Not Over Yet: Hot Under Her Collar, #2

By Amber Belldene

Some people aren't meant to have it all...

Three years ago, nanny Lily Yee enjoyed a passionate fling with her boss, the recently divorced and extremely eligible Eric Roche. Then the sexy surfer/CEO wanted more than she could give, and she fled to pursue her one true calling—the priesthood. 

Eric learned how to love from Lily and wanted to build a happy family with her. But she walked away without explanation, leaving him angry, confused, and…fine, he'll admit it, occasionally a little desperate for her.

When a crisis in her church leads Lily back into Eric's arms, his heart calls to her as strongly as the priesthood. He'll do anything to win her back, but she knows she's not cut out to juggle a family and a career. She needs to let him go again soon, but she can't deny they're not over yet. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amber Belldene
• Release date: Jul 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533786203

Amber Belldene

Amber Belldene is always reading racy books at the most inappropriate times and has been observed ogling her Kindle in the church parking lot. Even as a kid, she hid novels inside the service bulletin to read during sermons, an irony that is not lost on her when she preaches these days. Amber is a romance writer and Episcopal priest who believes sexuality is vital to spirituality, love is beautifully messy, and stories are the best way to explore human truths. Evidence of these convictions can be found in Amber's steamy paranormals and quirky, hot contemporaries. She lives with her husband and two children in San Francisco. For news of Amber’s latest releases, deleted scenes, and fun free reads, sign up for her newsletter! Amber loves to hear from readers on Twitter and Facebook.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

If Lily was brave enough to eat mystery casseroles at parish potlucks and face off with bridezillas who wanted to decorate her church like a high school prom, then—damn it—she could summon the courage to ring his doorbell.

She hovered at the foot of the porch stairs, stomach somersaulting. The white columns of the mansion rose up out of the brilliant green lawn, looming over her like silent sentinels. Shutters still ominously black, stucco still creamy beige—his home hadn’t changed much in three years. The shouts and tears from the bitter day when she’d panicked and run away echoed in her memory, threatening to chase her off again.

She’d sworn she wouldn’t return to her former home or seek him out until the pain of his loss had faded. But she had no choice. Her mother needed her help, the kind only he could provide.

A light came on inside the entryway. She jerked and took a step back.

She’d emailed to ask him if she could come. Of course, he’d replied, without betraying any surprise at her request even after the long years of silence.

Knees wobbling, she mounted the three steps to the glossy black door. He opened it before she knocked.

Eric—his gray eyes bright and wary, his strong jaw set.

The sight of him split her open, grief and unwelcome excitement spilling out of her like offal from a gutted pig, a vision she’d never forgotten since her dad had taught her to butcher one behind the Lucky Jade Kitchen. Her stomach churned. Dad’s restaurant had been closed for ten months, since he’d grown too weak to work. Now he would never go back.

She inhaled, forcing the feelings to slow and pass through her consciousness single file.

A thin line appeared between his dark brows. Are you okay?

Fine. The sound of his low, smooth voice melted over her, too familiar. She plastered on her professional, priestly smile.

He gripped the top of the doorframe and leaned forward. A stranger might have thought he barred her entrance, but she knew he was taking her in, inch by inch. She held her breath.

He reached her eyes, his expression flat. You look great.

Stupidly, she’d taken pains to look her best, but she’d also worn her clerical collar. Armor in the form of a white plastic band, one and a half inches high. A reminder of the choice she’d made three years ago.

She swallowed the ball of nerves in her throat. Thanks. You…

Well, he didn’t look great, with those pouches under his eyes and his cheeks gaunt. But still, his square-jawed good looks quickened her breath like always, like no other man. A white, nickel-sized birthmark at the hairline of his temple marred his perfect, movie-star appearance. From it, a patch of his normally dark hair grew white and coarse, and she’d loved to rub it between her fingers, the intriguing flaw so like those purposely woven into Persian rugs to symbolize that only God is perfect.

She stared too long, the familiar attraction between them arcing across the distance. With it came a pounding in her heart and a tightening of her chest. He glanced away, looking past her to the street.

She followed his gaze to a black sedan with tinted windows, dark and shiny. Who’s that?

Don’t know. His gaze remained trained on the car.

She stole the chance to admire his smoky gray irises, ringed in a blue so dark it was nearly black. And around one socket—was that a black eye?

