Blue Moon (Blue Mountain Book 2) Read online

  Cole and Rori, bundled up to go outside so they might say good night in private, I assumed, bade us all farewell and disappeared out the front door, with Rori promising her dad she would return shortly. Kevan, at the bar mixing a martini, presumably for Blythe, as she loves dirty martinis, caught my eye and shook his head. “I’m pretending I don’t know they’re going to sit in his truck and make out.”

  I didn’t want to mention that it was almost certain they did a lot more at college in the narrow bed in one of their dorm rooms.

  Ciaran laughed. “Reminds me of Dad and Teagan.” He looked over at me as if to explain some private joke. “He was overprotective of his only daughter, whereas we could have been out all night and he’d have given us a high five in the morning.”

  “Rori’s lucky to have a dad who wants to protect her,” I said, without thinking.

  Ciaran looked at me, his face softening. “You didn’t have that?”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I don’t need protection. Never did. But I’m just glad my nieces will have Kevan to protect them now.”

  “I’ll do my best, Bliss. Either of you want another drink?” Kevan asked.

  Ciaran rose from where he’d been sitting in one of the armchairs near the fire and went to stand at the bar. “I wouldn’t turn down a scotch.”

  Without responding, Kevan reached under the bar and pulled out Glenlivet, which I knew to be high-end from some of my business colleagues over the years. I never touched scotch, finding it too strong with a nasty edge to it. Truth be told, I wasn’t much of a drinker. I often poured a glass of wine at night with the intention of curling up in bed and watching a movie, but would quickly become distracted with work and forget to turn on the television or finish the wine. I’d find the half-empty glass the next morning, abandoned on the nightstand, along with the remote, both pushed to the far edges of the table by my laptop. It gave me pause, some mornings, to see that glass and the remote tossed aside in deference to my work. It said a lot about my life, of course. But, no more, I thought now. This was the new me, no longer concerned with work or being the best. No, I was good friend, doting aunt, and fully present sister. I was going to be well-balanced if it killed me.

  “A small glass of white wine might be nice,” I said to Kevan, interrupting my own thoughts. Regardless of my intention toward fun, acceptance of another drink was probably unwise. The champagne had already made me feel spongy, like my skin had become suddenly porous and vulnerable. Being here, in this house where love lived, my other life of meetings and statistics and sales numbers seemed far away, perhaps even fictional. I felt like a girl here, no older than Rori, and was suddenly wondering what it would feel like to have a man to wrap his arms around me as we walked under falling snow. Was this urge to love and be loved ingrained in all of us no matter our past experiences? Did we always have this hope that someone existed out there in the wide world that might see us and accept us—warts and all? Idaho, with its snow blanket and twinkling stars and diamond engagement rings as big as the moon, was turning me soft.

  “Bliss, your wine.” I blinked and looked up to see Ciaran next to me. I took the glass from his outstretched hand, feeling as if he’d read my thoughts. Make your face bland, unreadable, I advised myself. Not a good idea to let your guard down around the brother. He was the type to seep into porous spots and temporarily fill them with a warm, succulent liquid the color of scotch until you woke to nothing but the cold reality of morning upon your exposed skin.

  Ciaran sat with his drink in his perch by the fire, the light flickering in his eyes. I settled back into the couch, watching the fire, hyperaware of Ciaran in the chair opposite the couch, doing the same thing. The walls seemed close, the fire too warm. I took a sip of wine. It was divine, of course. These Lanigan brothers knew how to live, that was for certain.

  My stomach growled. I remembered the leftover enchiladas. I’d been so excited at dinner, like a kid at Christmas, that I hadn’t eaten much. Was anyone else hungry?

  “Did I just hear your stomach growl?” asked Ciaran.

  I gasped, feeling heat travel the entire length of my body. Shrugging and using my flippant voice, I answered, “It’s impolite to comment on a lady’s bodily noises.” Bodily noises? Where had I come up with that saying?

