Until I'm Yours (32 page)

H
ey, Sofie! Could I get a picture?”

I turn in the direction of the request, shielding my eyes with one hand against the Hawaiian sun. It’s not a reporter or a photographer. Just a woman approaching me, Kindle in one hand, phone in the other. Her kids build sand castles behind her, visors on their heads.

“Could I get a picture with you?” she repeats, smiling at me widely, genuinely. “I live on your site. Love all the Haven stuff.”

I hesitate, shifting the weight of what I’m holding on my hip. I’m pretty wary of pictures these days. I’ve had enough of the limelight. Not that I’m completely out, but I haven’t walked a runway in years. People don’t stop me on the street as much. I still have a few endorsements, but I’ve deliberately shrunk the circle of light I stand in.

“This bathing suit is actually Haven,” the woman continues, setting her Kindle on the sand.

I look a little more closely and recognize the suit from last season’s Haven swimwear line.

“It looks great on you.” I smile back, still not sure about the picture.

“Well, I do Jalene’s videos on the site every morning,” she says. “Even had the hubs install a barre in the basement.”

“That’s awesome. Well, I can tell it’s paying off.”

Her eyes catch something over my shoulder, admiration widening her smile even more.

“Isn’t that your husband?”

I twist to look over my shoulder, my heart still leavening in my chest at the sight of Trevor after five years. Those damn butterflies are here to stay, apparently, because they still flap madly when he smiles at me like that, like I’m the appetizer, main course, and dessert all wrapped in one bite.

“Yep, that’s him,” I say absently, distracted by the cling of his wet suit molding the bulge of his arms, the muscles in his legs, the width of his chest.

He lopes toward us, water running from his hair and down his face. He reaches for the towel on the lounge chair where I’ve stowed our things.

“Hi, there,” he says to the lady ogling him. I’m not sure if it’s all the dripping wet, ginger-topped eye candy making her cheeks flame, or that hot, sticky-sweet Southern drawl of his. Both get me every time, so I can’t blame her.

“Hi,” she says a little breathily.

“Hey, baby,” he says to me, tossing the towel down, palming my cheek and pressing his cold lips to mine. “I didn’t know you were coming out.”

“We wanted to see if you hit your target time.”

His dark eyes light up and he relieves me of the weight on my hip.

“Gracie!” He lifts our daughter, Grace, up in the air and gives her a gentle shake. “Did you see Daddy in the water?”

Predictably, she giggles, compelling him to do it again, her green eyes bright in her chubby face under the bright red curls.

“Did you see Daddy in the water?” he asks again, pressing her a few inches higher in the air before bringing her down to kiss her little slobbery lips.

I glance from my husband back to the lady wearing the Haven swimsuit. I should offer to replace her ovaries since they probably just exploded. This big man so completely at the mercy of our daughter would explode my ovaries if I wasn’t getting so much use out of them lately.

“You wanted a picture, you said?” I remind her wryly.

“Oh, yes.” She blinks and smiles, shifting her eyes away from Trevor cooing to Grace.

“Go on, Sof,” Trevor says, a touch of warning in his eyes when they meet mine. “I’ve got the baby.”

His not-so-subtle way of making sure I’m not considering splattering our daughter all over Instagram. We turned down offers from
People
and several other magazines when both of the kids were born. They even offered to make a donation to one of our favorite charities in exchange for the pictures. Trevor wasn’t having it. He’s fiercely protective of Grace and our son, Carter. He’s pretty protective of our privacy in general, but especially when it comes to the kids.

I wrap an arm around the woman’s shoulder while she snaps a selfie and promises to tag me.

Gee, thanks.

Once she’s walking off back toward her kids, still playing in the sand, I turn to face Trevor, who has—
have mercy
—peeled the top of his wet suit down so it flops over, baring the sculpted muscles of his chest and abs. With a house full of family, my libido is in overdrive because we aren’t screwing nearly enough to satisfy me. I step close, sandwiching Grace between our hearts, reaching up to tangle my fingers in his wet hair.

“How was your swim?” I hope I’m working him up as much as he is me so we can have clandestine sex in a pantry or something later. “How’re you doing on time?”

“Not bad for an old man.” He chuckles, the subtle laugh lines at his eyes deepening. It
is
laughable to think of Trevor as an “old man,” because at forty, my husband remains quite the specimen. Thus me hot and horny in the Hawaiian sun.

“You back on target?” I ask, knowing he’s been trying to shave a minute off his swim time.

