In This With You, page 1
In This With You
Faye Darling
Copyright © 2023 by Faye Darling
Beach Cottage Publishing LLC
All rights reserved. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN Paperback: 978-1-960626-07-3
ISBN Ebook: 978-1-960626-06-6
For everyone who has been told to smile when they haven't felt like it. This one is for you.
Author's Note
Please Note: This is the second book in a series of interconnected standalones. While it's not necessary to read the first book in the "With You" series (IN LOVE WITH YOU) before this one, it might help give you more insight/context when it comes to the characters as well as help you avoid spoilers if you choose to read out of order.
Be Advised: This book is a spicy, open-door romance, which means the characters' sexual encounters are depicted on-page. Because of this, IN THIS WITH YOU is intended for a mature audience only.
Trigger Warnings: Grief/loss, pregnancy, symptoms of pregnancy, off-page domestic abuse, and past childhood trauma/abuse (mostly off-page, but brief, vague flashbacks on-page).
Contents
1. August
2. One
3. Two
4. Three
5. December
6. Four
7. Five
8. Six
9. Seven
10. Eight
11. Nine
12. Ten
13. Eleven
14. Twelve
15. Thirteen
16. Fourteen
17. Fifteen
18. Sixteen
19. Seventeen
20. Eighteen
21. Nineteen
22. Twenty
23. Twenty-One
24. Twenty-Two
25. Twenty-Three
26. Twenty-Four
27. Twenty-Five
28. Twenty-Six
29. Twenty-Seven
30. Twenty-Eight
31. Twenty-Nine
32. January
33. Thirty
34. Thirty-One
35. Thirty-Two
36. Thirty-Three
37. Thirty-Four
38. Thirty-Five
39. Thirty-Six
40. March
41. Thirty-Seven
42. Thirty-Eight
43. Thirty-Nine
44. Forty
45. Forty-One
46. Forty-Two
47. Forty-Three
48. Forty-Four
49. Forty-Five
50. Forty-Six
51. Forty-Seven
52. Forty-Eight
53. Forty-Nine
54. Fifty
55. May
56. Fifty-One
57. July
58. Fifty-Two
Acknowledgements
August
One
Nick
It’s always been you, Stephanie North.
My best friend’s little sister.
How did we get here?
It all started out so innocently. You were twelve and I was fourteen. Your grumpiness and witty digs and sarcasm used to make me laugh at a time when I needed to laugh most. Then we got older, you got older, and amusement and comfort became infatuation and, eventually, love.
Now that I’m thirty, I’m starting to wonder if this is actually love or if it’s slid into something darker, something more akin to obsession.
Perhaps if I’d allowed myself to act on my feelings it would be different. If I’d kissed you, touched you, made love to you. Maybe then I would have gotten it all out of my system.
But you’ve always been off-limits in my mind.
And for good reason, too.
I once watched your brother, my best friend in the entire world, beat a man to a bloody pulp protecting you and wind up in prison. I decided then that I never wanted to be on the other side of his fists.
Your brother isn’t the only reason I’ve kept my love for you a secret. But right now, as I watch you laugh at the opposite end of this crowded bar, it’s the only reason I’m willing to give.
I carefully clock your fingertips as they trail over some dude’s bicep. He looks like your type. Big. Mean. Control issues. Your smile is peeled wide just for him, and you’d think that would make me jealous, but it doesn’t.
Wanna know why?
I don’t really care for your smile. I’ve always preferred your frown. The way your forehead scrunches up like an accordion. The way the whites of your eyes disappear, leaving nothing but stormy blue in their wake. The way your lower lip rolls away from the upper one, making me want to kiss you so badly it hurts. Just a little.
The ice in my whiskey glass rattles as I knock back the last swallow. It’s the third one I’ve had since I sat down on this stool long before you sauntered in. Because, no, I did not follow you here. I am not one of the morally grey men you obsess over in those dirty novels you love to read. And even though I only know about your smut addiction because I’ve snooped through your bookcase on more than one occasion without your permission, I can assure you I’m no stalker, no unhinged maniac lurking in the shadows. I’m more of the loveable cinnamon roll type. So believe me when I state again for the record that I did not follow you here. My dysfunctional family is the real reason I’m at this bar in Seaside, an hour up the coast from West Cove, the tiny town on the North Oregon Coast you and I both call home.
Honestly, that’s where I’d rather be right now—home.
But this bar is closer to my parents’ house. After a weekend of “forced family fun,” the idea of drowning myself in whiskey as soon as possible sounded pretty damn good.
Now, seeing you over there in that strapless purple dress, the gothic rose inked over your left shoulder blade winking at me from across the room while the rest of you remains oblivious to my presence, sounds even better.
I watch your fingers glide from the dude’s bicep down to his hand. You prop both of your elbows behind you on the bar and arch against it. Goddammit, Stephanie. Your small, but utterly delicious, chest is practically leering at this guy. My breath hitches as I watch you bite your bottom lip. Then, you shake your head ever so slightly at something he’s said, and your dark auburn curls skim across your back, momentarily hypnotizing me.