  He laughed. It sounded like it started from his tailbone and moved up his body until it came out through his mouth, low and loud. To my horror, I found it quite infectious. I had to consciously keep my mouth tightly closed so as not join him. And, he laughed with his head thrown back. I love that quality in a person. It means they’re not afraid to go all in. When something’s funny, it’s worth laughing hard. Although, it wasn’t really that funny, given that he was teasing me.

  With the laugh still in his voice, he made his face look apologetic and humble. “I didn’t mean to sound impolite. It was just really loud.”

  I smirked and tried to think of a witty comeback. This man flustered me. Ten minutes in and I felt the need to run outside and cool off by making a snow angel. Where was Henry when I needed him? He brought out the sassy in me. “I’m a little hungry,” I finally managed to utter, sounding like a complete fool. “It always happens after I eat Blythe’s enchiladas. I can’t stop thinking about the leftovers.”

  Kevan approached with Blythe’s drink, setting it on the coffee table for my sister’s return. Slivers of ice floated on the top, just like she liked it. “I agree completely.” He patted his lean belly as he sat into the other armchair. “The married life could make me fat in no time.”

  Ciaran raised a glass in his direction, like a teacher with a pointer stick. “I don’t think so, brother. You’re way too tightly wound to allow that to happen.” This was said in a light tone that I assumed was supposed to be funny, but wasn’t.

  Kevan’s face went dark. It did sound like an insult, no matter the tone of voice. “You wouldn’t know much about that, now, would you, little brother? Never having worked a day in your life, it’s not something you can really comment on.”

  “You know that’s not true, right?” asked Ciaran.

  Blythe came into the room then and chuckled when she spotted the martini. She plopped onto Kevan’s lap and turned her attention first to Ciaran and then to me.

  “What’s so funny,” asked Kevan, way too innocently.

  “He’s teasing me, Ciaran,” she said.

  “How’s that?” asked Ciaran.

  “The very first night I ever met him I had three martinis at the Peregrine Bar and Grill, and he had to practically carry me back to Moonstone’s. Oh, the sweaty, guilty hangover I woke to. One for the record books.” She wrapped her arms around Kevan’s neck. “You’re terrible to tease me about it the night we get engaged.”

  Blythe seemed to have shaken Kevan’s hostility toward his brother for the moment, as he laughed and kissed her neck. “No, it’s not a tease. I just wanted to make you your favorite drink on the night of our engagement.”

  “Well, I didn’t say I wouldn’t drink it.” Then, my sister leaned down and kissed him full on the mouth. I assumed they’d stop, remembering they had an audience, but the kissing continued. Looking away, embarrassed, determined not to catch Ciaran’s eyes, I stared into my drink like the Holy Grail was written at the bottom of the glass, just as my stomach let out another growl, this one louder than the first. The lovebirds paid no attention, continuing to make out like teenagers for a few seconds.

  My sister rose to her feet, dragging Kevan with her. “We should probably head to bed. It’s getting late.” She pointed at the untouched martini. “One of you can have that.”

  They said hasty good nights and left before I realized that I would now be alone with Ciaran.

  “Well, we know what they’re headed to do,” he said. “Lucky bastards.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” I mumbled. “Could they be more obvious?”

  Ciaran scooted forward on hi
s chair and winked at me as he leaned across the coffee table. “Come on, Blissful, let’s eat something. I’m starving too.”

  “Blissful?”

  “You like it?”

  “I do not.” I glared at him with my best boardroom glare but it did nothing to shake his self-confidence.

  He smiled in that way that showed all those perfect teeth and made his eyes twinkle. Inside, my stomach felt like a free-falling elevator had taken residence. On the top floor one second and dropping fifteen floors the next. It started in my stomach and landed between my legs. I had forgotten about the free-falling elevator. I’d felt it last in high school. Greg Mercer.

