"He probably wears nice clothes." Julie sighed. "Matt's undercover clothes are so stinky, I make him strip in the garage." Her lips pursed as her gaze caught the dessert menu. "Ooh—cheesecake."
MaryJo waited until she'd flagged down the waiter to order her cheesecake before recapping the remainder of her Friday night adventure with Travis. Forced to hand over the remains of her chicken salad to Alyssa, her friend wolfed it down as though she hadn't already eaten her own lunch.
"So, you spent the night with him?" Julie's eyes sparkled with humor.
Her cheeks heating, she felt the need to clarify. Again. "Not with him- Just . . . at his place. I fell out of his tree, Jules. I was pretty much comatose the whole night."
Alyssa stopped stuffing her face long enough to chime in. "Go back to the part where you were naked. I want to hear that again." Ignoring actual facts, her sister-in-law continued. "And then he came over Saturday night? Nice work," she congratulated. "You're not so rusty at this game, after all."
"Believe me—I'm rusted. Travis . . . his name is Travis," she stalled. "He just wanted to watch the game-"
Alyssa erupted in laughter. "It wasn't the game-"
"You two don't understand," she interrupted. "This was the biggest rivalry game of the season." Despite her deepest desire to believe it had been a date, she was compelled to lower expectations. If Jules and Alyssa believed she was dating Travis, they would start asking awkward questions, or worse, pepper her with suggestions on how to reel him in. The potential for humiliation was high. Why did you bring it up? They could have spent a fun, relaxing lunch catching up. Instead, MaryJo was suddenly pitting out her blouse.
"Mariela—the man came to your house for dinner, he kissed you senseless and then he wanted to sleep with you. I'd say that's pretty much the definition of a date—here on Earth." Alyssa hunted through the bread basket like a wild boar scenting truffles.
"Well, yeah. I guess if you put it that way," she admitted. She'd been hoping for a little guidance. Julie and Lyss knew men like she knew the NCAA brackets. She needed their advice. "But, you know my rules-"
"God, MaryJo-" Jules interrupted. "You've just finished telling us in gushing detail that he's gorgeous and kind. That he has eyes like twinkling stars-"
"I said they were magnetic, blue flames," she corrected.
Jules cracked up. "He took care of you when you fell from his tree," she reminded. "That means you can occasionally relax your rules. The seven-date-rule doesn't apply in this situation."
"How long did you wait before you slept with Matt?"
"That was different," she admitted. "He was holding me hostage." Her cheeks suffused with color. "I had to distract him." Still smiling, she reached for her water glass. "And why is it seven dates? Where did you come up with that random number?"
"Don't change the subject." Her friend was on the ropes. "What was it? Five days, maybe?"
"Yeah—but they were really long days, MaryJo. We were thrown together during his investigation." Julie stabbed her cheesecake for emphasis. "Which just proves my point. We fell in love."
"Teagan and I slept together pretty quick, too." Alyssa's expression suggested she was performing grueling calculations in her head. "But—at the time, I hadn’t figured out I loved him. I was . . . getting back at him for dumping me the first time."
"Revenge sex? I thought that was supposed to be with someone else." MaryJo remained unconvinced. "If you'd waited seven dates, you would've achieved the same results, but maybe you would have . . . felt more . . . sure about them."
"Or I might've been busy when T got around to calling me," Alyssa corrected. "Or he might have been called back to active duty. At that point, he was talking about re-enlisting."
"Matt might have lost my number. You know how disorganized he gets," Jules explained. "Or he could have been assigned an undercover op . . . and I wouldn't have seen him again for months." Licking her fork, she moaned over the bite of cheesecake. "God—this is the best cheesecake I've had in years." When MaryJo rolled her eyes, she sighed. "What I'm trying to say is . . . there's no sure—until you're sure."
MaryJo bit back a groan. She wanted advice, not mumbo-jumbo. "That sounds all philosophical, but it doesn't make sense."
Jules' expression turned serious. "My point is—I was sure about Matt. I was sure by like—the third day. And that was with a killer chasing us and him accusing me of being a drug dealer. My feelings wouldn't have changed two months later . . . by the time we could have coordinated our schedules to have our seven dates. I just knew. And he did, too."