“I will be by the next race. I got a few months.” Trevor shakes his head, sighing. “Things have been so busy it’s thrown my training off.”

“Busy, but going so well,” I remind him, proud of all the global progress the Collective has made since Trevor sold Deutimus to Bennett and took the reins five years ago.

“Sorry I was on that call so late last night. I had no idea the issues were that complex.”

“It’s okay, but I
did
miss you. I like to fall asleep in your arms, if you hadn’t noticed,” I say huskily, leaning in to pull his bottom lip between mine.

The arm that’s not holding Grace slips around my waist, dragging me closer.

“I love my family,” he says against my lips. “But maybe we should have realized how little privacy we’d have bringing
all
of them to Maui with us.”

“It’s okay.” My tongue darts between his lips for a quick taste of him. “Carter climbing in bed with us the last couple of nights is what’s been the real cock blocker.”

“I hated thunderstorms growing up, too.” He squints up at the sky. “I think we should be fine tonight if the weather holds. Where
is
Carter?”

“Back at the house with your mom.” I laugh. “It seems like all the girls are cooking something, and all the guys are watching ESPN.”

“Sounds about right.” His chuckle fades away, concern in the eyes assessing me.

“Are you still feeling up to the trip?” Trevor takes my hand and starts walking us back toward the rented beachside villa housing the whole Bishop clan while we’re on vacation.

“Are you kidding me?” I laugh and tweak one of Grace’s curls. “That trip to London is my best shot at getting laid.”

“Truth. At this rate we might have to mile high it.” He doesn’t crack a smile, and I hope he’s serious. Some of my favorite orgasms have been at thirty thousand feet. “And what about you? How’s the morning sickness?”

“Not too bad.”

I have to laugh when I think of that afternoon I spent with Kerris years ago, marveling at her having three kids in as many years. Here I am pregnant with my third in five years, and I can’t even blame it on twins. Walsh and Kerris stopped at three, so far. The demands of running Bennett Enterprises have been greater than even Walsh could have anticipated, especially with my father’s departure.

After more than thirty years as partners in corporate raiding, Daddy and Martin Bennett parted ways. Daddy decided to leave rather than serve under Walsh. Last I heard he was consulting for some of the most powerful CEOs in the international business community. We Bastons always land on our feet.

Only I’m not a Baston anymore. I’m a Bishop. Trevor’s huge family truly embraced me unreservedly, making me feel finally like I have a family, not just a lineage. His Sunday school–teaching mother never once made me feel like a sinner. She made me feel like the girl her son loves the way her husband loves her. Trevor’s capacity to love in spite of flaws, to love without condemnation—I know where he got that now. It wasn’t just red hair his mother passed on. She showed me a mother’s love, something I realized I’d been missing my whole life, and it filled a lot of the holes my own mother left.

The public wasn’t as easy to convince. Bets were laid about how long Trevor and I would last before I cheated on him, dumped him, humiliated him. Occasionally some reporter will still refer to my “wild days” or call me a “reformed bad girl.” Trevor was right about those labels people slapped on my back. Ultimately, they don’t matter. Thank God Trevor peeled back the persona to find the person underneath. Trevor has never cared what they say, and now neither do I.

I slow my steps to match his as we get closer to the house, both of us enjoying even this sliver of time alone without kids everywhere we turn. Much as we love his family, our time alone fuels us both. I can tell he misses the little quiet piece of the world we carve out for our young family as much as I do. After living out loud for so long, it feels good to live just above a whisper.

“Carter’s loving the chance to hang with all his cousins.” I stop a few yards shy of the villa entrance, taking in Trevor holding our one-year-old in his powerful arms.

“You still feel good about leaving him and Grace with my mom for a few days while we’re in London?” Trevor searches my face, pushing back the hair I keep bobbed just above my shoulders.

“If there’s anyone we can trust them with it’s your mother, and all those sisters of yours.” I shrug. “Besides it’s just for a few days. We’ll pop over for Halima’s event and come right back. The kids won’t even have time to miss us. Grace stopped feeding just in time.”

I lean into my daughter, pressing my forehead to hers.

“Didn’t you girl? Just in time for Mommy to go away. You’re gonna be a good girl for Grammy, aren’t you?”

She answers with a bubble and a tiny-toothed grin.

“Can you believe we’re having another baby?” Trevor’s mouth crooks with a satisfied smile.

I just roll my eyes and shake my head. Number three was not planned. I’m in the middle of launching the Haven Home line and planning a Paris fashion show to benefit all the charities Haven’s proceeds support. I’d planned to wait until the dust settled some, but my body had other plans.