What happened? Her fingers were on his face in an instant, presuming the intimacy to touch and soothe in spite of all the space and time she’d put between them. Doing so had been a necessity. She withdrew her hand and shoved it into a pocket to quell the urge to rub at the ache in her chest, or to keep stroking all his hot skin.

Wincing, he traced his fingers over the bruise she’d just caressed, keeping his gaze on the black car. The engine revved, and it drove away.

Eric returned his focus to her and she leaned in. I got in a fist fight over a wave.

Figured. Eric’s competitiveness could all too quickly trigger his temper—she’d learned early on never to challenge him to a game of Scrabble. But still, he surfed nearly every day. To throw punches over a crowded wave probably meant stress was eating away at his sometimes-fragile self-control.

For a moment, her worries vanished. Is something wrong?

No. His steely expression practically glinted in the foggy San Francisco twilight.

Right. Of course his life continued, with the inevitable ups and downs she’d chosen to know nothing about. Her heart had no business squeezing itself into an irregular beat.

Why did you come? He crossed his arms, one thick shoulder seeming to hold up the doorframe.

For old times’ sake, she longed to see one of his rare smiles that thoroughly crinkled his eyes and showed all his neat, white teeth.

You said if I ever needed anything…?

I did. He exhaled, and seemed to soften at the thought she might need him.

She took a deep breath and forced out the words. I need to borrow nineteen thousand dollars.

A single rapid blink. She’d surprised him. He stepped aside and swept out his arm. Come in, then, and you can tell me why.

She’d lived in this house for two years, au pair to the newly divorced Eric Roche, CEO of a booming logistics company. After they’d become lovers, the place had started to feel like her home too. But her long absence rendered it almost as strange as on her first visit, except the yoga mat she’d bought him was on the floor where a coffee table used to be. Had he brought it out as a prop for her benefit? No—it was worn thin and dingy at the top, center, and bottom.

I should buy him a new one.

She squashed the thought. The man could buy his own damn yoga mat.

Are the girls in bed? A surprising urge crawled up Lily’s throat, to run upstairs and find his daughters. It gripped her so hard she stumbled. Addie and Abigail would be so much bigger and more grown up. She’d fled from them as much as him and foolishly failed to anticipate this compulsion to see them. With a slow exhalation, she tried to set the emotion free, but it dug in deep and aching.

No. They’re at their mother’s.

His answer loosened the hold of the unexpected need to hug them.

Eric walked behind her, and his curt tone made her want to turn, to examine him, to ask again what was wrong.

But she had no right to do any of those things. Oh.

Tuesday had never been Cynthia’s night, but things changed in three years. Some things, anyway. In the kitchen, his ritual objects were laid out on the counter—the cocktail shaker and a tall blue bottle of gin. He went straight to it, dropped ice cubes from the freezer into the metal canister, then plucked a gourmet green olive from a long, narrow jar and dropped it into the conical glass.

Want one?

One dirty gin martini every night after he read Addie and Abigail a bedtime story or three—he never could say no to one more book—and then tucked them in.

When he shook the cocktail, Lily’s mouth watered like one of Pavlov’s dogs. How many cocktails had she shared with him here? Nearly every night for a year made it easily three hundred.

I don’t drink those anymore.

Ah. His thick, dark brows rose, as if her not drinking martinis was as significant as if she’d kept their happy hour routine. Smug jerk. Then it must be some other vice that has you needing nearly twenty grand? He poured the slightly yellow liquid into the tall, stemmed glass.

She inhaled a breath, steeling herself. Once she explained, he might very well move around the counter to hold her and offer comfort. No one had hugged her in ages, and it would take a good measure of strength to resist the comfort, the thrill of his powerful arms cradling her. Best to spit everything out at once, leave him no chance to show sympathy. She looked just past his shoulder, fixating on the starburst pattern in one of the silver cabinet knobs.

My dad died four months ago and left my mom with an enormous credit card bill. Twenty-two thousand, with an astronomical interest rate. She’s got enough to pay the mortgage, the utilities, but that’s it. The house is her retirement plan.

Not that much money to a man like him, but to a recent seminary grad with sixty thousand in student loans and her working class mom, quite a lot. Even Mom’s house in the small central California town where Lily grew up would only be worth the smallest closet in Eric’s Pacific Heights mansion.

She forced her gaze from the cabinet knob to meet his eye. I’ll pay you back as fast as I can.