"I'm still skeptical-" When Juliet froze, fork halfway to her mouth, MaryJo startled. "What?" She glanced at Alyssa, who shrugged. "What's wrong?"
"I just realized . . . I never eat cheesecake."
"So—today you did." The suddenly wondrous expression on her face made her skin prickle. What the hell was going on?
"The last time I was orgasmic over cheesecake-" Hand shaking, she set the fork on her plate. "I was . . . pregnant with Tommy."
As her friend mentally calculated the possibility, MaryJo was suffused with happiness. Next to her, Alyssa beamed. It was moments like this that made her so grateful she and Sean had been allowed entry to this tight-knit, loving family. Thanks to Madeline. "So? What's the verdict?"
"I think . . . I might be." Julie's smile was radiant as she reached across the table to squeeze their hands. "Maybe this is hormones talking, Mariela, but I think you should scrap the seven date rule. For once, you need to go with your gut and do what feels right."
"YOU SHOULD'VE CALLED," Travis muttered, tapping the steering wheel. Just because the rescue squad was overstaffed tonight wasn't a good excuse for just dropping by MaryJo's. Uninvited. Yet there he was, two streets away. "This is a mistake," he warned as he made the first turn. He had a ready-made excuse for dropping by. Her hideous frog pants folded neatly on the seat beside him. Still, he hesitated. For one thing, the pajama bottoms were sort of—growing on him. They'd sat on the arm of his couch for the past two days, making him smile when he glanced up from his work. Reminding him of Friday night—when she'd fallen into his life. How much fun it had been to break the dreary routine. Bright, green frogs against a fuzzy, blue background. They were funny. And cheerful. Like MaryJo. The more he thought about it, he sort of . . . didn't want to give them back.
If he stopped there tonight—and he only had one remaining turn to decide—the frog pajamas were his excuse. For being there. Without calling. Because he definitely should have called—to thank her for dinner. To ask her out.
"No. You don't need to see her again." As he made the second turn, Travis winced at the lie. Actually—he wanted to see her again. He'd wanted it since he'd left Saturday night. He just hadn't been able to wrestle that urge to the ground. Yet.
Since escaping his former life, the new one had been anchored to a simple, yet ironclad principle. Never want anything too much. The ability to walk away—was vital. Because the thing—whatever it was—could be denied. Or taken away—as numerous stepfathers had confirmed—once the importance of thing was discovered. Travis always functioned better when he kept his wants under control. He experienced no disappointment if he failed to obtain the desired item. And a moderately pleasant sensation when he did. He liked operating from the middle. Unlike most people, he craved the neutral zone—no arguing. No manipulation. No bargaining or pleading to get what he wanted.
Extremes reminded him too much of growing up in Hell House. Anger. Drama. Need. Hunger. Abuse. He couldn't remember a time in that house when his mother didn't have everyone on the ropes—usually over nothing. He'd hated every moment. He hated remembering it—like he was now. Though he'd vowed never to waste another moment remembering his former life, the pain of that time still seemed to color everything.
"She's probably pissed at you," he admitted. He'd have to be okay with MaryJo's anger. Because he was entirely out of his comfort zone. The women he dated fulfilled a specific purpose. A charity fu
nction. A cocktail party. The occasional dinner. Sex. And not necessarily the same person. The same person smacked of familiarity. It involved getting to know them. Travis preferred his dates to be purpose-driven. Utilitarian. Drinks. Dinner. Sex. Repeat—with someone new.
"Damn it, this is her street." As though his car had made the decision for him. Releasing an uneasy sigh, Travis pulled to the curb in front of her house. Lamp light spilled from the window where she kept her office. Exiting the car, he noticed hers parked neatly in the driveway. Two doors down, a darkened car sat in front of a darkened house, engine running. The glow of a cell phone in the guy's hand as he waited for someone to arrive. Maybe the pizza guy had beaten his client home.