Heat sluices down my body from head to toe in a sick kind of baptism. My dick twitches in my tweed trousers, and I let slip an audible groan.
“All right?” asks the bartender. I’ve been trying to place her accent all night. At first I thought Scottish, but her voice has more of a lilt to it than a low punch. Irish, I’ve decided, but which region she’s from is yet to be determined. My grandmother grew up in Roscommon, Ireland, and this woman sounds nothing like her or any of my other Irish relations. Not that it matters.
I subtly adjust myself as I slide my empty whiskey glass across the bar top. “Can I get another, please?”
“Depends,” she says.
“On what?”
She waggles her eyebrows at me. “The test you’re about to take.”
As she leans over the bar, the cleavage on display through the deep v of her t-shirt inches toward me. Her curly, black ponytail falls over one shoulder, and her bright green eyes sear holes through mine. She’s an attractive woman, there’s no denying it. Smooth features and a hot body. She seems like she could be a good time.
But she’s not you.
They’re never you.
My semi wilts in my pants the longer this woman stares at me. That should tell you something right there about the power you hold over me.
I swallow. “Well?”
“Not in terrible shape, I suppose,” she says with a beaming smile I’m sure gets her just as far as that accent of hers does in the States. “I reckon you could handle another.”
“Good,” I say, my stupid face returning her smile. It’s automatic most of the time, my niceness. My need to placate people. It’s why my family twists and gnaws at my insides so much. They require the most placating. Otherwise things go from neutral to nuclear in .025 seconds. It’s one of the reasons I moved out of my parents’ house and in with my grandparents right before high school. It wasn’t the only reason, though. But that’s something your brother Ryder, my best friend, doesn’t even know about.
Before the memories of my dark past have the chance to surface, I glance your way once more. Hm. I’m surprised to see you hunched over the bar, scowling into your nearly-empty drink. And you’re all alone.
What happened to the beef head?
“Do me a favor?” I say to the bartender as she pours whiskey into my glass. “Send a Dirty Shirley to the woman in the purple dress over there. But don’t let her know who it’s from.” The bartender quirks a brow at me. It reads more as concerned than curious so I add, “She’s my friend’s little sister. I don’t want to bother her, but she looks like she could use a win right now.”
“I don’t think she’s the only one who could use a win.” The bartender’s hooded gaze drops over me again, and her mouth cranks up in an alluring smirk.
It almost hurts me not to automatically smile at her. But I try my best to keep my expression placid. I don’t want her getting the w rong idea, because that ain’t happening.
Of course, if you weren’t here right now, I would have probably already asked her to meet me after her shift. Bury myself balls deep in her Celtic pussy and fuck you off my mind. But I can’t bring myself to pick up some chick with you standing over there like a withering little daisy. So sad. So dejected. So scowly.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell the bartender.
She nods and drifts off to make your cocktail.
I know if I keep staring at you I’ll be on my feet in no time, weaving through the crowd to join you on your side of the bar. And if I do that, I’ll start talking to you. Leaning in because of the noise. Catching whiffs of your perfume. The bartender might have thought I was sober enough to have another drink, but I’m definitely drunk enough not to think about the consequences of what I might do if I get too close to you tonight.
Who knows, if I allow myself to lean toward you, I’ll probably end up brushing your hair off your shoulders and dragging my lips up the length of your long neck.
Once I do that, once I get a feel for your skin on mine, we’ll both be in serious trouble.
Don’t believe me? Just ask my dick, which is already returning to half-mast simply at the thought of being close to you.
“Fuck me,” I murmur into my tilted whiskey glass right before I take a huge swig.
When I set the glass down, I stare at the backs of my hands so I’ll stop staring at you. The only tattoos on my body cover me from the tips of my fingers to the hilts of my wrists. As soon as I was old enough, I got them to smooth over the memories of my past. The memories of what these hands were forced to do. Now, they don’t instantly alert me of who I once was. They assure me of who I am now. They tell my story.
A clover at the lowest joint of my left thumb to remind me how lucky I felt when my grandmother helped me get out from under my father’s roof. An ocean wave curling over the width of my right wrist to represent the peace I always find in the cold of the North Pacific.
There are countless other tattoos—too many to list—but do you want to know my favorite one?
The massive gothic rose spread over the back of my left hand.
It didn’t used to be my favorite. I had only wanted a way to keep in mind that there can be beauty in pain. Blooms and thorns. Then, one day, you complimented the rose, asked who the artist was, and drove with your friends to my tattoo parlor in Portland that afternoon. I was still at your house, hanging with your brother, when you came home. You’d strode through the door, shrugged your sweater down on one shoulder and revealed a fresh tatty that matched mine. I think my heart about burst out of my chest when I saw the ink. I tried not to read into it too much. Tried to tell myself you hadn’t meant it as some big gesture of love. Nevertheless, the rose we share became my favorite that day.
