Smolder: The Wildwood Series Read online

  Really, she was trying her best to do everything right, especially after moving through her early twenties with little focus and no direction. Slipping up was part of being human, but right now, she wanted to keep on the right track.

  The only thing lacking was her love life. As in, it was nonexistent. She told herself time and again that she didn’t need a man. She had a vibrator and she secretly partook in a porn clip here and there to remind herself what it was like being with a man and not a sex toy, visually at least. It had been a while since she’d had a flesh-and-blood man between her legs.

  Porn and vibrators really didn’t cut it though. She wasn’t even thirty yet and her nights were spent curled up on the couch, binge-watching TV series she really didn’t care about. Or she read.

  She dated no one. Men were slim pickings in Wildwood, especially since she’d known the majority of them as long as she could remember.

  Truly, her sex life should be off-the-charts amazing. She was the most flexible person she knew. The things she could do with her legs were kind of unreal. She could rock a man’s world . . . if he’d only let her.

  More like if only Lane would let her. Despite his countless rejections, his endless supply of excuses, she couldn’t quit him. She refused to. And now, more than ever, he might need her. If only he would open his heart and mind and let her in. She’d help him out. Be there for him when he was feeling weak. When he needed support.

  Did he know she’d be there for him? Probably not. Maybe she needed to go to him and tell him. Or even better—show him.

  Hmm.

  An idea sparked as she climbed into her car and started the engine. She knew just what to do to gain his attention. Let him know that she’d be there for him no matter what.

  First though, she needed to make sure he’d be receptive to her approach.

  Chapter Five

  SNEAKING INTO A man’s house while he slept through the afternoon was probably not the smartest thing Delilah had ever done. Especially considering that the man was a deputy sheriff. As in, he wore a badge and carried a gun.

  If he thought she was some sort of prowler breaking into his house, he’d shoot first and ask questions later, right? But what would-be robber would break into someone’s house to cook a meal?

  That’s exactly what she was doing too. Cooking the one thing she was really good at: her grandma’s fried chicken. It was messy and it wasn’t even close to being healthy, but damn it, fried chicken was comfort food.

  And her grandma’s fried chicken was absolutely delicious. As in, longtime residents of Wildwood still talked about her fried chicken and Delilah’s granny had been dead for almost ten years.

  Delilah had gone straight home, showered quickly, twisted her wet hair into a tight bun, slipped on her prettiest sundress, and then went to the grocery store where she picked up all the pertinent ingredients for tonight’s meal, including a bottle of white wine. She’d already cracked it open and was drinking as she made a complete mess of Lane’s kitchen.

  She hoped he knew she planned on cleaning up everything. Frying chicken was messy business. Seriously, there was flour everywhere, and the entire place reeked like fried food. The hot oil had spotted the tiled backsplash no matter how careful she was when she dunked the chicken into the pan. It had been a while since she made fried chicken, and the process reminded her why.

  If her chicken turned out dry and awful, she was going to smack herself.

  Despite the noise and the smells, for whatever reason Lane still hadn’t come out of his bedroom. The man could sleep like the dead. His brothers and Wren had always messed with him when they were younger, drawing mustaches or rude body parts on his face while he slept. The realistic penis West had drawn close to Lane’s mouth in black Sharpie would live forever in infamy considering Delilah knew West had a photo stashed away for blackmail purposes.

  Delilah remembered drawing on Lane’s face herself once, back when she and West were going out. She also recalled taking advantage of Lane sprawled out on the family couch to thoroughly examine him, noting just how handsome he’d become.

  West had still been a gangly teenage boy back then, but Lane? He’d looked like a full-blown man: his broad chest stretching his T-shirt tight, the gold-tipped stubble lining his cheeks and jaw making her skin tingle while she drew a daisy on his cheek.

  She’d looked at Lane differently ever since. And the longer she’d looked, the more her attraction had grown.

  To the point of doing insane things—like breaking into his house and using his kitchen to make him dinner without his permission.