  Greg Mercer. Damn Greg Mercer. When I spotted him coming down the hall, all that careless strength that young men possess and take for granted, with legs that seemed to dance instead of walk and draped in those 501 jeans boys wore in those days, my stomach did the free-falling elevator every time. Girls couldn’t resist a nice butt in those jeans. I knew this from eavesdropping on the popular girls in the locker room after PE. Unfortunately, neither Greg nor his 501s knew I was alive. We had no classes together, and while he was at football practice I was at the library studying. But nonetheless, what a crush I had on him, choosing certain hallways to make sure I’d catch a glimpse of him between classes and attending football games just to see him play, as I could have cared less for the game, which seemed to consist of nothing but a huddle followed by a chaotic scampering and ending with a pile of boys.

  Greg was number 11. I can still see the way his shoulders filled out his red and white jersey. Even now, I flush with embarrassment, knowing what an utterly hopeless case of unrequited love it truly was. Not once did he talk to me, until graduation, when I gave the class speech about the power of taking risks in a life where everything and everyone screams, “Be safe, be safe, be safe!” Courage, I insisted, was the key to a happy and successful life. After the ceremony ended and we had our diplomas in hand, the clear southern Oregon sky June blue, and the football field impossibly green in that way that makes the world seem brand new, I made my way through the sea of graduates toward a flushed, proud Blythe and my mother with that stupid, placid smile she had when she was stoned, which was most of the time. As I passed Greg, he put his hand on the sleeve of my gown, just a slight tug. I halted and looked up at him, surprised and sweaty with a sudden force and more nervous than when I’d began my speech. His straw-colored hair fell over blue eyes just slightly paler than the sky. He pushed his hair back with his hand in a way that seemed impatient, angry even, so that when his words came out, I felt a little ping of shock in my chest. “Nice job. You’re really smart. And you’re right, you know, about what you said in your speech. But I won’t be able to do it.” We were so close I could see a patch of whiskers, blond under the sunlight, near his upper lip, that he’d missed with his razor.

  “Do what?”

  “Be that brave. I’ll just look back on high school and think, “That was the best time of our life”—just like my dad does. And you won’t even remember it.”

  That was it—the entirety of our communication. Just then some of his friends called to him, making a gesture like they were swigging a beer. A party waited, one I hadn’t been invited to. But I didn’t care. Greg Mercer had not only acknowledged me but said something profound and truthful. I felt seen. Whether it was from my speech or observation, I would never know. Irrespective, it gave me a barely contained zeal for weeks into that hot summer as I prepared to leave for Stanford. I wondered sometimes, while I swam in the river outside of town, if I should have been braver when it came to him. Should I have approached him, told him of my feelings? I knew the answer, of course. If you were a girl like me, it was better to have a crush on someone with no possibility of interaction. I could admire from afar, enjoy that elevator dip in my stomach and the liquid feeling in my limbs without fear of rejection or embarrassment.

  Now, here was Ciaran Lanigan, giving me the free-falling elevator feeling in my stomach and taking me right back to before-she-blossomed Bliss. Bookworm Bliss. Stay-in-the-dorm-Friday-night-and-read Bliss. Smart-girl Bliss. Not since Greg Mercer had a boy, or man, made my stomach do the elevator plunge. In fact, I’d forgotten that feeling even existed until this very moment. Damn Ciaran Lanigan.

  The fire reflected in his dark eyes, he stood and held out his large hand, tanned like the rest of him, and long fingers with just a sprinkling of brown hair above the knuckles. What would it feel like to have that hand on my hot skin? Were there calluses on the palms from workouts, or were they soft like the men’s hands I shook at work functions? I took in a long, silent breath, willing myself to remain steady and strong. This man and his beauty were dangerous. This man had the power to hurt me, to take me back to a time when I had no power.

  I’m lonely, that’s all it is, I said to myself five or six times, like a mantra. Loneliness leads to bad decisions. That sounded like Blythe. She was always right on these matters, unlike me, whose intelligence clearly covered only academics and business. Men? I was as stupid as they come.

  Setting my glass aside, I rose to my feet but ignored his outstretched hand. What could I say to distract him from bestowing me with that wolfish stare that made me feel unclothed and way too vulnerable? “Blythe’s cooking is to die for,” I mumbled. Food and weather were always good diversions when one couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  He grinned and shrugged, picking up my wine glass. “I think you’ll want this.” I took it as he leaned close and whispered in my ear. “Anyway, no one’s dying tonight, unless you want a Shakespearean sonnet ‘little death,’ which I’m only too happy to provide.”