He gripped the countertop and his nostrils flared as if he strained against the powerful force still pulling them together and promising solace in one another’s arms. God knew the promise tempted her. The rhythm of her breath tripped. Oh, God—the desire to throw herself into his barely restrained embrace almost overpowered her. He raised his brows and lowered his hands to hover inches away from his sides. A half-invitation—Come here.

Her body responded to his unspoken words out of habit, her messy grief and reluctance to see him turning into pure, raw want. It pulsed through her, seemed to slow down time. But she’d expected this. She placed her purse on a stool, then her butt on another, and settled in with the expanse of granite countertop between them.

He shuttered his eyes and took long breaths through his nose. Then he took a sip, watching her over his glass. A queasy feeling squished up into her throat. He hadn’t said yes to her request. Maybe she’d guessed wrong. Maybe it was too much to ask of him.

He set down his glass. I don’t suppose she can refinance the debt?

Not with her criminal record…

What a bullshit charge. Any good lawyer could have that expunged—

Any good lawyer costs more than we can afford.

He nodded, his jaw hard. You said nineteen?

I have three.

He spun and marched out of the kitchen and down the hall leading to his office. The door squawked opened. It used to simply squeak. He must have used up the four-pack of WD-40 she’d bought him.

Eric returned with a checkbook and tore out two checks.

Why two?

Smaller amounts for you and your mom are small enough to count as gifts, not capital gains to the IRS. He wrote out separate checks, each for eleven thousand dollars.

Damn it. Just nineteen. Typical Eric, hiding his failure to listen to her wants and needs behind extravagant generosity.

Let me do this, Lily. Beneath the demand’s surface hid a plea.

Accepting more than she needed would destabilize her carefully constructed defense against him, make her even more dependent, and more vulnerable to the chaos of her feelings, The competing longings she’d had to untangle three years ago threatened to knot themselves up again. But she’d made her choice to become a priest instead of his wife and a stepmother to his girls. Some amazing women could be all of those things with aplomb, but God had not graced Lily with the gift to juggle such precious, weighty callings.

Once she’d left him for seminary, the frightening confusion over her future had passed and freed her to peacefully pursue her vocation.

Listen, Eric, you know I won’t feel okay about accepting your help if I don’t contribute the savings I have.

He stared her down, as if testing whether she really meant it. But surely, after everything, he knew her well enough to be certain.

Come on. It was— she sucked in a quick breath, —hard to come here. Can you leave me with some dignity?

He kept staring. Her appeal was probably useless. He’d always wanted to coddle her, keep her, been willing to ignore her calling in the hope she would stick around and care for his family indefinitely. So, if he insisted on giving her more money, should she take it?

Fine. Nineteen it is. He scribbled VOID over one of the checks and wrote out another pair to total the amount she’d asked for. And now you do me a favor.

What’s that?

Would he ask for a second chance? Revisiting her choice would hurt like hell, yet some part of her hungered to hear he still wanted her.

He held the light blue checks up lengthwise. No one can know where you got this money.

Oh.

On each, in the place reserved for a name and address, ran a string of numbers, like he’d written a check from some secret reserve. Of course, Eric Roche would have a Swiss bank account, or Bitcoins, or some other fast, efficient way of moving money around. Between surfing every morning and reading bedtime stories to his girls, he ran a massive logistics company, R3PL, which managed some ever-increasing percentage of the world’s container shipping and placed him in those economic upper echelons her immigrant parents could hardly even imagine.

Of course. Who would I tell?

There’s someone who’d like to know. His mouth pressed into a grim line as he took a sip of his martini.

It could only be his volatile ex-wife. But things had settled down with Cynthia three years ago. Had they escalated again?

The questions queued up on her tongue, but if she asked them, she might cross the dangerous line into their old intimacy. Better not to pry. I’ll be forever grateful for this, Eric.

A small, resigned smile warmed his expression. I’m glad you knew I meant it when I said I’d be here for you, whatever you need.

It had been the most openhanded, generous thing anyone had ever said to her, and offered even after he’d known she’d decided to leave. It had meant the world. And the intensity of his gaze as he reminded her of it brought a lump to her throat and heat to her skin from head to toe.

I did… do. But I hope you understand, I can’t see you again after this. It was just too hard being there—the easy intimacy, the attraction—it made her forget herself.

His handsome features remained stolid. Of course. That’s certainly best for the girls.

Had they missed her? She’d changed her phone number and email so he couldn’t contact her, or tempt her.

I’ll drop cash off in your mail slot to pay you back.

