The Home-wrecker (The Goode Brothers)
The Home-wrecker: Chapter 8

“He seems nice,” I say as I pull the throw pillows off our bed.

Caleb lifts his gaze to my face and tilts his head to the side skeptically. “Nice? I don’t know if I’d call him that.”

My brows furrow inward. Sure, I was just making simple conversation, and Dean does seem, at best, mysterious, but I sense some real contempt in Caleb’s reaction, too.

“What would you call him?” I ask.

He tosses one of the pillows on the floor. “Suspicious.”

“His house just burned down, Caleb. I didn’t really expect him to show up with a smile on his face.”

“He could have at least been gracious. There’s something about him that I don’t trust. I want you and Abby to stay away from him while I’m gone. Keep the doors locked.”

I let out a scoff. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being protective,” he replies defensively.

I level a glare at him, and after a moment, he relents with a sigh. “I’ll give him a chance, but for now, let’s just be on the safe side.”

“Fine,” I mutter as I climb under the covers.

We go through our normal routine. He pulls out his laptop. I pretend to read my book. He makes a comment about the weather or dinner or the house. He rolls over with an expression of disappointment. At least tonight, we can skip the lifeless sex since I won’t be ovulating for a few more weeks.

I toss and turn for what feels like an hour. Caleb is fast asleep next to me, and the space between us might only be inches, but it feels like miles. It’s so prominent that I can’t stand to even be in the bed anymore.

Careful not to wake my husband, I crawl out from under the covers. It’s practically a nightly ritual at this point—like I have a secret second life that takes place when everyone else is asleep.

Normally I’ll watch TV and eat all the snacks in the kitchen. Sometimes, I’ll scour anything interesting on the internet that I can find, or I’ll start up a conversation in one of my online art forums. But tonight, none of that interests me.

Instead, I stand near the window of our bedroom on the second floor, and I stare at the illuminated window over the garage. Our new tenant is awake, the young, handsome stranger who’s renting the apartment.

As I’m staring out the window, it suddenly dawns on me that I forgot to give Dean the key to the apartment.

I mean, sure, he could lock it from the inside, but if he needed to go anywhere, he wouldn’t be able to lock it from the outside. And while I’m sure he doesn’t really need it in the middle of the night, I figure he’s up. I’m up. I might as well take it out to him now.

I guess I could also check to see if he needs anything while over there. I just want to be a good host.

Quietly tiptoeing through the house, I sneak out the back door by the kitchen, grabbing the apartment keys on my way. About halfway across the yard, I realize how crazy this is, but I’ve always been a night owl, and I assume he is, too, so maybe he won’t think it’s too odd.

I walk lightly up the stairs until I reach his apartment. Through the door, I can hear the TV playing. It’s a laugh track to something that must be a sitcom.

Gently, I knock, and it only takes him a few moments before he opens the door.

Dean is standing in the narrow opening in the same loose jeans and weathered gray tee he had on earlier. Colorful tattoos peek out from the sleeves of his shirt, and I notice what seems to be nipple piercings poking through the fabric.

Something I did not notice earlier. Suddenly, I’m wondering if he has anything else pierced.

My eyes catch on his chest before I lift them to his face.

“Sorry to bother you,” I mumble. “I just realized I hadn’t given you the keys, and I saw you were up.”

I jingle them between us, and he glances down with a small nod.

“Thanks,” he replies, reaching out and taking them from me.

Dean is handsome in a different way than Caleb is. He’s young and has a grit to his appearance that I find incredibly attractive. His dark hair is buzzed short, and he has sharp cheekbones and a sculpted jawline.

Where Caleb has life behind his eyes, it’s almost as if Dean has none, and it makes me want to bring him back to life. I want to uncover what he’s hiding behind those hooded, dark-blue irises.

“Are you getting settled in okay?” I ask.

He noticeably relaxes against the doorframe as he responds. “Yeah, took a nice long nap today, so I’m feeling a lot better.”

“That’s good,” I reply. “I’m sure you’ve had a really rough few days. How is your dad?” I add cordially.

His eyes glisten as if he appreciates me asking that.

“He’s doing well, thanks. He’s all settled in at the home.”

“Good,” I say. “I imagine that must have been hard on you.”

Something compels me to reach out and rest my hand over his in a comforting sort of way, but he instantly bristles at the touch, so I quickly pull away.

Why am I acting so strange?

His eyes glance toward the window of our house that leads to our bedroom.

“Well, I should⁠—”

“Can’t sleep?” he asks, cutting me off.

“No,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m always such a night owl. I think it comes with being a mom. These late hours are all I really get to myself, and I’ll pay for it in the morning.”

His expression lights up with interest.

“What do you like to do?” he asks in a slow, almost sultry tone.

“Um,” I stammer, “mostly watch TV. Maybe scroll on my phone. You know, brainless stuff.”

“Me too,” he replies cheekily.

Then he steps away from the doorframe, letting it open and reveal the small apartment where the television is playing.

“Would you like to come in? Maybe watch a show with me?”

I know I shouldn’t.

My mouth even opens to utter those words. No, thank you. I should get back to bed.

But I don’t.

I mean, what’s the harm? I could use the company. It’s just watching a show. And I’d like to get to know our new tenant, this mysterious old friend of Caleb’s brother. Maybe if I know more about him, I can help defend his character to my husband, who seems so set on his ways of distrusting him.

“If you’re sure you don’t mind,” I reply nonchalantly.

“Of course not,” he chuckles.

As he steps back from the doorframe, allowing me access to the apartment, I squeeze in carefully to avoid brushing against his chest.

“Make yourself at home,” he says with a half smile.

“What are you watching?” I ask as I make my way toward the couch.