Six-thirty on a Tuesday night. Taking the steps two at a time, he hesitated, his hand poised over the cheerful, yellow door, ready to knock. What was he doing here? Battling the surge of adrenaline suddenly pulsing through him, he lowered his hand. This wasn't like him. He didn't do this. He liked his life exactly as it was. He liked his isolation. He liked knowing-
Light spilled from the foyer when the door jerked open. "Whoa—hey, Travis. Did you just get here? I never heard the doorbell."
Startled by the sudden change to his unformed plan, Travis shook it off. "I didn't get the chance before you opened the door." Ignoring the crazy rush of pleasure—the riot MaryJo's nearness caused to his senses, he regrouped. "Sorry I didn't—call first."
She waved away his apology, her smile welcoming. "No problem, but I'm on my way out the door. I work for my dad on Tuesday nights."
Her scent washed over him, testing his resolve as he tried to focus on her words. But she was long and leggy, dressed from head to toe in a stretchy, black material that had his mind wandering and his eyes gaping. "As what? A cat burglar?"
Her smile widened. "Actually, you're not far off." Nodding over her shoulder, she invited him in. "My dad's a private investigator. I'm working a stakeout tonight."
Travis found his first smile. Hell if he would continue battling this attraction, he decided. She was too damned interesting. "A stakeout? You're going to drive somewhere . . . sit in a car and—watch people?"
"Uh-huh. I help him most Tuesdays," she said, as though he'd asked her about laundry night. "It's sort of our thing," she admitted with a shrug. "Instead of Sunday afternoon pot roast, we get together for stakeouts—and the occasional beer at Charlie's."
He was really starting to like her smile, particularly the one she revealed when she was feeling a little awkward. Though shy, it was contagious. "So, it's a non-traditional relationship."
She grinned. "Exactly. Father-daughter bonding time. Sometimes I work a weekend if he's short-handed and needs to be spelled." Her pretty eyes widening, she paused before the hall mirror and picked up a hair band. "Sometimes it's a little hacking job, but usually it's a stakeout."
"You're a hacker?" Why there weren't alarm bells going off, Travis wasn't quite sure. Maybe it was because he didn't want to think about Tiberius and his software tonight. He'd already committed to playing hooky; he may as well enjoy the hell out of it. Or maybe it was because she was so damned—nice. Watching as she scooped the long, silken mass of midnight hair from her nape, she twisted it up in a ponytail. And damned if he wasn't riveted by the entire process. This woman—was like no one he'd ever met.
In the mirror, her eyes brimmed with friendliness and a hint of curiosity, likely a result of his unexpected presence. Travis didn't want to acknowledge his expression. Being awestruck by a woman was another new experience for him.
"I'm not great," she admitted. "But, when there's no one else to do it, I can bumble my way around a system."
He stepped aside as she led him back to the kitchen. With her back to him, he safely inhaled the intoxicating scent drifting from her swinging ponytail. God, he just wanted—her. To push her gently back against the kitchen wall and press his mouth to the pulse fluttering in her throat. Slowly working his way up to her mouth- What the hell was going on with him?
"So, tell me how this works." Thrusting his mind from the vision of MaryJo, naked and moaning for him, he tried to regain focus on their conversation. "You drive somewhere and sit in your freezing car all night? Spying on some guy cheating on his wife?"
Why was he acting as though he might not be able to keep his hands off her? While MaryJo checked the contents of the cooler on her table, he seized the opportunity to check her out. She looked like a model in her cat suit—except with curves. Amazing, lush curves that sucked the breath from his lungs. Hell, if she'd worn that Saturday night, it might have proven impossible to summon the willpower to leave. Her throat was long and regal in the black turtleneck. But with her hair in a ponytail, she looked twenty instead of a decade older.
"Sometimes it's a divorce," she admitted, her smooth forehead marred by a delicate frown. "But some of his clients are . . . companies. Or governments . . . so, there's usually a little more to a job than just snapping pictures of a lousy husband."