I glance down at my brief shorts and tight tank top.

“I just got my body back, besides a few stretch marks, and now it’s time to give it up again.”

“You only get better and better.” He tips my chin up, eyes growing warmer. “Inside and out.”

I lean into him, pausing when the front door opens, his mother standing there holding Carter’s hand. He runs out to us, throwing his arms around Trevor’s knees.

“Someone’s been asking for you, Daddy,” Mama Bishop says, smiling before she slips back into the house, allowing us a few more minutes alone.

“Daddy,” Carter whispers, dark eyes trained adoringly on his father, little arms stretched over his head. “Will you pick me up?”

Trevor holds Grace in one arm, Carter in the other. Carter immediately burrows into his father’s neck.

How the two of us created a shy child, I’ll never know, but Carter’s personality is so completely different from either of ours. Besides Trevor’s dark eyes, he’s the spitting image of me at four years old, his hair Nordic blond. Sometimes I look at him and see my father’s features so clearly, it makes my heart ache a little, though less and less as the years go on.

I try not to let it bother me that my parents still want so little to do with me. Even if they wanted more of a relationship with me, Trevor doesn’t want them anywhere near our kids. Anywhere near our lives. I ran into my parents at a recent fund-raiser for one of Haven’s charitable organizations. The air iced over between us, neither acknowledging me. For just a moment, I wanted to drop the social mores, ignore all the watching eyes and ask them if they ever loved me, if they ever believed in me. Or had even one proud moment? But I didn’t because I’m afraid I already know the answer, and I can’t let it matter to me anymore.

Trevor somehow manages to gather me into their little circle, pulling me close even with two children wriggling in his arms.

“Thank you for these little blessings.” His eyes are suddenly serious, and I get it. I think about our life sometimes and am absolutely humbled by how good it is. Not the money or the things or the fame I still have despite my efforts to shake it, but each other. Our children. The chance to do good for the things we’re passionate about. Mostly thankful for each other.

“I think we kinda made those blessings together,” I say lightly, trying to lighten the moment. “This whole life we made together.”

“And none of it works without you, Sof.” His eyes burn on me, heating my cheeks in that way only he ever manages. “Nothing works without you. You’re my fire. You know that, right?”

I can’t speak for the tears clogging my throat as his words sink in. I absorb them, letting them water all the spots left dry by doubt and condemnation. All the places barren from years of shame and inadequacy. For a moment, I’m so grateful I finally proved that I’m good enough. Trevor stares at me so long, so hard, his love is unavoidable, a tangible thing that wraps around me as surely as his strong arms. I think, in some ways, he’s seen me, he’s loved me, almost from the beginning, and I never had anything to prove to him at all.

Maybe everything I had to prove was to myself.

A
ll eyes were on him, except the bride’s. Walsh hadn’t looked at Kerris Moreton, his best friend’s wife-to-be, for weeks. As two hundred wedding guests waited, Walsh contemplated his glass of champagne and the toast they expected from the best man.

“I met this scrawny, mean punk of a kid at camp thirteen years ago.” Walsh pieced together his most charming smile around the words. “We pretty much hated each other on sight.”

He paused for a ripple of polite laughter before focusing his attention on his best friend, Cam.

“But by the end of the summer, I had a best friend. I had a brother, and that’s never changed. We’ve been through a lot together, and you deserve every happiness. I love you, man.”

With a look, Walsh and Cam exchanged years of memories and emotions in a silent moment between them.

And then Walsh did what he had deliberately denied himself all day. He looked at the bride. Really looked at her, full-on, and every word he had scripted fled his mind. His breath caught up in his throat at her beauty, illuminated by the kindness and compassion he knew lay beneath that gorgeous face. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth for an extra second before he wrenched himself from drowning in her amber eyes.

Kerris met his stare, her expression not guarded enough to disguise the fear, the near-panic. He read the question in her eyes as if she had spoken aloud.

What are you about to say?

“And what a girl you’ve found,” he said, unable to look away from her solemn gaze.

“I saw her before I knew she was the girl you’d been telling me all about. She was going out of her way to help someone. I knew then that she was different, and that she deserved a special man.”

He raised his glass to toast the bride, swishing champagne and disappointment in his mouth.

He’d wanted to be that man.

Eighteen Months Earlier

Walsh couldn’t stop watching her. She stood too far away for him to see her face clearly in the dim light, but he suspected it would take his breath away. She peered up at the bus schedule, speaking with an elderly woman. Her bright red dress in the almost empty parking lot drew his eye like a silver lining in a dark cloud.

