Page 9 of Reckless Love

Truthfully, the comparison to an ancient tree fit. Tall, strong, sturdy, and ageless. Stephen was a man who’d live forever, overcome any obstacle. A true superhero.

As though he can sense me, he glances up, scanning until our gazes lock. A full-body shiver races through me, and my breathing stutters. The desire to throw open the window and lean out over the sill is almost overwhelming. I don’t even know what I’d do from there. Invite him in? Try to breathe in his familiar scent from here?

The memory of the blend of oak, sandalwood, and citrus combined with his natural manliness flickers at the edge of my consciousness. A smell I drew deep into my lungs every time he bent to speak to me, every time I was able to nuzzle under his ear while he curled over me, coming hard, his big hand gripping my ass to keep me pressed tight against him.

I turn away from the window, tempted to fan myself.

All of these remembrances are teenage notions that I should have outgrown when I tamped down all my impulsive tendencies.

Most of these urges vanished with Stephen anyway. Suppressing my recklessness was surprisingly easy once Stephen left. Raul stabilized my business, and Landon stabilized my life. Sure, the old Ava Tucker had to die for those things to happen, but I’ve never regretted that.

I turn back to the windowsill, my hands resting on the edge, itching to draw the pane up, let trouble in, but I force myself to step back.

No passing impulse is worth putting either of my relationships, with Landon or Raul, in jeopardy.

Two days later, it’s as though Stephen never returned at all. Landon and I have been all over Bellerive, enjoying his last gasp before starting school—which he’s excited about and I’m dreading. The older he gets, the more I realize that he might drift away from me the way my brothers and sisters have drifted from our mother, the way I drifted for a long time. Even now, Landon craves independence in a way he didn’t two months ago.

“Where to next?” the bodyguard who’s been driving us around asks from the front seat.

“Gage’s house,” I say.

We pull away from the curb of the children’s store we’d been shopping at in Rockdown and head toward Ember and Gage’s modest estate along the coast of Bellerive. The interior highway is the quickest route, and although I don’t know our bodyguard, he seems familiar with the island’s quirks. He must be local enough.

“Not Uncle Gage’s house. Nova and Charlotte won’t want to play cars,” Landon says, “and Ivy’s a baby. Aunt Maren’s is better.”

“We’re not going to the palace to see your cousins, Dante and River. I want to talk to Auntie Ember. You’ll just have to play something other than cars with Nova or Charlotte,” I say.

“Sounds boring,” Landon says with a huff.

“You can swim,” I say on impulse. “You all like swimming. I’ll sit on the deck to talk to Auntie Ember.”

“I’m a very good swimmer,” he says, his chest puffing out.

“You are,” I say, stroking his dark-brown hair off his forehead. Stephen was right in that Landon is my mini-me. From the color of his hair to the color of his eyes to the shape of his mouth, he’s all Tucker. Dark hair and light eyes are Tucker traits—dominant ones, apparently. I’ve been grateful that resemblance hasn’t changed as he’s grown. He’s mine.

A motorcycle revs beside us, loud and obnoxious. I turn to show them my annoyance, and something hits my window with a crack, splattering across the surface. Startled, it takes me a moment to process what’s smeared across my view.

Egg. Shell and yolk slime.

Then we’re being assaulted from what feels like all sides. Motorcycles with egg cartons are pelting the car, and when I catch our driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, he is neither cool nor calm. In fact, he looks more panicked than I feel.

“What’s going on?” Landon cries, trying to scooch closer.

“Angry people,” I say over the sound of eggs continually pelting the car.

How many eggs did these bikers bring?

“I’m scared,” Landon whimpers.

“Can you get us out of this?” I yell at our driver.

“Yeah, I just—”

Something hits the windshield with enough force that cracks spread across the window.

“Shit,” he curses. “I need to pull over.”

“Pull over?” I screech. “Are you kidding me?”