“Ah, just some old Friends reruns.”

“Classic,” I murmur.

He moves toward the kitchenette area and awkwardly points to the fridge. “You already know this, but there’s a bottle of wine chilling in the refrigerator. Would you like a glass?”

“Oh, that’s yours,” I reply, putting my hands up. “I didn’t know if you liked wine or beer, so I went ahead and put both in there.”

“I’m more of a wine guy,” he says, shooting me another wink like he did earlier today. Once again, it has me blushing.

“Noted,” I reply, clearing my throat.

As he pulls out the bottle, I go to the cabinet where I know I placed two wineglasses earlier today. Deciding it would be unfair to make him drink alone, I set them both on the counter as he uncorks the bottle and pours us each a glass in comfortable silence.

Normally, in situations like these, I feel pressured to make conversation. But honestly, I kind of hate small talk, so I’m relieved that the air between us isn’t thick with tension.

It’s actually kind of nice.

After handing me my glass, he gives me a crooked smirk as he holds up his and says, “Cheers.”

I tap mine against his before taking a sip.

His eyes are on my face as I take my drink, but not in a predatory sort of way. It’s more of a kind and curious way.

Dean seems so harmless. And I have experience with dangerous, cruel, selfish men.

Or should I say man?

My high school boyfriend, who turned into my college boyfriend, Sean, was possessive and manipulative. And at the time, to my young, naive, lovestruck mind, that was the sincerest form of affection.

I thought he was possessive of me because he loved me so much. Wanted to control me because I meant so much to him.

His love was a cloak over my eyes, and it was eventually Caleb who helped me lift it.

Dean moves to the couch, and I follow. He takes one side, and I take the other.

For a while, we sip our wine in silence and watch an episode of the show, laughing at all of the appropriate moments. But then a commercial break comes, and I feel obligated to make conversation.

“So you work at Sage’s club?” I ask, instantly regretting the question after it comes out of my mouth.

He nearly chokes on his wine.

Coughing, he replies, “Um, yeah, I do.”

“You don’t have to elaborate,” I say, stuttering apologetically. “I was just making small talk.”

“No worries,” he says with a lazy smile. “It’s okay. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed to talk about it if you’re not ashamed or embarrassed to hear about it.”

“Of course not,” I reply quickly. “I like Sage. I think she’s great. I’ve never been to the club, but I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

God, I sound like a bumbling idiot.

“It is nice,” he replies plainly. “I didn’t see it before she got ownership and changed a few things, but I’m really impressed with how she runs it now.”

“That’s good,” I say. “She’s a smart girl.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“Have you…” My words trail. “…been in this business for long?”

“About two years.” Now it’s his turn to blush, and the color looks so nice on his tan cheeks.

“But I like my job, and I’m good at what I do.”

My eyes widen as I turn my gaze toward the TV.

He’s good at what he does?

I’ve let too much time pass without responding, but honestly, I have no clue how to even reply to that. He just admitted that he’s good at sex. What am I supposed to say?

“I mean…as long as you’re happy, that’s all that matters, right?” I say, which is such a generic response, but it’s all I can come up with at the moment.

“Exactly,” he replies. “And what about you?”

I turn my gaze back toward him, my eyes a little wider. “What about me?”

His lips pull into a sly smile as he turns his gaze downward bashfully. “I just meant, are you happy?”

“Oh.” I laugh nervously to myself. “Yeah, uh, I am…happy.”

Why did I just stutter so much? It definitely did not sound convincing.

And judging by the tight-lipped smile he’s giving me as he nods, I can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

So, I feel the need to elaborate.

With a sigh, I continue, “I am happy. I love getting to stay at home and raise our daughter. It’s just…” I let my words trail to take a breath. “Caleb and I have been trying to conceive for nearly three years now, and it’s been rough.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The expression on his face appears sincere and compassionate, which is nice. It’s better than pity.

The commercials are still playing, and we both turn our attention back to the TV. I know that neither of us is really watching them, though. The air grows thick with tension, but suddenly, I find myself chuckling quietly.

He snaps his gaze toward me. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I reply with another chuckle. “It’s just that…” Awkwardly, I pause. “It’s just that we’re both sort of talking about sex, but in two very different ways.”

The word sex comes out of my mouth, feeling like the most uncomfortable word I’ve ever uttered.

One side of his face lifts into a mischievous smile, and he keeps those hooded eyes trained on my face as he replies, “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We’re both having a lot of sex. You’re doing it for a baby, and I’m doing it for money. Either way…it’s still fun.”

I have to force myself to swallow, my blood running hotter through my veins as he stares at me. And there’s a voice in my head that is screaming, You should go.

And this time, I listen.

Quickly, I gulp back the rest of the wine in my glass and stand from the couch.

“It’s late. I should really go. Thank you so much,” I stammer as I move toward the kitchen, “for letting me crash…your uh…TV watching…time.”

Oh my god, what am I saying?

He chuckles from the couch. “Of course, anytime. No worries. I love company.”

I drop the empty glass in the sink before rushing to the door. “Okay, well, I’ll be home all day tomorrow. You know, in case you want me—I mean, need me.” With a wince, I open the door. Behind me, I hear him chuckle again, and I feel like a colossal idiot. Before leaving, I add, “Just let me know if you need anything.”

He stands from the couch and waves at me as I leave. “No worries, Briar. Again, thank you.”

With that, I close the door, pressing my back to the surface of it as I struggle to catch my breath. That was humiliating and dangerous, and I had absolutely no business even being in there.

What is wrong with me?

But as my blood pressure starts to settle and the cool night air seeps into my pores, I realize that while it was sort of reckless, it was also really nice.

And honestly, when was the last time I did anything reckless?