“Does it say when the B is coming?” The older woman’s question carried across the space separating them, her white hair gleaming in the light from the street lamp.

“Oh, no. You just missed the last bus.” The girl’s voice was husky-hot and sweet. Honey burned to a crisp.

“Well, I only live a few blocks away. I’ll walk.”

“My car’s over here. I’ll take you.”

“No, I couldn’t put you out like that.” It sounded like only half the lady’s heart was in the protest, and the other half didn’t want to walk in the dark. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know it’s too dark for you to walk the streets alone. I won’t sleep tonight wondering if you made it home. Come on.”

Walsh wished she would turn around so he could see this Good Samaritan’s face, but he glimpsed only a delicate profile and a flower behind her ear before she marched toward a battered Toyota Camry.

Walsh pushed the incident from his mind, crossing the parking lot and entering the hotel across the street. He was late, but his mother wouldn’t care. She’d just be glad to have him home.

“Bennett!” a voice boomed as soon as he entered the beautifully decorated ballroom. “What the hell. I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

“It’s called a surprise.”

Walsh warded off Cameron Mitchell’s playful jabs before hooking an elbow around his neck.

Walsh watched his cousin Joanne approach, walking as fast as she could in her prized Manolos, weaving through the food-laden tables and well-dressed people. Her smooth skin glowed with health. The sleek, chestnut-streaked bob fell around her ears, a glossy frame for her oval face. Her full lips tilted up at the edges, hinting at the laughter she usually reserved for her tight circle of friends and family. Jo wedged herself between Cam and Walsh, throwing an arm over each man’s shoulder. She had been fitting nicely between the two of them since they’d met Cam at camp thirteen years ago. Walsh had been fourteen and they had been thirteen. That slim age difference had been about the only thing separating them ever since.

“You didn’t tell us you were coming.” Jo nodded at Walsh’s jeans and polo shirt, her gray eyes sparkling, a cheeky grin lighting her face. “Your mom will be so glad to see you. Even dressed like that.”

Walsh gave Jo an affectionate squeeze and kiss, eyeing her brightly patterned halter dress and Cam’s sports jacket and slacks. He
was
underdressed.

“She won’t mind.” Walsh cast a cursory glance around the ballroom. “Is Uncle James here?”

“Daddy?” Jo rolled her eyes, hand on the curve of her slim hip. “He was still at the office when I left, but he’ll be here.”

“Or Mom will have his head.” Walsh shared a knowing look with his cousin.

Uncle James and Walsh’s mother were not only siblings, but best friends. They had always been partners in crime in everything, including running the family foundation and raising their children.

Walsh spotted his mother working the room, trolling for donors.

“I’ll see Unc when he gets here,” Walsh said. “Going to go grab Mom now.”

Cam laid a hand on Walsh’s shoulder, his smile as broad as the Eno River, which snaked through the small town of Rivermont, North Carolina.

“Okay, but don’t forget I want to introduce you to my new girl. She’s amazing.”

“Can you believe this?” Walsh nodded his head toward Cam, but looked at Jo. “The certified player, wanting one girl?”

“She is pretty amazing.” Jo offered a wry smile, bumping Cam’s shoulder with hers. “What’s most amazing is that she wasn’t running after him like the swarm of girls he’s used to.”

“It took me
six months
to even get a date with this girl.” Cam waved his hand to indicate his olive skin, blue-gray eyes, and dark, wavy hair. “Me!”

Jo rolled her eyes, shaking her head and setting her gold hoop earrings in motion. “She
is
something else.”

“I’ll meet her later.” Walsh turned in his mother’s direction. “Right now, I gotta go kiss the most beautiful woman in the room.”

He snuck up behind his mother and covered her eyes.

“Who is this?” She starched and pressed the words.

“How many people did you give birth to?”

“Walsh!” She whooped and turned around to hug him as tightly as he had known she would. Her dark hair was pulled back in an elegant knot, showing off her smooth, still-unlined skin. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. Your room isn’t even ready.”

The ever-practical Southern hospitality. Kristeene Walsh Bennett had never lost it, even when she’d been married to his father, living among New York’s most elite.

“I’ll be fine.” Walsh gave her an extra squeeze before pulling away. “Just as long as there’s a bed. Feels like parts of me are scattered across three time zones. I just want to crash after this.”

“But you will stay, right?” She rolled a threat and a plea into one tiny frown. “You have to meet our Scholar of the Year. She’s overcome so much.”