She braced herself, expecting him to tell her to consider it a gift, but then he closed his lips tight. Maybe he’d finally figured out she didn’t like him taking care of her.

His phone rang, and he slid it from his pocket, his face lighting up as he pressed it to his ear. Michelle, hi. I was hoping you’d call today.

Lily’s insides chilled. Who the heck was Michelle, and how had she spun his mood a full 180 degrees just by calling? Eric hated talking on the phone.

Looking away from Lily, he took a sip of his drink with smiling lips. Yeah. Thursday would be great. Eight?

He was grinning and making a date right in front of her. Suddenly, her silly, fluttering wishes he would still want her felt girlish and desperate. Of course he’d moved on. He was incredibly eligible. There would be hundreds of women wanting what he had to offer, what she had rejected.

Good. Knowing that would make it easier not to see him again. Not one single morning when she went to her amazing job caring for the good people of St. John’s had she ever regretted being able to give them one hundred percent of her focus. They’d taken a risk on her, and they deserved her all. Eric deserved to be happy, too, and no matter what he might once have thought, she wasn’t the right woman for him.

CHAPTER TWO

In the marble-walled lobby of the San Francisco courthouse, Eric’s lawyer took one look at him and gaped like a salmon on ice. What the hell happened to you?

He’d felt a bit off since Lily had shown up last night, like an old TV with the rabbit ears out of alignment, the occasional bar of static sweeping over him, a grating reminder of the way she’d left him three years ago. Just up and walked away. Their perfect affair could have led to an even more perfect marriage. But no… And he refused to let himself sink back into missing her again.

When she’d moved out of his house, his whole body had ached for weeks, like he’d been steamrollered. Today’s static didn’t compare. He blinked. Surely Rachel Price, Attorney at Law, couldn’t tell his antennae were a little bent.

She jutted her chin, clearly waiting for some sort of explanation.

He turned up his palms.

She huffed. You have a black eye.

Oh, that. Nearly a week old, more yellow than purple by now. Got hit by my surfboard.

Still, not a great impression on a judge empowered to deem you an unfit father.

Shit.

She took hold of his elbow. Come on.

The hearing was in half an hour. He knew better than to argue. She dragged him outside and two blocks down to a Walgreen’s in the basement of a high-rise, where she held various shades of makeup against the back of his hand.

He wanted to refuse, but her lips were pursed tight, her jaw set. She’d taken a personal interest in his case, and he appreciated that. So he would wear makeup, or a goddamn tutu, if she told him to. Anything to keep his girls.

Against the sunny wall of a nearby alley, Rachel applied the stuff—like lipstick but supposedly the color of his skin—to the bruise around his eye socket. He dropped his lids and submitted to her ministrations. No one had cared for him like this since Lily. Her small, strong hands massaging his shoulders after a rough bout of surfing, her sure fingers digging out the knots in his neck, stroking his temples… His cock twitched. He opened his eyes and focused on a clump in Rachel’s otherwise smooth mascara.

There. She capped the makeup. Not a perfect match, but better, and in the chambers’ bad lighting, it should be fine. Hurry.

Back at the courthouse, she went into the ladies’ room to freshen up. He leaned against the opposite wall and scrolled through his work emails on his phone, hoping like hell this was the last of the shit-slinging sessions with his ex-wife. He’d wanted full custody, but with the way Cynthia had slandered him, Rachel had insisted he set his sights on maintaining their current arrangement—fifty-fifty.

The ladies’ room door opened.

Cynthia slithered out in a gray silk suit, her hair as shiny and golden blonde as a shampoo ad in one of her fashion magazines. She was gorgeous, if you didn’t know her. In her heels, she stood as tall as he did. She cocked one sculpted brow in that way which had once felt conspiratorially sexy, and now sent a brittle glaze of ice over him. Her chilly look called up his greatest fear. If she had full custody of Addison and Abby, they’d turn out just like her.

Her eyes slitted, reptilian. Are you wearing makeup?

Goddammit. No, don’t be ridiculous.

Yes, you are. Getting vain in your old age?

We’re the same age. Though he looked every day of thirty-eight, and she didn’t have a crease to show for it, not even a smile line. Probably spending her undeserved alimony on expensive spa treatments, while she earned as much as he did in her new job.

His mind raced, searching for something, anything to distract her from his fading shiner. The worst option would be to bring up the case without their lawyers present. It had to be something harmless.

Ah. He thought of just the thing. How did Addison’s violin lesson go yesterday?