“Did my fucking brother send you to look after me?”
Your voice is like machine gun fire ripping through me. And I like the pain of it. I like it way too fucking much.
With a heavy hand you drop your cocktail onto the bar beside me, drops of vodka, grenadine, and soda splashing out of the glass. I guess while I was distracting myself you got my present. Obviously it wasn’t as hush-hush as I would have liked. I glance up, catch the not-so-subtle wink the bartender shoots me—like she’s content playing matchmaker now when not five minutes ago she was trying to seduce me with cleavage—and then swing my gaze to you.
Do you know that when you get angry, red splotches creep into your deep, olive-toned skin and climb from your chest up to your cheeks? It always makes me smile. Even now.
“Why are you smiling?” Your voice is smoke curling around barbed wire. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Nick.”
“Oh, Stephanie,” I say, long and drawn out, because I just love the way your full name tastes on my tongue. “It’s not a joke. Not in the least.”
“What the hell does that mean?” You seal your arms over your chest and scowl at me, which only makes my rogue little friend perk up again, straining against the zipper of my tweed suit pants.
Maybe it’s the whiskey. Maybe it’s the fact that your anger has always been a turn-on. Maybe it’s that I’m simply tired of hiding from you. Whatever it is, it has me reaching out and pinching your elbow lightly between my fingers. You’re not exactly a giant, Stephanie, so even though you’re standing and I’m sitting, our eyes are level. I stare into you like it’s my fucking job, and let me tell you, I have a strong work-ethic. I didn’t earn the district’s teacher of the year award back in June for being a lazy fuck.
“Your brother didn’t send me to keep an eye on you,” I say. “Ryder doesn’t even know I’m here. Most people would call our meeting a good old fashioned coincidence, but me? I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Are you saying you followed me here?”
“I could argue that you followed me here,” I say with a cluck of my tongue and shake of my head. Your brows crinkle as you frown, but all I do is grin back at you and keep talking. “I got here long before you waltzed through that door, Babydoll.”
“Oh.” Your anger starts to fizzle out, and I have to admit, I’m more than a little disappointed. But then you reach for the cocktail you slammed down a minute ago and hold it up to me. I let go of your elbow, pick up my whiskey, and clink it against the lip of your glass. We both take a sip. You mumble this next bit. Like you’re embarrassed or something. It’s cute. “How’d you remember Dirty Shirleys are my favorite?”
Because I remember everything about you, Stephanie North.
“I took a stab.”
“Impressive stab.”
“I’m a pretty impressive guy, if you hadn’t noticed,” I say.
You roll your eyes big and bold. Sarcasm drips off of your tongue. “Okay, Nick. Sure. You’re really fucking impressive.”
I laugh. Take another sip of my whiskey to stop myself from kissing you. I sigh against the burn of the liquor.
“What happened to your friend?”
“My friend?” you ask.
“The beef head you were getting cozy with a minute ago.”
“Oh, him.” You scoff. “Yeah, he is not my friend.”
“Is that so?”
You’ve never been good at picking guys, Stephanie. I don’t think you’d argue with me about that. Your first boyfriend, Blake, was a douche bag of epic proportions, and I’d still like to punch his balls back up inside his body for all the shit he put you through. Then it was a series of men who treated you like dirt. Each time you came home with a new bruise, your brother would go out hunting for blood, and my heart would break a little bit each time.
But the way you tell me that dude whose arm you were caressing is not your friend makes me hopeful that you’ve turned a bit of a corner. That you’ve finally been able to sort out the right ones from the wrong ones.
“I only came out tonight to get some shit off of my mind, if you know what I mean,” you say, not making eye contact with me.
I’m not entirely sure what you mean, actually. If you mean fucking something off your mind then, yes, I know precisely what you mean. Anything else and I’m lost.
“Maybe you could elaborate,” I say.
“My friend Misty came out with me tonight,” you say with a sigh that makes your whole body heave. “She planned to do the usual wing-woman shit. But what a shit wing-woman she turned out to be. Making out with some tourist I’d been flirting with while I went to the bathroom in the first bar we went to. Being hell-bent on screwing this guy whose friend, the beef head, wasn’t on the market. Even though it took him until Misty and his buddy left and I asked him if he wanted to get out of here, too, to tell me he was engaged. Fuck’s sake, why am I telling you all of this? I’m sure I’ve only ever been your best friend’s annoying little sister. You don’t want to hear this shit.”
“I’ve seen you as many things, Stephanie, but never as my friend’s annoying sister,” I tell you, boldly dropping my palm onto your bony hip. And at this point I just can’t fucking help it—I lean in. My lips sifting through your hair to get to your ear. My semi-hard pressing slightly into your leg as I bring my knees to rest on either side of your tiny body. Your breath hitches the moment you realize what’s touching you. But you don’t jolt away. You don’t push me back. “I can help, you know.”
