head. She looked anything but confident, her face a mash-up of feelings. Uncertain, hurt, frustrated, and defenseless all at once. And suddenly, I wanted to wrap my arms around her . . . not a good place for my mind to be right now.

  Think about surfing . . .

  “Why didn’t you warn me?” she fumed at last.

  I frowned, feeling like I’d missed something.

  “About this,” she clarified. “This whole evening, it was . . . humiliating. If I’d have known . . . that we were . . . that this was . . .” She was gesturing so wildly I couldn’t even tell what she was indicating.

  Except, I did know.

  I didn’t mean to laugh, but shit, she was hot as fuck when she was pissed. And she was definitely pissed. “I did. I told you we were coming to a planning committee meeting.”

  She huffed, crossing her arms and covering the swell of her breasts. I wanted to convince her to uncross them again. “But you didn’t say it was with your mother. Or with . . . her.” She couldn’t even bring herself to pretend she still didn’t know Aster’s name. “And you didn’t tell me your mother would . . .” She scowled. “She hates me, Lucas.”

  I blew out a breath. “She hates everyone. Don’t take it personally.” It was true. I’d grown up feeling exactly the way Em did now, like nothing I ever did was good enough. That I wasn’t good enough. “Let me make it up to you,” I said, putting the car in reverse. “I’m starved.”

  EMERSON

  I was giving up.

  I’d never been one to throw in the towel, what some people called “quitting.” But I was for sure, definitely, absolutely resigning from this planning committee Lucas had roped me into.

  It had nothing to do with Lucas, of course. He was quite possibly the only reason I’d stay . . . if I’d been planning to stay. Which I totally wasn’t.

  It had everything to do with his mother. Aster, too.

  Either of them on their own was combustible. Put them in close quarters and they were downright nuclear. I honestly didn’t know how Lucas put up with them.

  But the thing was, I didn’t have to. And staying meant his mother would cancel the deposit on her credit card, which apparently meant losing the venue they had booked. It wasn’t like I had a choice. I was quitting for Lucas.

  I’d find another way to be around him. Another way to lure him back. To force him to admit we should be more than just friends.

  Lucas had remained unusually quiet ever since we’d left his mother’s house, and I kept thinking that this was my chance to tell him that tonight had been my one and only planning meeting for the gala—now, while
he was sorting out whatever had happened back there in his head. Whatever drama was going down between him and his mother, those were his issues, not mine.

  But every time I opened my mouth to tell him what I was thinking, I ended up closing it again. For once in my life, I couldn’t bring myself to break the silence. There was something . . . almost comforting about it.

  About just being with him.

  His stillness filled the air . . . filled those voids in me, the ones I’d always tried to fill with noise and motion and recklessness. By being louder and larger than life and more in-your-face than everyone else.

  By the time we’d reached our destination, Lucas seemed to have forgotten all about his mother and Aster and the gala—he hadn’t mentioned any of those things once. I hadn’t forgotten, but when I glanced around, I was at least momentarily distracted by our unusual surroundings.

  “We’re here,” he said, looking at me hopefully.

  “Here?” I asked uncertainly as I stepped out of the car. We were in a crowded parking lot in the middle of nowhere.

  Lucas was unfazed by my apparent dubiousness. He shifted into full tour guide mode. “Food Truck Alley,” he explained.

  And that was when the scent hit me, and suddenly, it made sense.

  The air was ripe with the delectable aromas of garlic, pastries, cheeses, and burnt sugar—smells that didn’t particularly go together, but somehow melded into something that made me salivate. I followed as he led the way. There were large vans and RVs parked on a huge lot, that would otherwise have been an open field. Each one was set up for business—signs hung, menus displayed, heavenly food smells pouring from their open windows.

  Lucas expertly navigated us from truck to truck, masterfully ordering lamb kebabs, street tacos, and lumpia. Grease soaked through the paper boats as we kept adding to our growing collection.

  There was no way we could finish everything, but I was down to give it a shot.

  When Lucas came back from yet another truck—one that looked like a gleaming silver camper from a bygone era—he was grinning and presenting me with yet another tray like a conquering hero. “Grilled truffle and macaroni and cheese sandwich. Trust me, it’s un-fucking-believable.”