  Moving away from the frying pan, she went to the oven and cracked it open to check on the red potatoes that were baking. Another not-so-healthy dish. She’d smothered the cut-up potatoes in butter and garlic salt just like her mom had. They were looking good, but they wouldn’t be ready until the edges were golden brown. Crispy, just like the chicken.

  At least she was counterbalancing all of this caloric food with the fresh green salad she’d made when she first arrived. It was now sitting in Lane’s giant—and mostly empty—refrigerator. He had a nice house and a very nice kitchen, but she could tell he barely spent any time here. It was too clean. The entire place had that unlived-in look that anyone would recognize. She’d been here more than a few times over the years, but had she ever really paid attention to the fine details? The lack of photographs. The rather sterile atmosphere.

  His house was large and filled with furniture but it felt . . .

  Empty.

  And that made her sad.

  Checking her phone before she went back to the chicken, she was disappointed to see Lane hadn’t replied yet. She’d sent the text as a precaution after arriving almost an hour ago, a warning that she was in his house while he slept, figuring he would see it and come out to greet her. But seriously, why would he reply to it now when he could walk right into the kitchen and see her?

  When she’d first shown up, she’d knocked on his door for what felt like minutes before giving up. Yes, she’d known he hid a spare key in a small planter on his front porch. Wren told her that much. Yes, she’d known she shouldn’t take advantage of her knowledge and unlock his door, but she’d done it anyway, telling herself it was for the greater good.

  He had to know she was in his house by now, right? And if he really wanted her gone, he could’ve texted her back and let her know he wasn’t feeling up to it. Or—he appreciated the gesture but if she could just leave the food wrapped up on the kitchen counter, he’d eat it later. Thanks very much, bye.

  Delilah frowned. Yeah, that’s exactly what he would tell her. But she wasn’t about to let him get away with that response. No, thank you. She was tired of the runaround. She might’ve told him he needed to make the next move, but knowing Lane, that would never happen. When they’d last talked, she had a feeling he liked the forward way she behaved. That was the first time they’d ever made so much progress. If only Wren hadn’t come along and interrupted them . . .

  Blowing out a harsh breath, she grabbed a piece of chicken from the pan with tongs and turned it over, wiping her forehead with the back of her free hand. It was hot business, cooking fried chicken.

  “Jesus, Dee, what the hell are you doing?”

  Delilah screamed and turned to find Lane standing in the kitchen entryway, clad in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs, clutching a gun. She dropped the tongs, which clattered on the granite countertop, and rested her other hand against her chest as she inhaled a shuddery breath. Her heart raced and her entire body shook. “Lane. You scared me.”

  He padded into the kitchen, setting the gun gently onto the counter. “You scared me. I thought someone broke into my house.”

  “I tried knocking when I got here. Didn’t you get my texts?” She flicked a glance at the cooking chicken for fear the meat would burn.

  “When I woke up, I didn’t bother checking my phone. I just grabbed my gun and snuck out here.” He looked sheepish as he scratche
d at the center of his very beautiful, very sexy chest. She really needed to focus on the chicken and not all that exposed skin. Or the fact that he was wearing only underwear—briefs that fit him so tightly, they left nothing to the imagination.

  Lane was packing some serious heat in his pants. Not that she was surprised.

  “I thought I was dreaming at first,” he continued as he glanced around the kitchen, his brows furrowing. “In fact, I was dreaming of eating a drumstick at a picnic by the lake. I could smell the chicken in my freaking sleep and it made my stomach growl.”

  Her gaze dropped to the body part he spoke of, lingering there. He had nice abs. He had a nice everything.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked softly.

  He actually tilted his nose up and sniffed the air like a dog. “Starved.”

  “Well, go put your gun away, get some clothes on, and wash your hands.” The casual request for him to put his gun away almost made her laugh. This entire situation was sort of odd, truth be told. But she could never claim her relationship with Lane was normal.

