Page 3 of Loving at 40

“What the fuck, Anna?” I snap at my sister as we stand on either side of the large kitchen island in our parents’ home. Excuse me, my sister’s home, as she somehow took it upon herself to assume responsibility for this place and decided to move into it roughly two years ago.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Archer.”

“Jesus, you sound just like Mom.” My muscles flex as I rest my palms on the countertop, glaring at my younger sibling. With her dark hair and matching eyes, she even looks like our mother. The reminder stings because our parents have been dead for years. In a drive from here to Chicago, a trip our dad could have made in his sleep, a ten-car pileup occurred. Texting and driving kills people. Some punk kid wasn’t paying attention to the slowing traffic and rammed into my parents from behind, forcing them forward into a semi-tractor trailer.

At the mention of our mother, Anna’s shoulders fall, and mine do as well. I’m the eldest McCaryn, but my sister has always been considered the most dependable one, at least according to our family. No one understands the responsibilities I’ve had over the years. No one knows because that’s the way it was supposed to be. My parents thought I’d abandoned the pack. For their safety, I couldn’t tell anyone what I did for a living. Eventually, my dad figured out my work was something dangerous—dangerous but important—so I told him what I could because I needed someone to claim my body if anything were to happen to me.

As I glance around the bright kitchen and sitting room combination, there isn’t a trace of our parents’ belongings, yet their presence is everywhere. This was our family’s second home. Our father was a sausage king in Chicago, and as the wealthy often do from that area, they purchased a place for vacations and weekend getaways in the southwest corner of Michigan. When I was a kid, I hated this place, but I have a different perspective now that I’m older. The house isn’t small, but it isn’t as large as I remember, or maybe it’s just that I’m bigger. Or older. Or jaded.

“That garage is mine,” I growl at my younger sister.

“We haven’t seen you in years.” She pauses.

“I was here for Ben’s funeral.” The harsh reminder of her husband’s passing makes my sister flinch. Shit. Rubbing a hand over my short hair, I mutter an apology.

“Where?” She narrows her eyes at me. She didn’t see me, but that was the point. I’d broken protocol to pay my respects, but I couldn’t linger, and I couldn’t be seen. I couldn’t explain then, and right now doesn’t seem like the time for it either.

Her beloved Ben passed away over a year ago, and the loss sucks. He was a good guy. From what I knew of him, he was a decent husband, a great father, and an excellent businessman. He started his landscaping company from scratch after he followed my sister’s tail to Chicago. He’d been our lawn boy here at Lakeside. I chuckle at the thought. Sweet, shy Anna ended up with someone my parents considered the help. It was a generational thing on their part and possibly the only rebellious thing Anna had ever done.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Anna says.

“I called you. I told you August.” I state the obvious, “It’s August.” In July, I got the all clear to move forward from therapy. I needed a place to rest and rebuild.

“Yes, but that was last year, Archer. Last year.”

“Last year? This year? What’s the fucking difference? It’s August. I’m here, and someone is in my apartment.” It wasn’t really that simple, and we needed to talk about why I didn’t show last August, but I wasn’t ready.

I needed to be here. Period.

I don’t own the apartment any more than Anna thinks she owns this house. The three of us—myself, Anna, and Amelia—have inherited the property, a beautiful stretch of land on a cliff overlooking Lake Michigan. The land includes this sprawling six-bedroom home and a carriage house of sorts that has a three-car garage with a two-bedroom apartment over it. My apartment. Since the time I was a teen, I’d been out there whenever our family came here.

“You have got to stop saying fuck every other word.”

“I don’t got to do anything. I want my apartment. And I don’t want some woman with kids in there.”

“I can leave.” A soft feminine voice comes from my left, and I turn to get a better view of the dark-haired beauty I found in my bed. Last night, it was difficult to make out all her features in the dim light of the room. Only a window offered illumination of her form and what a form it was. She hadn’t heard me climb over her body, and that was the intention. Her heart pulsed at her throat. She’d been moaning when I entered, and I wondered what she’d been dreaming about. The soft hum wasn’t fear or distrust but more arousal. When I accidentally cupped her breast and squeezed, I got a handful. Her subconscious thoughts were evident from the taut nub of her pert nipple.

The reminder of that heavy swell in my hand makes my dick twitch in my shorts, which is the last thing I need while I’m arguing with my sister. I’d sworn off all women after my last one, and I wasn’t interested in this one, but my reaction was a nice reminder that my dick did, in fact, function after all that had happened in the past twelve months.

Because damn, this woman is gorgeous. She checks all the boxes. Long, midnight hair. Dark eyes. Legs for miles and . . . a little head pops out from behind one of those lengthy limbs. Blond curls and bright eyes almost blind me at the reminder that she mentioned something about her daughters last night. Another little person stands beside her as a miniature mirror image of her mother because this woman is a fucking mother.

“Good morning, Talia. Good morning, Rosie,” Anna coos sweetly.

This is the wake-up call I need. I don’t do women with children. I should not be thinking of this mother, and most likely a married one at that. Nor am I thinking about her because I am so over women and the bullshit they spew. I scrub both hands down my face to clear all the dirty thoughts I have rushing around in my head.

I will not fuck a mother.

“I don’t want you to go,” Anna says, walking over to her friend and lowering before the little one still peeking around Jenna’s legs. Jenna, that was her name, right? I’d been too distracted by her racing heart and heaving chest to register the name. The pounding rhythm of her heart under my fingertips did strange things to me. She said something about being Anna’s friend, but her mouth—the lush curve of her lips and her sweet breath—stopped my heart. Having a woman underneath me was a position I hadn’t been in for a while.

Not going there again.

“I don’t want to intrude.” Jenna’s eyes catch mine across the room while she speaks to my sister. She’s standing just inside the kitchen off the large entryway which leads to the front door. Anna reaches out her hand for the carbon-copy little one, stroking over dark hair that matches her mother’s.

“You aren’t intruding. You’re my guests. I asked you to come here.” My sister’s plea draws Jenna’s attention.

“I know, but—” Her eyes seek me again.

In her crouched position, Anna glares at me over her shoulder. Slowly, my sister stands. Her expression hardens as much as it can. She looks so much like our mother, who never could pull off a stern face either. “Archer.”