Page 90 of Legacy

“Oh, crap. I figured you knew. I called her back before I called you, and she mentioned something about taking a trip with him to Orlando.”

“Wow, she’s really moving on.” All these years later, I wasn’t sure it was possible.

“She is,” Livie says. “You can too. I know why you tried to keep things together, and I appreciate what you did for me. But you deserve a life, Reagan. Beyond Mom, beyond me, beyond Margaret.”

“I’m working on it.” It’s the truth, even if it’s always been harder than it sounds. “When did you get wise?”

“I spent a week at a meditation and wellness retreat that was eye-opening.”

“That sounds so unlike you.”

“A friend convinced me to go. At first, it was kinda boring, but the things with the yoga teacher got interesting. The things that man could do with his tongue would convince anyone there’s hope in the universe.”

And there’s the sister I know so well. “I didn’t need to know that.”

“Too bad.”

We both laugh, and it’s the first time in twenty-four hours that a real smile has stretched my cheeks. I’m tempted to tell her about Jesse. About Lincoln. Instead, we just sit and laugh together. And I realize that’s what I actually needed.

My sister.

“I have to take off. I’m meeting up with a friend,” Livie says after we’ve been talking about nothing special for ten minutes. “But take my advice, sis. Live a little.”

“I’ll try. Take care of yourself.”

“I will,Mom.” She calls me that when she thinks I’m being ridiculous, and I can picture her rolling her eyes. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call ends, and something stirs in my chest. My sister can be a flighty, irresponsible pain in the ass, but I love her. And hearing her happy lifted a weight I’ve been carrying around, even if it doesn’t actually solve any of my problems.

Bea’s laugh filters through my door, followed by Jesse’s.

I’m tempted to join them—to ask Jesse how he’s doing.

To take my sister’s advice.

Instead, I lie on the bed and shove that desire down. Maybe I’ll have the courage tomorrow.

26

Reagan

When the house isfinally quiet, I assume Jesse is putting Bea to bed. I stare at the door for too long after that, waiting for him to come talk to me.

Or at least, hoping he will.

But the longer I wait, the quieter it is, leaving me swallowing my pride when he doesn’t.

Maybe I misread the connection between us, and it’s been all in my head. Sex doesn’t equate to interest or an emotional connection. Protectiveness isn’t always romantic. What I’m interpreting as Jesse feeling the same way I do might be my imagination.

When silence continues to echo on the other side of the door, I climb into bed with my book. At least a fictional biker boyfriend can take my mind off Jesse King for a few minutes. But then I hit a paragraph talking about how good he looks in leather, and all I can envision is Jesseholding me in his arms at the bar. The feel of his cut under my fingers as I planted my hands on his firm chest.

There’s only one man who gets my blood pumping the second he straddles his bike, and it’s the one I shouldn’t be thinking about right now.

Eyeing my nightstand and then the door, I wonder if maybe I just need to work him out of my system. Irritation and attraction walk a thin line, so it couldn’t hurt to try.

Setting my book on the nightstand, I reach for the drawer and pull out my vibrator. I lie back with closed eyes, slipping it under the covers. My mind works as I try to picture the biker in my book and what he was about to do to the new nurse helping at his club. But the second my fingers reach my bare thighs, and the vibrations start to thrum, the only face I can see is Jesse’s.

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