Mama’s Boy by Avery Flynn

Chapter Twelve

Fiona

By the time Fiona got to the bottom of the stairs, her breathing was back to normal.

No one should look that good in a sweater. Did they make worn cable-knit that clung to a man’s broad shoulders just for the purpose of giving a woman a lust-induced heart attack? Really, it was rude to make a person look and set to memory and—

Girl! Reminder that your judgment sucks. If you think someone is hot, that’s the biggest sign to run the fuck away.

True story, which is why she wasn’t here to ogle hard chests wrapped in soft knits. No. She was the worst date possible and that was that.

Easy peasy.

No problemo.

This was just a walk in the park for chocolate mint gelato.

Then Dixon put his hand on the small of her back as they walked through the crowded platform toward the end of the train. There wasn’t any pressure, none of that patriarchal bullshit of gentle pushing one way or another. In fact, the contact was so light that she should have barely felt his touch at all. If only that was the case. Instead, she could feel the outline of every one of his fingers and thumb, which sent a sizzling thrill through her and scrambled her brain.

Have you no self-control?

She exhaled as she pulled up the memory of exactly how the rainwater squishing between her toes felt and how the wet hair slicked to her cheek made her skin itch after the time she’d run through the mother of all thunderstorms to make her appointment with Dixon on time only to be stood up. Again. Dixon Beckett was an asshole. Yes, that meant he was her type, but she wasn’t going to act on it. She was changing her ways. She wouldn’t be fooled again into thinking the bad guy was a good one. And she most definitely wouldn’t fall for the bad guy. Again. One Chad was enough, and Dixon was like a Chad but rich. He was a jerk. The enemy. She was a hard-ass. End of story.

He stopped at the end of the platform. “Here we are.”

So distracted by her bad taste in men, she didn’t even notice they were standing in front of something that looked like it was out of a movie. Instead of the usual silver, the train car was painted a midnight blue with a wine-colored door and a stained-glass window that took up most of the top half.

“What is this?”

Dixon slid open the door, then stepped back so she could go in first. “Grandma’s special train car.”

Imitation gas sconces flickered just inside the doorway, illuminating rich brocade wallpaper in jewel tones that plastered an enclosed small foyer. She stepped onto the train, and the rest of the world just sort of faded away. The air was cool without any whir of an air conditioner. The murmur of voices could be heard through the partially shut door leading to the rest of the train car. At any moment, Jack Nicholson from that Roaring Twenties black-and-white photo from The Shining could pop out and ask her if she wanted to take a swim in a Rhode Island divorcée’s champagne-filled pool—and she’d say yes.

“It’s incredible.”

Dixon chuckled. “Just wait until you see Gable House.” Then his smile flattened. “There’s one more thing. My cousins, well…it’s a long story. They just expect me to…well, to fall in love at first sight and…if you could play along…for the experiment, well…” He trailed off, looking at the inlaid wood ceiling as if trying to find an explanation up there.

“Are you serious?” she asked with a laugh. As if.

He just nodded.

This was the weirdest thing she’d ever heard, but a deal was a deal and she wasn’t doing this for shits and giggles. This was about Nana Hartigan. Women didn’t stop having dreams after retirement, and Fiona would do whatever it took to make sure Nana got her chance.

“Fine, I’ll play along—within reason,” she said as she opened the door and started inside the main part of the train car.

“Hold up.” A muscle-bound guy in a black T-shirt stepped in front of them before they could enter, crossing his tattoo-covered arms over his chest and jerking his chin upward. “You missed something.”

Dread pooling in her belly, Fiona glanced upward. A small dark-green bundle of mistletoe hung from the doorframe—a little early for the holidays, if you asked her.

“Nash?” Dixon asked, the name coming out as more of a curse than a question.

The other guy shrugged. “Who else?”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Dixon said.

The big guy grinned. “You know that line is long.”

Dixon let out a whole-body sigh that did not tug on Fiona’s empathetic heartstrings at all. Okay, it did a little bit. She was weak and made poor life choices—that was a total recipe for disaster when it came to watching someone have to tell a family member that they were not going to give in to antiquated traditions.

“I’m sorry,” he said, giving her a tight smile. “But do you mind?”

Wait, what? “You’re not serious.”

“My cousins are really serious about their challenges.”

“What happens if I say no?”

“We lose,” he said, his tone careful, too careful, as if he’d go along with what she chose, but losing was going to feel like having a toenail ripped off by a lawn mower.

One kiss from a man she couldn’t stand who thought she was the worst date ever. Really, what did it matter? It didn’t. Still, with her track record, saying no was pretty much the safest option. That’s when the Hartigan stubborn Irish gene pool kicked in. As the fifth of seven kids, she knew all too well about these family competitions.

“Fine,” she said, mentally calling herself every word for jerk she knew. “Whatever.”

She tilted her chin up, her heart beating so loud, she was surprised that everyone in Harbor City wasn’t looking at one another wondering what in the fuck that thump-thump noise was. This close, she couldn’t help but notice the little slivers of green in his dark eyes, the few strands of gray starting to appear in the scruff along his square jaw, and the way his full lips curled up in a teasing grin.

“I promise not to bite,” he said.

She let out a mock-disappointed sigh. “How very proper of you.”

He leaned closer.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

Her lips parted just the slightest bit.

Her heart nearly leaped out of her chest and—he kissed the tip of her nose with a peck so quick, it was as if she’d imagined it.

She blinked her eyes open, trying to focus her gaze and her thoughts. Dixon was already walking into what looked like an ornate old-timey living room complete with velvet settees, more faux gas lanterns, and a kissing chair. Her fingers went to her un-kissed lips, and the urge to file a complaint with whoever was in charge of mistletoe traditions had her cheeks burning. He’d kissed her nose. Her nose! As if she were a child or a distant relative or…or…or a pet! The nerve of the man, the straight-up privileged, mediocre, rich-white-dude gall of it all. It wasn’t like she’d wanted to kiss him. There were just rules, that was all. Everyone knew that.

“Disappointed?” asked the burly man who had to be one of Dixon’s cousins.

Fiona narrowed her gaze, summoning up her sister Fallon’s natural drop-dead tone. “One hundred percent relieved.”

“Huh.” He stroked his chin with a tattoo-covered hand.

What was it with these Beckett men? They were utterly unbearable, the whole lot of them.

The train chugged forward, pulling out of the station, as she made her way toward an empty settee, determined to listen to her inner Fallon—the one who took no shit from anyone and never picked the wrong guy to lust after—rather than her inner Fiona, who always made every bad decision twice if not three times.

What did she care if Dixon kissed her on the nose? She didn’t. Not one bit. Not one itty-bitty, teeny-weeny bit.

Damn, she was a shitty liar.