Page 14 of Fighting Gravity

Tate followed her into the kitchen. “Is it bad manners that I hoped that was the case?”

Jennifer smiled at him. “Not at all. I know how you feel about my cooking, honey.”

“The boys at school?” Maddox and Malone were twenty-three and twenty-four, both studying at University of Washington.

“Yup. They’ll be home this weekend.”

Also what Tate had been hoping.

“Where’s Donovan?” Tate couldn’t recall a single time outside of meals that he’d seen Donovan’s leather chair empty.

Both women stilled. He felt the air change. They exchanged a pained look that shot panic through his system. Jennifer answered, her voice tight and strange. “He’s gone, Matt. Heart attack in his chair three months ago.”

Tate’s broken heart cracked further. His body was numb. Cold. Why the fuck did bad things happen to great people? In a daze, he moved to embrace Jennifer.

She cried in his arms. He let his own grief, anger, and the fucking unfairness of it all rip through him. He was shaking but dry-eyed when Jennifer let him go. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

Miraculously, a smile lifted her tear-streaked cheeks. “I know, honey.”

A glance over his shoulder showed him that Maisie was just as stricken. He had nothing left to give, though. “I don’t think I can stay for dinner. Not tonight. I’m sorry. I’m here for a week or so. Let me know what you need.”

Jennifer patted his chest. “I understand. Grief hits us all differently. Some need to be together, some alone. I’ll make you a plate.”

Tate carried the warm, foil-covered plate back across the path. The cheerful sun felt offensive against the darkness pressing against him. First George, now Donovan? Both were good, loving men with people who counted on them. At home, he ate without tasting, then drank and drank and drank. The loss of George felt more acute with Donovan’s chasing it. He didn’t want to feel this grief anymore. At some point he decided to change into pajamas and go to bed but only made it so far as to unbutton his shirt.

He had just lifted what he realized was an empty bottle to his glass when his back door opened and Maisie slipped inside, clad in a nightgown. He set the empty glass and bottle on the table next to his leather chair, the one he’d purchased because Donovan liked his own so much.

One of the Case kids visiting him was not unusual. He rarely even locked his doors when he stayed there. Tate ran a hand over his face. “Maze, I’m so sorry about your dad. I’m sorry I haven’t checked in. I’m just…so sorry.”

She tucked herself in the matching chair across from his and folded her arms around her knees. Her feet were bare. “It’s funny. The pain has started to dull a bit, but out of nowhere something will sharpen it again.”

Tate winced. “Tonight it was me.”

She nodded, her eyes bright across the dim room. She rose and closed the space between them, leaning on his jean-clad knees. The warm pressure of her hands and proximity of her mouth shocked him.

“I want you to fix it,” she whispered.

She moved her arms over her head and deposited her nightgown on the plank wood floor.

“Fuck.” The dragged-out response was all Tate could summon to the utterly unpredicted sight of Maisie’s mostly naked body as she stood in front of him. Her torso was long, her skin unblemished, her dark brown nipples taut.

His cock swelled to painful proportions as his eyes drank her in. But holy shit, this was Maisie, the knobby-kneed girl he’d known since she was fourteen. She wasn’t a girl anymore. Clearly.

Even through the haze of his best bourbon, Rosie’s sweet face stormed into his mind. He’d started something with her, hadn’t he? Or had he? Either way, he should send Maze home. But then she started a torturous, teasing trail of kisses along his chest.

It had been so long, too long, since Tate had felt wanted like this. Since he’d felt warm skin on his. He buried his hands in Maisie’s curls as his mind warred with his body.She’s not Rosie. You don’t want her, not really.Or maybe he did. How could he be sure when her peaked nipples were pressed into his stomach?

Fuck it. Tomorrow was for regret.

He leaned forward and brought his hands down on Maisie’s lace-clad ass harder than he meant to. She gasped at the harsh contact, or maybe the startling sound. “Matt,” she breathed.

Double fuck.

Tate tipped his head back in a groan and moved his hands away from Maisie’s body. His aching cock protested, but he knew what he had to do. He brought his head up so he could look in her eyes. “My name isn’t Matt. It’s Tate. Matt is my brother.”

She sat upright, alarm on her face. “Wait. Like an identical twin situation, or have you been lying?”

He didn’t answer.

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