  I shivered as my stomach did the elevator nosedive thing again. Yes, I actually shivered, not with disgust as one might think, but desire. This is not good, not good at all, I thought. If most men had whispered a reference to an orgasm (I knew my Shakespeare; a little death was a reference to orgasms), I would have been repulsed. While an utterance of this sort should have been offensive, when whispered by the ruthless Ciaran Lanigan, it did nothing but excite me. I hated myself for it. Trust me. I wanted to remain unmoved by this man more than almost anything I’d ever wanted before. But, alas, the unscrupulous flesh wants what it wants.

  As if on cue, Shakespeare lumbered to his feet, wagged his tail a couple of times and looked at us expectantly. Ciaran knelt and scratched him behind the ears. “I’m worried about this old boy.”

  “Do you have dogs?” I asked. Dogs. Safe subject.

  “No, no. I can’t stand the thought of having to say good-bye to them. I don’t love animals as much as Kevan, but I’m a close second. It broke my heart as a kid when we lost Choochoo.”

  “Choochoo?” I asked, smiling.

  “Our lab. I named him when I was three years old.”

  An image of this gorgeous man as a child was not hard to imagine. The dark eyes, those thick lashes splayed upon a plump, pink child’s cheek.

  “Dogs are so much better than people,” I said.

  He looked at me for a moment. “Depends on the person. And the dog, I suppose.”

  We ambled to the kitchen, Shakespeare behind us. Modern, with black counters, a high industrial ceiling, and gleaming stainless steel appliances, it faced Blue Mountain. From earlier I knew the large windows gave a spectacular view during the day, but now it was dark. No city lights like I was used to, and it was quiet, a stillness I was finding strangely comforting considering I had been a city girl for over twenty years now. An island divided the room, complete with a high counter where one could eat, in addition to the table near the window. Earlier, we’d eaten in the formal dining room, but I preferred this more casual space. Blythe had mentioned how much she appreciated the kitchen, as it was designed for someone who actually cooked, with double ovens, an oversized refrigerator, and a large double sink.

  I went around the kitchen island to the sink. To hide my nervousness,
I took a large gulp of wine and almost choked as it burned my chest. My eyes watered. I coughed and flushed.

  “Hey, you all right?”

  I nodded, wiping under my eyes. “I’m not much of a drinker.” This came out apologetically, which irritated me. Who was this man to make me feel like a nervous teenager?

  Setting aside the wine, I opened the refrigerator. The enchilada leftovers were stored neatly in glass containers. Behind me, Ciaran moved about as if it were his kitchen. Apparently he was quite familiar with the locations of things, as he went to the silverware drawer without hesitation and pulled out two sets of cutlery and set them side by side on the counter that overlooked the stove. Then, he went to the other cabinet and grabbed two small plates, setting them near the casserole dish.

  “Hot or cold?” I asked.

  “There’s a choice?”

  “Some people like it cold. Leftovers, I mean.”

  “Not me. Definitely hot.” He grinned and raised one eyebrow. “You?”

  Why did everything out of his mouth sound like a sexual innuendo? My mind was in the rotting gutter, that’s why. I pretended not to notice. “I prefer mine warm, but Blythe always eats hers cold. Pizza, too.” Here I was, blabbering on like a fool.

  “I’ll do what you do, except I’ll chase mine with a beer.” He went to the refrigerator and found an IPA made in Oregon. Leaning against the counter, he twisted off the top before tossing it with perfect precision into the recycle bin.

  His hands. I couldn’t stop imagining them on my skin. I tossed my head, as if this ineffective movement would banish those thoughts while I scooped piles of the casserole onto the plates. I placed one plate into the microwave, and then lingered over the buttons, confused.

  “You need help?” Ciaran asked, standing behind me.

  I jumped. How had he gotten across the room without me hearing him? There were so many buttons. I scooted to the side. “Will you just start this for me? Ninety seconds should do it.”