by Lucy Score
“Oh, my God, Mom! How did you know?”
“There are no pictures in the house, no toys, no crib, and Elvira thought the linen closet upstairs was the bathroom before she opened the door.”
“Does Dad know?”
“Sweetie, you know your father doesn’t notice anything that isn’t a direct male threat to his daughters.”
“Are you going to tell him?” Phoebe asked in a bare whisper.
“Did I tell him about the time you skipped school to go to the Bangles concert?”
“No.”
“How about the time I caught you and Rudy Walther making out in his dad’s Camaro in our driveway?”
Phoebe cringed. “No, and I’m officially sorry for every terrible teenage thing I ever put you through.”
“Then I’m not going to tell him about this either.”
Phoebe wrapped her mom in a hug. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too, sweetheart. So, are you sleeping with John?”
“What? Mom! No!”
“Well, why not?” Diane asked, sneaking a look at John who was laughing over beer with Phoebe’s father. “He’s way better looking than Rudy Walther.”
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John was relieved when the last guests left at eight, the benefit of hosting an event on a Sunday in a farming town. If they’d done this on a Saturday, people would have stayed until dawn.
He and Phoebe worked silently through the cleanup, and he could feel her waiting for him to bring up her parents’ surprise visit. She’d lied right to his face the day he met her, which, to his thinking, evened the score for his less than receptive welcome of her.
All her big talk about honesty and communication… He was enjoying finally being able to hold something over her head, and it was driving her nuts, judging by the confounded looks she kept sneaking his way.
He went up to shower, giving her a few more minutes to stew over her own deceit. And when he came back downstairs, she was at her typewriter, fingers flying over the keys. He slid his notebook paper out of the drawer, grabbed a ballpoint pen from the cup on the counter, and settled in across the table from her.
She raised her gaze, and he saw worried eyes behind the sexy red frames of her glasses.
Ignoring her, he set to writing. The tension pumping off of her was palpable, and he enjoyed it so much he thought about not saying a word until morning.
But she broke first. “Are you doing homework?” she asked, shoving her glasses up her nose.
He didn’t bother looking up. “Something like that.”
“We’re not back to those answers again, are we?” Phoebe groaned.
John put his pen down and studied her. “It’s something I do sometimes to unwind.”
“What is?” she pressed.
“I write.”
Now he had her full attention. He could feel her guilt over the lie move to the back of her mind, crowded out by curiosity. “Write what?” She leaned forward in her chair trying to see his paper over her mammoth machine.
“Just stuff,” he shrugged. “Like what happens during the day.”
“Like a journal?”
“This feels like badgering.”
She held up her hands in peace. “Sorry. Just forget I’m here. Go back to what you were doing.”
He picked up his pen and sighed. “I can feel you staring at me.”
“What are you writing about?” she asked in a stage whisper.
“You sure you’re not from around here? You have the nosiness nailed.”
“Come on! Tell me.”
“I’m writing about what a big fat liar my grad student is.”
“Damn it! I knew you were going to throw it in my face,” she screeched.
“Are you even in grad school, or was that another lie? Is your first name really Allen?”
“You would have sent me home if I told you the truth!”
“You’re damn right I would. And I can’t wait for you to have a kid that uses that excuse on you so you can hear how ridiculous it is.”
“You know I needed this.”
“Enough to lie to my face and then beg for my help when your big fat lie blew up in your face.”
She put her head down on the table. “Things were so much easier when you were the one wrong about everything.”
“You know what’s funny?” he asked, savoring the upper hand for once. You’re all ‘female empowerment’ until daddy shows up, and then you revert to a twelve-year-old.”
“Force of habit. The man grounded me for two weeks when I was sixteen because my best friend got caught sneaking a boy into her basement to play seven minutes in heaven. I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to chase off Melvin yet.”
“You’re an adult,” he reminded her. “Don’t you think it’s childish and manipulative to still be lying to get your way?” It was like poking a hysterical bear.
“You do not understand what it’s like to grow up with disappointing your parents being the worst punishment available.”
Yeah, he did. But that’s what good parents did.
“You lied to your parents, you lied to me, and then you forced me to cover for you.” He shook his head. “I’m disappointed in you, Phoebe.”
She groaned, looking to the ceiling as if wishing for divine intervention. When none came, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry for lying to you and making you pretend to be married to Elvira and stealing children. Happy?”
He grinned. “Yeah. I’m pretty happy.”
“You’re the worst person to apologize to,” she grumbled.
“I’m sure it’s just the first of many times,” John said cheerfully. “You’ll get better at it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Mrs. Nordemann had gotten to her. Scared the hell out of her to the point that she was dreaming about the woman reciting the virtues of marriage. It had taken the fun out of her game, and Phoebe had put the brakes on her full court press of John, retreating into a sulky silence.