“Haven’t they all?” Walsh thought of Cam and several of the other foster kids who’d come through the foundation over the years.

“Well, yes, but she’s special,” Kristeene said, something approaching pride in her voice. “She’s driven and determined. Just a good girl.”

“Let me guess. She has a great personality?”

“Well, yes, she does.” His mother pressed her lips together, but Walsh knew laughter could spill from the sides at any minute. “Come on. Time to announce the awards.”

Walsh took a seat across from Cam and Jo.

“Where is she?” Cam twisted around, scanning the crowded room. “She should’ve been here by now.”

“She’ll be here.” Jo took a quick sip of her white wine and toyed with the studded bangle wrapped around her wrist. “She’s probably just running late, and I’m sure there’s an excellent reason for it. God forbid she’d do anything wrong.”

“She did mention she was taking her mentee home after school.” Worry pulled Cam’s dark brows together. “But that would’ve been hours ago.”

Was this really Cam? Walsh couldn’t believe all this concern. For a girl? Cam barely remembered the names of the girls he’d slept with over the years, usually referring to them by distinguishing characteristics.

The girl with the belly-button ring.

That chick with the tramp stamp.

The one who did that trick with her tongue.

Now Cam was worried because this girl was
late
?

“Thank you all for being here tonight,” Walsh’s mother said from the platform, her warm gaze skimming each table. “My great-grandfather married a girl who never knew her mother or father. A girl who lived in an orphanage throughout her childhood. Her story compelled my family to start the Walsh Foundation, and we’ve been helping kids without parents or homes all over the world ever since.”

Polite applause from the donors. The college students who had grown up in foster homes and been able to attend college because of the foundation offered a less reserved response, cheering and whistling until Kristeene held up a staying hand.

“Speaking of all over the world.” Kristeene turned a bright smile in Walsh’s direction. “I’m going to have a proud mother moment and welcome my son, Walsh, home. He’s finally back from visiting our orphanage in Kenya. Help me convince him to stay for the summer. Stand up, baby.”

Walsh stood, offering a brief salute before quickly sitting, feeling as self-conscious as he had at six years old when she’d forced him to play the piano for company.

“We’re so proud of him.” Her eyes lingered on her only child. “He’s been working with the Walsh Foundation ever since he graduated from NYU, and he helps out his father in New York when he can.”

Walsh nearly smirked, thinking of how disgusted Martin Bennett would be to hear about his son “helping out” in New York. Like training to run a multibillion-dollar enterprise was his side gig. His father wanted Walsh to work all of what he liked to call this “philanthropy crap” out of his system with his mother’s do-gooder family.

“And that brings us to our final award, the Scholar of the Year,” his mother said, regaining Walsh’s attention. “This young lady has impressed us all. Not only did she graduate last week with a four-point-oh GPA, but she also serves as a mentor at Walsh House in Raleigh, where we serve at-risk teens. I interviewed her myself for the scholarship last year. I was blown away by her strength of will, determination, and compassion. Please welcome Kerris Moreton, our Scholar of the Year.”

Everyone applauded. After that grand introduction, Walsh wondered if this girl would ascend to the stage flanked by cherubim and seraphim and accompanied by harps. Walsh envisioned everyone genuflecting when this paragon finally decided to bless them with her presence. His hands stung from clapping, waiting for her to show up.

Where the hell was she?

His mother scanned the room, obviously looking for the little scholar-cum-saint. She shielded her eyes against the glare of discreetly lit chandeliers.

“I guess promptness isn’t one of her virtues,” Walsh said.

Cam surprised him with an irritated look. What? Did the little saint have him under her spell, too? Wonder what his new girlfriend thought of that. Then Cam’s face lit up.

“Here she comes.”

She rushed through the door and down the aisle toward the stage. Walsh blinked, thinking she would be less lovely at a second glance. She was not less of anything. No less blinding. No less stunning. No less captivating. She rushed past their table, but not before he got a good look at her.

She was tiny. Probably no more than an inch over five feet, but softly curved in the places a woman should be. He would stand more than a foot taller. Her hair waved around her shoulders and streamed down her slim back, dark brown, spiked with lighter red streaks, as if the tresses had trapped rays of sun. Her cheekbones curved high, a perfect setting for eyes that tilted a little, glinting with green, amber, and gold. And that mouth.

Damn, that mouth.

It was full and wide. Lush, like raspberries at peak season.

And damned if she wasn’t wearing a scarlet dress and a flower behind her ear.