Travis acknowledged the oddest sense of yearning settling in his chest. He should leave. Until he regained his grip on the curious fascination he’d developed for the neighbor. But the thought of spending an evening with her—trapped in her car, watching strangers as they slowly froze to death—was recklessly enticing. Go home, his brain urged. Work on the numerous bugs in the software. He had an unexpected free evening—when he should have been at the fire station all night, waiting for ambulance calls. He could accomplish an enormous amount of work if he just-
"When I'm on a stakeout, I swear I eat twice as much as normal."
"Like camping," he suggested, decision made. He'd head home. Five minutes.
"Maybe it's boredom. But, it means I've packed a huge dinner." MaryJo closed the cooler with a decisive click. "Wanna come with me?"
Chapter 7
Was this a date? MaryJo contained the exultant grin that wanted to break loose. It would be their third. Although technically, the night she fell from his tree shouldn't really count as a date—what with her being unconscious through most of it.
Travis was there—in the seat beside her. For the next several hours, he was hers. She'd been floored to discover him there at the door, fingers clenched as though he were about to knock . . . yet—he hadn't knocked. He'd seemed almost distracted—as though he'd been caught doing something he didn't want to admit.
"Where are we going tonight?" Travis adjusted the passenger seat all the way back. He seemed even taller in her compact car. "Do we need a weapon?"
"Nah, just mace," she teased. Adjusting her headset, she made sure the volume was off on her microphone. "Downtown—to a converted warehouse. There are plenty of bars in the block, so we shouldn't be too conspicuous."
"What kind of case is this? Or can I ask that?"
She checked the contents of her backseat one last time. Being caught without her gear would be disastrous. Her father would read the riot act if she let herself be distracted. "Sometimes I know the whole thing and sometimes I get bits and pieces. Tonight is about a guy who might be taking bribes."
Travis shifted in his seat. "Seriously?"
"His company holds government contracts. Our target has apparently done something that makes the company suspicious he could be selling secrets. They want us to confirm or deny so they don't risk losing the contracts."
Sensing Travis staring at her, she turned. "What?"
"Mariela—this is so cool. It's like living an episode of Law and Order." He smiled. "You just don't look like-"
"The hot babe on the show?" She laughed, enjoying his incredulous expression. For a fleeting moment, Travis looked like a kid with a new toy. "I get that a lot."
"You look incredible," he assured, sending her pulse through the roof. "Maybe you should wear this cat suit on our next date."
A secret thrill shot through her. "I'm not wearing yoga pants on a date . . . unless you're talking about a drive-thru," she protested, laughter bubbling like champagne.
"Deal." His b
eautiful eyes lit up. "Bucket of chicken—a picnic in the park. We can make out on the blanket. I’m all in."
"In February?" Heat flooding her face, she grinned. "That’s not what I meant-" When his eyes glinted with amusement, she paused. "Fine. We have all night to negotiate terms." Pulling away from the curb, she felt a lightness that hadn't been there before. Part of her had forced Travis from her mind, like a gift she was afraid to wish for. As much as she’d wanted to see him again, MaryJo couldn't summon the confidence her friends had. She didn’t have the beautiful, blonde looks. She wasn't petite and adorable. Okay—she was tall, but she sure as hell wasn’t skinny. She wasn’t cute. She was just—her. For too many years, for too many guys—that hadn’t been enough. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to discover someone was attracted to her.
"You sure you're up for this? We probably won't be back until midnight," she warned. "Are you kidding?" His gaze slanting her way, he smiled. "With the exception of the rescue squad, this is the coolest thing I'll do all week."
"How did you start volunteering for the rescue squad? I think it's amazing you donate so much time—for all the training hours and the time you spend at the station. Especially when it sounds as though you have crazy hours at work."
When Travis hesitated, she was again left with the impression he didn't like revealing information about himself. One minute he was charming, funny; flirtatious, even. The next, he retreated, as though suddenly realizing he'd wandered into unfamiliar territory.
"My brother, Curtis . . . was in a wreck when he was twenty. Without the rescue squad, he might not have made it." Though his voice was neutral, she knew he felt anything but. "He coded—stopped breathing," he paused to explain, "three times on the way to the hospital."
Out on a Limb Page 10