  When he stood there staring at her dumbfounded, she said, “Go. Dinner’s almost ready.” She made a shooing motion with her hands when he frowned, still absently scratching his chest with those long, capable-looking fingers of his.

  “You broke into my house to make me dinner?” He sounded surprised—and baffled. Not that she could blame him.

  Delilah grabbed the tongs and plucked the pieces of chicken out of the crackling-hot oil, setting them on a plate covered in paper towels. She clicked off the gas burner and turned to face him once more, not surprised at all to see that he hadn’t moved a glorious muscle.

  Allowing her another opportunity to check out every naked inch of skin on display just for her.

  “I didn’t break in,” she reminded him. “I know where you hide your spare key.”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. Well, at least he seemed amused. “Oh, and that makes it so much better.”

  “It’s not breaking and entering.”

  “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure this falls under trespassing.” His face suddenly looked like it could’ve been carved out of granite. “Seriously, Dee. I could’ve shot you.”

  “Yeah, I sort of thought of that,” she said softly, making a little face. She really hoped he wasn’t mad, but wow, she’d done a stupid thing.

  Like, severely stupid.

  “If I’d done that . . . ” He reached out and gripped the edge of the counter with both hands, like he needed to hold on to something for fear he’d fall. “I don’t know if I could’ve ever forgiven myself.”

  “Well, it didn’t happen, now did it?” She smiled and went to him, grabbing his shoulders and turning him around. Her gaze dropped to his backside. Lingering there.

  Oh, he was a perfect male specimen. His butt was well curved but not over the top, and the way the black cotton clung to his cheeks, well. She was half tempted to fan herself in an attempt to get her overheated hormones in check.

  But it was no use. It was as if she had no control over herself. Instead, she gave in to her instincts and reached down to swat Lane on one perfect butt cheek, sending him stumbling forward. “Hurry and go get dressed. Your dinner’s getting cold.”

  Glancing over his shoulder with a wide-eyed look that clearly said Who are you? he hightailed it out of his own kitchen, leaving her alone so she could down the rest of her wine before she refilled the glass.

  She needed all the liquid courage she could get.

  THE WOMAN HADN’T even let him ask her exactly why she’d broken into his kitchen to make him dinner. Nope, she’d swatted his butt—yes, she’d spanked his ass like she owned the damn thing—before she sent him on his merry way. Talk about unusual.

  Lane felt like an idiot charging into his kitchen in only his underwear, weapon in hand, drawn to protect. When he’d realized it was Delilah, it was like every cog in his brain had slowed down taking in the fact that she was standing in front of his stove like she belonged there. And for one crazy moment, he really believed she did belong there with him, in his house, cooking in his kitchen, smiling at him with that knowing look in her eyes. Wearing the prettiest pale pink sundress that clung downright lovingly to her slender curves, her long dark hair pulled into a bun resting on top of her head, a few wavy tendrils escaping, curling against her nape.

  He’d been half tempted—even though he’d firmly believed he was sleepwalking or some such shit—to walk up to greet her with a few well-placed kisses along her neck.

  It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that yes, indeed, she was in his kitchen and she was making a mess of it while she made him dinner. What had he done to earn this sort of good treatment?

  Lane was eager to find out.

  Slipping on a T-shirt and pulling on an old pair of basketball shorts, he went back into the kitchen to see that the majority of the mess had been cleaned up. Dirty pans had been piled in the sink ready to be put into the dishwasher. The table was set, two tall candles were lit, and there was wine poured in two glasses. A giant bowl of salad sat on the table, along with a baking dish filled with steaming-hot red potatoes and a platter piled high with fried chicken.

  His mouth literally watered as he took it all in. He really hadn’t eaten anything after Wren had left the house earlier that morning. Hadn’t even finished off that soggy bowl of cereal he’d made himself. So he was damn near starving and tempted to gnaw on the dining room table leg if he had to.

  “Sit down,” Delilah said as she came up beside him, her hands fluttering but not quite touching him, like she was afraid to or something. “Dinner’s ready. I hope you like white wine.”

