When it came to sharing sleeping space with another man, Preacher would choose anyone over Joe.
Sylvia shot Preacher an annoyed glance. “In case you haven’t noticed, you idiot, I’m pregnant with your nephew. And I’m too big to be sleepin’ on the ground. You put me on the ground and I won’t ever get up again.”
“She’s been sleeping in the camper with us,” Ginny added.
“Nephew?” Preacher asked, glancing at Joe. “It’s a boy?”
“We don’t know.” Joe rolled his eyes. “Just last week she was sayin’ he was a she.”
Sylvia glared. “Well, I have to call it something, don’t I?”
“She’s carrying low.” Ginny gestured to Sylvia’s swollen belly. “My guess is it’s a boy.”
Sylvia beamed. “See! We can call him a he!”
Joe ran a hand through his short dark hair and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “How ‘bout we call him a life-ruining cock block?”
“Joseph Fox!” Ginny snapped, her eyes wide.
“What did you say?” Sylvia demanded, thrusting a finger at Joe, the nail painted bright red.
“Nothin’,” Joe muttered.
“It wasn’t nothin’!” she shot back. “I heard you!” Sylvia slowly lifted herself off the bench. Standing over Joe, she glared down at him. “You apologize!”
Joe, refusing to look at his wife, only scowled at the tabletop.
“What about Max?” Preacher had to raise his voice to be heard over Sylvia. “Why can’t he double with Joe?”
“Hell no!” Max chimed in, “I’m sharin’ with Knuckles! You couldn’t pay me to sleep in that stink-hole!”
No one paid either Max or Preacher any attention. Sylvia had graduated to shouting while Joe looked like he wished a lightning bolt would strike him dead. Ginny had moved to stand between them and was attempting to calm Sylvia down with hand gestures and softly spoken words.
Preacher sighed. Didn’t his mother know by now that her attempts were futile? A bat to the head wouldn’t shut up a Jersey girl—let alone an Italian. The only chance anyone had at peace was walking into traffic.
Eventually Sylvia burst into loud, exaggerated tears and shuffled away. Joe looked momentarily relieved until Ginny snatched his arm and dragged him along after her.
“Is it always like this?” Looking bewildered, Debbie stared after Ginny and Joe as if she didn’t quite know what to make of his family.
“Yup.” It was Max who’d answered. At some point, he’d taken Sylvia’s seat across from Debbie. Leaning forward on his elbows, a cocksure grin on his face, Max said, “Sometimes it’s worse. You should see them when—”
“Go away,” Preacher interjected. He really, really did not like the way Max was looking at Debbie—like it was his goddamn birthday and she was a present he couldn’t wait to unwrap.
Max faced Preacher, his eyes narrowed into angry slits. “Man, what is your fuckin’ problem?”
“You are. So go away. Right now.”
Eyes flashing, Max shot to his feet and slapped his palms down hard on the table. “You’re just like Dad!” he accused, before storming off.
Preacher watched him go, more perturbed that Max had likened him to their father than anything else.
“That wasn’t very nice,” Debbie remarked.
He snorted. “Nice? Do you have any brothers—or sisters?”
She shook her head. “My dad died when I was really little. I was an only child.”
Preacher was reminded of the drawing in Debbie’s notebook—the man with the little girl on his lap.
“My mom… remarried,” she continued, her words clipped and strained. Then her features tightened. “But they… didn’t have any kids.”
He stayed silent a moment, studying her, waiting to see if she was going to elaborate further. When she didn’t, he replied, “Truth.”
Her eyes shifted, their gazes colliding. Those big, beautiful eyes of hers, boring into his, looked darker than usual. He glanced at her mouth again, her seriously sexy mouth, then down her body, to where the thin material of her T-shirt was pulled tight over her breasts, and then further, all the way down her bare legs and back up again.
Another maddening vision of her dropping her towel and offering him sex crept into his thoughts, only this time, instead of turning her down, he tugged her forward and pulled her onto the bed.
His body hardening, Preacher shoved her backpack off the bench and shifted closer.
“Your mouth is so crazy sexy,” he heard himself saying, reaching for Debbie. He ran his thumb up her finely-carved cheekbone, and when she didn’t jerk away, he continued on, stroking a path down to her chin and across her jaw. He paused beneath her full bottom lip and glanced up.
Her expression was changing—her eyes widening, her lips parting. Her breaths were coming quicker—sharp bursts of air in rapid succession that told Preacher she was either scared or eager. Judging by the way she was looking at him, he’d bet his life on the latter.
Debbie wanted to be kissed again.
And fuck him, he was going to kiss her.
Sixteensixteensixteensixteen.
Preacher covered her mouth with his. His tongue jutted past her lips, roughly tangling with hers. She gripped his arms, and he pulled her closer. One hand went into her hair, the other slid down her back.
She was kissing him like she’d kissed him last night, messy and desperate, and it was spurring him on, firing him up, driving him half mad with wanting.
He wanted more. He wanted her closer—on his lap, her legs wrapped around his middle, grinding herself over his—
“I got special brownies!” There was a loud thump and the picnic table bounced. Startled, Debbie released Preacher and jumped halfway down the bench.
Tiny was sitting across from them, a shit-eating grin stretching his chubby cheeks straight across his face, clutching a brightly-colored tin to his chest.
“Snagged these babies off Marcie.” Tiny gave the tin a loving caress. “You remember Marcie, right? Her old man wrecked a few years back. Get this, Preacher, the woman started her own club! Can you believe it? A club full of fuckin’ chicks!”
Debbie got to her feet. “I, uh, I…” she stammered, refusing to look at Preacher. “I’ll be right back.”
Grabbing her backpack, she shot off across the camp like a bat out of hell. And Preacher watched her go, his erection throbbing in his jeans.
“Something I said?” Tiny asked.
Preacher turned to him, deadpan, and wrenched the tin of brownies from his grasp. “Gimme those,” he growled.
Chapter 18
Debbie woke before the sun, a result of frequently sleeping outside. Shoving Preacher’s jean jacket off, she sat up and unzipped the tent’s nylon door flap. Greeted with the same gray sky and chirping birds that always preceded the sunrise, she leaned forward and pressed her hands into the damp grass, peering around the quiet campsite.
She wondered which tent Preacher was in and if he was awake yet.
After wandering around the park last night, exploring and spying on other campers, Debbie had returned to the camp with little fanfare. Only a small group had remained seated around the bonfire, Preacher among them. As if he’d been waiting for her, Preacher’s fire-lit gaze had found her slinking through the dark. Turning in his lawn chair, he’d tracked her as she’d hurried across camp.
She’d slipped inside the tent Ginny has assigned her, half hoping he would follow her. When he hadn’t, she’d set up a makeshift bed using her bag as a pillow and Preacher’s jacket as a blanket and eventually fell asleep.
Had she screwed everything up by running off? Did Preacher now think her an idiot child?
Debbie’s gaze meandered over to the picnic tables. She pressed her fingertips to her lips. He’d kissed her again. And it had been different than the first time. Better, even. Rougher. Frantic.
Your mouth is so crazy sexy.
She’d replayed that declaration in her head at least a million times since he’d said it. His voice had been deeper than normal, gruffer. As if his words had been torn from a place that he rarely exposed.