She’d been certain that she and John could survive a roll in the hay with their hearts intact, but if there was even the slightest chance that he could start eyeing her up as the future Mrs. John Pierce making her hurt the man who had opened his home to her and done his best to help her with her thesis? Well, then it was better to stay fully clothed and far, far away from him.
Unfortunately, her sudden reversal appeared to have piqued John’s curiosity.
He was asking her half a dozen times a day if she was okay, and she’d caught him sneaking up on her to check on her. She assured him brightly that everything was just fine and he had nothing to worry about and then promptly went back to pretending he didn’t exist.
Ironically, she’d made it to John’s 4th of July deadline without a whisper of trouble. He apparently hadn’t decided to send her home. He seemed to have finally accepted her ability to do pretty much anything on the farm that he asked.
With Murdock tagging along, they worked through the humidity of the morning and into the afternoon, checking crops, painting the north side of the barn, and now setting posts for a new fence line. Melanie would soon have a second pasture all to herself unless John fell for another homeless farm friend.
Phoebe took a slug of water and watched John swing the sledge hammer effortlessly down onto the last post, settling it into the gravel-filled hole. He was shirtless and slicked with sweat and not making her new resolution not to try to tempt him into bed any easier. She turned her back on him to stare out over the green that rolled out in all directions. She’d gotten to know part of his land these past few weeks.
She knew there was a creek carving through John’s property just over the ridge, a pretty little bluff that provided a panoramic view of valley and fields. She’d captured that old stone barn from every angle in Polaroids. She shaded her hand with her eyes, studying the short stalks in their t
idy corn field rows.
“Knee high by the 4th of July,” she murmured to herself, remembering with a smile her grandfather quoting the adage every year.
“What’s that?” John asked, swiping the jug of water from her and helping himself.
“Nothing.”
John sat down on the open tailgate of his truck and sighed, squinting up at the sun. He looked so impossibly male sitting there, coated in sweat from a good day’s work. “Guess we’d better get back to the house. Gotta get cleaned up for the festivities.”
“Festivities?”
“Fourth of July. Picnic and fireworks in the park.”
“We’re going? Together?” she asked.
“You don’t want to miss Blue Moon on the Fourth,” he promised.
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Phoebe could feel the buzz of excitement in town as they made their way toward the park. John had insisted on driving. He claimed her driving was like watching a horror movie. She’d argued with him, but it hadn’t been the first time she’d heard the criticism. Her sister refused to go anywhere with Phoebe if she was driving. But it was just one more reason to stay quiet in his presence. She wasn’t about to engage in another argument with him. That’s when her blood got stirred up.
John stopped three blocks back from the center of town and snagged a parking space. They got out, and he pulled an old quilt from behind his seat.
She looked at the blanket under the arm of a gorgeous man and then up at the darkening sky. The setup had romance written all over it. Was she supposed to snuggle up next to him on a blanket, watching the sky explode and not make out with him? “You know what, maybe I’ll just go.” She pointed back in the direction they’d come.
“Jesus, woman. What is your malfunction?”
Phoebe gaped at him.
“First, I can’t get you to shut up, then I can’t get you to stop flirting with me. Now, you act like I fell in Carson’s manure pit and can’t wait to get away from me.”
This was not the John Pierce she’d met just a few weeks ago, the one who could barely string two words together.
“There’s no malfunction. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to spend so much time together.”
“See? That! That right there.” He pointed his finger in her face. “What’s that? When did that happen?”
“I thought you’d be happy about it,” she said, matching his tone.
“I would be if I knew why you were suddenly clamming up around me. It makes me nervous, like you’re plotting something.”
“I’m not plotting anything. I’m just staying out of your way and not trying to get in your pants anymore!”
“Why the hell not? What changed?”
“Does it matter? I thought you wanted me to stay out of your pants!”
They were drawing a small, snickering crowd on the sidewalk, and John grabbed her hand and started dragging her toward the park. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t care. But you’re not missing these fireworks even if you are exasperating and annoying.”
He kept his grip on her hand, and she was glad for it when they got to the park. It appeared that the whole town had turned out. They wove their way in and out of blankets and people, dodging Frisbees and fast-footed toddlers.
John towed her over to a copse of trees next to the gazebo where a ’60s cover band was warming up the crowd with the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations.” Michael, Elvira, and Bobby were sharing a pink blanket and a huge pizza.
“About time,” Bobby complained. “I had to slap this one’s hands away from your slices.” She shot an accusatory look in Michael’s direction.
“John gets crabby when I touch his stuff,” Michael said with a long, slow wink in Phoebe’s direction.
Elvira elbowed him in the gut. “Behave.”
“Listen to my wife. She’s very wise,” John quipped.
“We’re newlyweds.” Elvira batted her eyes. “He thinks everything I do is adorable and perfect.”
Everyone but Phoebe laughed. The joke was at her expense, of course. She’d begged John and Elvira to cover for her, pushing them into a fake marriage. But the idea of them actually being together wasn’t funny to her. In fact, it made her feel a little sick to her stomach.