A little crease formed between her brows, and an answering burst of self-righteousness warmed his gut. She didn’t know, because the babysitter she’d hired drove the kids around and put them to bed. Cynthia at best saw them for a hurried breakfast before she left for work. He didn’t ask the girls about it, but at nine, Addison was newly prone to rebellion and voiced all her complaints to him. No doubt, she would do the same thing about him to her mother.

The lesson was fine, although I’d prefer she see a more accomplished teacher. Did you hire the one advertising the lowest rate on Craigslist?

Lily had helped him see the way Cynthia’s every word tossed tinder on his temper. How she seemed to crave his vitriol. Problem was, he still hadn’t mastered putting out the fire. His face grew hot, but he pressed his lips and managed not to argue about the violin teacher’s credentials.

Well, where did you find the woman, Eric? Don’t tell me you’re sleeping with her. Cynthia’s dark eyes widened with feigned innocence, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly.

Eric’s neck prickled under his collar. Christ. Where was his lawyer? Taking a bath in the sink?

He pretended to look at his phone. A woman at church recommended her. The voluptuous violinist wasn’t Eric’s type, and if the passionate kisses she exchanged with the woman who dropped her off for Addison’s lessons were any indication, he wasn’t hers either.

Cynthia emitted a smug, humming harrumph. There was an interesting development at work last week. After he’d fired her from R3PL, she’d taken an executive position in a prominent accounting firm.

Her smile cloyed, so self-satisfied he wanted to turn his back. But clearly she was up to something, and he had to ask. What’s that?

The Episcopal Diocese is a client of ours. A routine audit turned up missing funds.

She’d disdained his involvement at church, in spite of how truly lax his attendance was. Would this be another jab at his halfhearted devotion?

So? I’m sure that happens all the time. Churches are run by volunteers. Hardly the most reliable system. I’m sure it will turn up.

Her smile turned outright menacing, like a predator toying with its prey, which made him the soon-to-be-meal. It was your little whore’s church.

A bright white burst of anger blinded him. Lily was not, and never had been, his whore. Cynthia had been gone for more than a year before they’d begun their affair. From the start, Lily had taken great pains to assure him he wasn’t buying her affection with her wages and had even offered to find a different job to ease his conscience. Of course he’d insisted she remain their nanny—he’d wanted her with him and the girls all the time.

Yet Cynthia had used her sketchy knowledge of their relationship against him at every turn, accusing him of exploiting a young woman in his employment, under the same roof as his daughters.

His fists curled at his sides, and he exhaled with slow control. As I said, I’m sure it will turn up.

She stole my husband and tried to steal my daughters. I have no doubt she also stole this money.

All lies, though sometimes he thought Cynthia believed her own bullshit. She battled him so savagely it only made sense she thought him a monster and Lily too.

Theft was a ridiculous claim, rooted in some kind of misunderstanding. Lily would never steal anything. Still, his stomach descended slowly into his gut. How much money is missing?

Upwards of eighteen K. Not much, but a big slice of the little church’s budget. How sad for them to be robbed blind by a woman they trusted to care for them.

There had to be an explanation. Maybe Lily had taken the money for her mom’s bills, intending to borrow from him to repay it. Or maybe the whole thing was a bizarre coincidence. She didn’t do it.

How do you know? You promised never to see her again. After your shameless conduct with her while our daughters were in the house, I’m still shocked the judge let you see them at all.

God, Cynthia, listen to yourself. For Christ’s sake, she’d cheated on him. On his desk. With his CFO. As if his office security camera provided their only chance to make amateur porn. She’d clearly wanted him to see, but by then, the sight hadn’t even cut. She’d been neither the wife nor mother he’d hoped she would be, and his feelings for her had slowly retreated, inch by inch, like the tide, until nothing attached him to her besides legal battles over their daughters.

Rachel emerged, hair brushed, face powdered, lipstick applied. One glance at Cynthia and her lips formed the word shit several seconds before it reached him on the other side of the palatial, marble-walled hallway. She sped to his side.

Excuse us. She yanked him away from his ex and down the corridor. Did she get to you?

He scanned his body the way Lily had taught him, to notice the places his temper was ramping up so he could calm himself down. It worked sometimes, but on this occasion, Cynthia had played him like a puppeteer. Not that he wanted to admit it to Rachel. He pried his fists open and shrugged, feigning indifference. No more than usual.

"Good,