Chapter 76 76
Lucas returned from his Saturday golf game just after noon, clubs slung over one shoulder, polo shirt damp with sweat, hair tousled from the wind on the course.
He pushed open the master suite door without knocking—expecting the room empty, or at most Blair gone to check on Mave.
Instead, he stopped dead in the doorway.
Blair stood in front of the tall walnut cupboard on the far wall, still wrapped in his oversized white bath towel.
She was on her tiptoes, one leg lifted slightly for balance as she stretched upward, fingers straining toward a shelf near the top.
She was searching through his old duffel bag he kept stored up there—probably looking for something clean to wear since her own clothes were still in the east wing.
She was short. The shelf was high.
The towel—already loosely tucked—slipped.
It gave way in one slow, inevitable slide.
The fabric pooled at her feet.
Blair gasped, arms flailing for balance as her raised leg buckled. She pitched backward, naked, arms windmilling.
Lucas dropped the golf bag. It hit the floor with a heavy thud.
He lunged forward on instinct—two long strides—and caught her just before she hit the hardwood.
Her bare back slammed against his chest.
Her damp skin pressed flush to his damp polo.
One of his arms locked around her waist, the other bracing across her collarbone to steady her.
They froze like that—bodies molded together from chest to thigh, her heartbeat hammering against his ribs, his breath hot against the top of her head.
Neither spoke.
For five full seconds the room was silent except for their breathing.
Then Lucas’s grip tightened—just a fraction—before he exhaled roughly through his nose.
“Phew,” he muttered, voice low . “Everything to get me to touch you.”
Blair stiffened in his arms.
She didn’t push away immediately.
Didn’t cover herself.
Just stood there—naked, pressed against him—while the words hung between them like smoke.
Slowly, she turned her head just enough to meet his eyes over her shoulder.
Her voice came out quiet.
“If I wanted your hands on me, Lucas, I wouldn’t need to fake a fall.”
She reached down—calmly—and tugged the fallen towel up from the floor, wrapping it around herself again.
Lucas released her the second she had hold of the fabric—stepping back like she burned. His hands flexed at his sides, knuckles white.
Blair retucked the towel, chin high, cheeks flushed from more than the hot shower.
She walked past him—close enough that her damp shoulder brushed his arm—picked up her small bag from the chair, and headed for the door.
At the threshold she paused, back to him.
“Next time you want to accuse me of scheming,” she said without turning, “make sure there’s actually a spider first.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Lucas stood alone in the middle of the room—golf bag at his feet, polo clinging to his chest where her wet skin had pressed, heart still pounding too hard.
He dragged a hand down his face.
“Fuck,” he whispered to the empty space.
Then he sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the rumpled sheets that still smelled faintly of her shampoo.
Down the hall, Blair leaned against the closed door for one long second—eyes squeezed shut, towel clutched like armor—before she straightened her spine and went to find her son.
Because no matter how many times Lucas pushed her away,
she wasn’t leaving Mave.
Mave bounced in his booster seat at the head of the table (Eleanor’s doing—grandmothers get special privileges), already in clean pajamas, fork in hand like a tiny conductor. Lucas sat to his right, sleeves rolled up, still in his post-golf polo, quietly cutting Mave’s meat into small pieces.
Blair entered last—hesitant, wearing one of the simple dresses the staff had quietly laid out for her in the east wing.
Clean, modest, hair still slightly damp from the earlier shower. She paused at the threshold, eyes flicking to the empty chair opposite Lucas.
Eleanor looked up from her wine glass, smile warm and genuine.
“Blair, dear. Come sit here.” She gestured to the chair beside Mave. “You’re family now. Welcome to the Brooks table. Properly, this time.”
Blair’s throat worked. She gave a small nod—grateful, guarded—and slipped into the seat. Mave immediately reached over and patted her hand.
“Mommy! Grandma made chocolate cake for dessert!”
Blair managed a soft laugh, squeezing his fingers.
“I can’t wait, baby.”
Across the table, Olivia sat rigid—arms folded tight under her chest, legs crossed, wine glass untouched.
Her eyes were locked on Blair like twin daggers. She hadn’t said a word since Blair walked in, but the silence was louder than any shout.
Eleanor served the first course—salad with warm goat cheese—passing plates down the table with practiced grace.
“So,” Eleanor said lightly, breaking the quiet, “Blair, tell us about Mave’s favorite bedtime stories. He’s been asking for ‘the silly song’ all day.”
Blair glanced at Mave, who was beaming.
“It’s just a little made-up tune I sing when he’s brushing his teeth. Nothing special.”
Olivia let out a small, sharp exhale through her nose.
“Nothing special,” she repeated under her breath, just loud enough to carry. “How modest.”
Lucas’s fork paused mid-air. He didn’t look up, but his jaw tightened.
Olivia continued, voice silky and barbed, directed at no one in particular.
“Some people really know how to make themselves indispensable, don’t they? A song here, a shower there… suddenly they’re everywhere. Must be exhausting, always finding new ways to stay relevant.”
Blair’s hand stilled on her napkin. She kept her eyes on her plate.
Mave folded his small arms across his chest, fork abandoned on the plate, chin jutting out in that stubborn way only five-year-olds can perfect.
“Mommy kiss Daddy,” he announced firmly. “I won’t eat my meal.”
Blair blinked.
Lucas’s fork froze halfway to his mouth.
Mave continued, undeterred.
“All the comics I read, Aiden’s parents kiss before eating. It’s the rule. If they don’t kiss, the food doesn’t taste good. Aiden said so.”
Eleanor pressed her lips together to hide a smile, eyes twinkling as she looked between her son and Blair.
Lucas slowly lowered his fork. He turned his head toward Blair—slowly.
Blair stared down at her plate—roasted lamb suddenly looking like the most fascinating thing in the world. Her cheeks warmed. She let out a long, quiet sigh.
“My lord, Mave…” she murmured, half-exasperated, half-resigned.
Mave didn’t budge. His little arms stayed folded, eyes darting between his parents expectantly.
“Kiss. Or no dinner. For anybody.”
Eleanor cleared her throat delicately.
“Well. Tradition is tradition, apparently.”
Lucas exhaled through his nose—a sound that was half laugh, half surrender. He set his fork down completely and leaned back in his chair, one arm resting casually along the back of Mave’s booster seat.
He looked straight at Blair.
Blair finally lifted her gaze from the plate. Their eyes met across the table—
Blair swallowed.
Then—slowly—she leaned forward, just enough to close the distance over the table corner.
Lucas met her halfway.
The bare minimum required to satisfy a five-year-old’s comic-book logic.
But it happened.
Mave immediately clapped his hands together, beaming like he’d just won the lottery.
“Yay! Now the food will be yummy!”
He grabbed his fork again with renewed enthusiasm and stabbed at a piece of potato.
Blair sat back quickly, cheeks burning, eyes dropping to her lap. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, avoiding Lucas’s gaze.