She pressed a hand to her stomach trying to will the feeling away. This damn man and his damn town had her so confused she didn’t know which way was up.
“You okay there, Phoebe?” Bobby asked, handing her a slice of pizza on a paper plate.
“She’s not feeling herself today,” John said, cracking open a beer. Phoebe picked up on the undercurrent of annoyance in his tone.
“This will make you feel better,” Elvira promised, handing Phoebe a plastic cup. “Spiked lemonade. The best of childhood and adulthood in one cup.”
Phoebe sat and ate and drank. The grass in front of the gazebo had been cleared for dancing. Most of the dancers, she noted, were barefoot, and there was no age limit. Multiple generations hot footed it around with their sweethearts.
She did her best to smile even though she felt a headache brewing. It was because of this stupid roller coaster of attraction and a thousand solid reasons not to act on it. The marital jokes continued as did her bad mood.
No one likes a holiday downer, she reminded herself. She needed to get a hold of herself and enjoy the festivities of her only Fourth of July in Blue Moon.
“Since these two are old and married,” Michael said, nodding toward John and Elvira. “What do you say you take a turn on the dance floor with me?”
Phoebe saw John’s expression turn mutinous. “I’d love to.” Her smile wasn’t forced this time.
Michael gallantly pulled her to her feet, and they picked their way over and around picnickers to get to the band. “I can feel him staring daggers at me,” Michael said, grinning down at her unperturbed.
Phoebe shook her head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever understand male friendships.”
Michael slid his hands around her waist, and she held her breath, waiting for even the slightest spark. A brush of John’s hand, and she trembled like her knees had earthquakes. A slow dance with the equally handsome and even more charming Michael? Nada. Life just wasn’t fair.
“It’s how we show our love for each other. By being dicks.”
Phoebe laughed and noticed when Michael’s gaze wandered to the edge of the dance floor. She followed it to Hazel Garfunkle. Hazel was out of uniform tonight. She wore shorts and a tank top and her blonde hair loosely braided under a stars and stripes bandana. She was laughing at something Bruce Oakleigh was saying to her.
Phoebe gave Michael a pinch. “Why don’t you ask her to dance?”
“Who?” he frowned.
“Duh. Hazel. The woman you’re always sneaking peeks at.”
“I don’t sneak peeks,” he argued.
“Okay. The woman you slobber after. Ask her to dance.”
“She’d just say no.”
“Give her a reason to say yes.”
He looked thoughtful. “Like what?”
“Tell her your biggest regret in life is that she turned you down for prom and that she owes you a dance.”
Michael snorted. “Like that would actually work.” He glanced in Hazel’s direction again. “It wouldn’t, would it?”
“Women like honest, and they like to know they matter. You don’t have to dress it up.”
“Mind if I cut in?”
Michael twirled her around so she was facing a grumpy looking John.
“Dude, if you can’t slap a smile on your face, someone’s going to slip you a special brownie,” Michael warned him.
“Go away, Cardona.”
“I got something to do anyway,” Michael said, his gaze already on his target.
“Good luck,” Phoebe called after him.
John slid his hands around her waist, and Phoebe instantly felt the frisson of energy at his touch. Why did it have to be him that m
ade her feel this way? Why couldn’t it be someone else in another couple of years when and where she was ready?
“Why aren’t you dancing with your fake wife?” Phoebe snipped, hoping for at least some emotional distance.
“Is that jealousy I hear?” John asked, looking more amused than annoyed. It only pissed her off even more.
“You and this whole damn town have me all twisted up!”
“Me? What did I do?” he demanded.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You say you’re attracted to me, which puts thoughts—nice steamy ones—in my head. Then you don’t want to jeopardize our ‘working relationship,’ which just makes me want you more because I can’t have you. And then Mrs. Nordemann swoops in like a damn vulture and tries to convince me to marry you since you’re all ready to settle down! So now sex is definitely off the table. But that doesn’t stop me from not liking it when you flirt with other women.”
John dipped her with more abruptness than finesse. “You’re an intriguing woman, Phoebe Allen.”
She held on tight around his neck. “Damn it, John.”
“You really think that if I had sex with you, I’d be so overcome with desire that I’d have to marry you?”
When he put it like that, it sounded stupid. Really stupid. But she wasn’t imagining the chemistry. That moment in the kitchen, the haircut, hell, right now her skin was burning up everywhere he touched her.
John pulled her upright and into him, fitting her body against his as they moved to the beat.
“Don’t look at me like that, John.”
“Like what?”
“Like you think I’m insane. Mrs. Nordemann—”
“Jillian Nordemann is a manipulative, string-pulling, pot-stirring, pain in my ass.”
“I’ll drink to that,” a cheerful drunken hippie stumbled past them, raising his flask to John.
“She thinks I should marry you and move here.” She worried her lower lip with her teeth.
“Is that why you’ve been acting like a weirdo since the picnic?” John asked.