  He wasn’t big on wine, but he really didn’t care what he was drinking at the moment. “It looks amazing,” he said as he went to the chair he knew Delilah was going to occupy and pulled it out for her. “After you.”

  She smiled at him, her gaze full of apprehension as she settled into the chair. “Thank you.”

  Pushing it in, he went to his spot at the table and sat, reaching for the wooden fork and spoon that were in the giant salad bowl. “You made all this yourself?”

  Delilah nodded, beaming with pride. “I used my grandma’s fried chicken recipe. It’s been so long since I made it, I hope I didn’t mess it up.”

  “Your grandma’s fried chicken?” He whistled low. That stuff was famous around town. Like legendary to some folks. “It sure looks good.” His stomach growled, reminding him he should shut the hell up and fill it.

  “Here.” Delilah took his plate and added two pieces of chicken along with a spoonful of potatoes. “Start with the good stuff.”

  He’d fully planned on eating his salad first but if she insisted . . .

  As he sunk his teeth into the crunchy fried chicken, his eyes nearly crossed in bliss. “Aw, man,” he mumbled around a mouthful of chicken. “This is fucking delicious.”

  The pretty smile on her face told him she was pleased, and he paused before he took another bite, studying her. Her cheeks were flushed pink and little tendrils of dark hair curled around her face. The delicate straps of her sundress looked like they could snap with just one tug, and he was tempted, sorely tempted, to lean over and slide his fingers across her bare shoulder, testing the softness of her skin. He’d slip his fingers beneath her chin and tilt her face up. Give her a light kiss of appreciation and tell her how much he needed her thoughtfulness right now.

  But he did none of that. He continued eating, praising her cooking, pleased to see she ate just as voraciously as he did because he rarely saw Delilah eat much of anything. She was always on the go, always working, always dancing, never sitting still. She had the body to prove it too. Long and lean with those endless legs and the perfect ass . . .

  Lane scowled at his half-full plate. His brain always deviated to sex when Delilah was around.

  “There’s no need for us to beat around the bush,” Delilah said, disturbing his thoughts.

  He glanced up to find
her watching him as she wiped at the corner of her mouth with a pristine white cloth napkin. Where the hell had she found that anyway? “Beat around what bush?” he asked.

  She set the napkin in her lap, her expression serious. “Wren told me what’s going on with your mom.”

  “Oh.” His voice sounded hollow, and his gut felt that way too. From the moment Wren had confessed her concerns, he’d become consumed with worry for his mom. Should’ve gone over to the house and checked in on her earlier this afternoon like he’d promised Wren, but he couldn’t. Instead, he’d pulled a classic Gallagher-man move—he’d avoided her. Like a little boy, he was too . . . scared to see her. Afraid of what he might find.

  What if his mom looked terrible? What would he do? Why was it his sole responsibility to take care of her anyway? Where was Dad? Why hadn’t he noticed? The old man went about his business and acted like nothing else mattered, including his wife.

  It drove Lane—and the rest of his siblings—up the freaking wall.

  “I just figured you were tired and worried and so I thought I’d make you dinner and take your mind off your troubles for a while.”

  Somehow her hand ended up on top of his, her fingers sliding over his skin, making it tingle. He couldn’t take his eyes off her delicate fingers and the way they hardly covered his thick, blunt ones. Her skin was pale to his dark. Smooth to his rough.

  “I know you’ve had something on your mind. So I’m here. If you want someone to talk to that isn’t, you know, a member of your family.”

  He glanced up to find Delilah watching him, her big brown eyes full of concern, her fingers still gently skimming his. She offered a tremulous smile, squeezed his hand, and then let it go. The immediate sense of loss nearly took his breath away.

  “Thank you, Dee,” he said, his voice scratchy. He cleared his throat, feeling like a fool. “I appreciate it.”

  Those big eyes were gobbling him up. He’d like to have something else of hers gobbling him up. Like her sexy mouth.