30DaystoSyn

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Yes, ma’am, but I’m drip dry. Forgot to bring one along,” he said then stuck his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. “Besides, it’s just God’s way of telling me I needed a bath.”

  Deep crinkles appeared at the corner of the old woman’s eyes. “You said the same thing the first time you came to my rescue.”

  She had just taken a sip of her lemonade when she realized he had to be the man who had held the door open for the woman that other rainy day.

  “I did?” she heard him ask. “When was this?”

  “On a day much like this. You were buying subs for your office staff if I remember right,” she said. “Treating them as it were.”

  “I remember that!” he said. “You had the naked Russian cat in the carrier with you.”

  The old woman laughed loudly. “It’s called a Peterbald,” she said and shook a finger at him. “You said something quite naughty when I told you what breed he was.”

  He slapped a hand to his chest in mock surprise. “I did? Would I do something disrespectful like that?”

  “You know darn well you did, you little rascal,” she accused.

  “Your sandwich is ready, Syn,” the cashier called out to him and he glanced around.

  And saw her sitting in the corner. He did a double take then slowly grinned.

  “Is that your real name?” the old lady inquired and he turned back to her.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so,” he said, moving over to the register and fishing in his back pocket for his wallet.

  “Apropos I’d say,” she told him.

  “My mum thought so. I’ll pay for this young lady’s sarnie, too,” he told the girl behind the register then swung his gaze back to the corner.

  “You don’t have to do that, son,” the old woman protested.

  “I want to,” he said. “‘Sides, I’m trying to impress my girl.”

  The old woman looked past him and her eyebrows shot up. “Well now. She’s a pretty little thing, Syn.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that she is,” he agreed. He took the plastic green sandwich basket in one hand and his empty twenty-ounce cup in the other.

  “Thank you,” the woman said.

  “You are very welcome, love,” he replied and headed for the corner.

  She looked up at him as he sat the basket on the table.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “G’day,” she replied with a smile.

  He leaned over the table to look into her cup. “Wanna refill?”

  “No, I’m fine,” she told him.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Free drink with purchase today,” he said and she wondered how he knew that.

  He took his cup to the drink dispenser and she enjoyed the view of his fine ass shifting within the very tight confines of his black jeans. It was a sight to warm the loins.

  “Your girl, huh?” she questioned as he came back to the table and sat down.

  “Damn straight.” He brushed crumbs from the table with the edge of his hand then popped open the bag of jalapeño-flavored potato chips and tipped the bag toward her.

  She shook her head.

  “Don’t like them?” he asked as he plucked one from the bag and popped it in his mouth.

  “Love them, actually, but they don’t go with ham and cheese,” she replied.

  He looked down at the uneaten half of her sandwich. “What flavor does?” he asked.

  “Barbeque,” she said.

  “Okay.” He swung out of the chair before she could protest, took a bag of barbeque chips from the rack, paid for them then brought them back to the table. He slid the bag over to her. “Enjoy,” he said.

  “You are incorrigible,” she said.

  “No, I told you I was—”

  She held up a hand. “Don’t say it!”

  “Why not?” he asked. He took a large bite of the steak sub. “You don’t stop talking when I tell you to.”

  She felt the heat rising in her cheeks and had to look away from the direct blue of his gaze. “How’s your head?” she asked.

  “Which one?” he countered.

  She gave him a stern look.

  “Oh, that one,” he said and pulled a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table. “It’s okay. It won’t be a problem for us tonight. I’m going to do wicked, wicked things to you tonight.” He wagged his brows.

  She sighed at his evil grin. “I take it back. You’re irremediable.”

  “No, I’m…” He thought about it then pursed his lips. “Damn, Melina. I can’t think of anything adequately vulgar to counter that one.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “What are you doing out on a day like this anyway?” he asked, munching away. She liked the play of muscles flexing in his stubbled cheeks and the way he hooked his ankles around the legs of the chair like a little boy. His right leg was jumping as though he was revving his engine.

  The thought made her smile and she lowered her head to hide it.

  Didn’t work.

  “What?” he asked. When she looked up at him he tilted his head to the side. “That smile. What was that about?”

  “I’m going to spend some time with my brother,” she answered.

  “Can I come too?”

  His question surprised her.

  “You want to?”

  “Sure, I do,” he said and picked up his cup. He slurped a big gulp.

  They were silent for a moment. She didn’t know what to say to his admission. Instead, she cocked her head to one side.

  “I saw you that day,” she said and when his brows drew together, she nodded her chin toward the old lady who was sitting a few tables away. “When you walked her to her car.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

  She nodded. “I thought you were such a gentleman.”

  He sniffed as though the term didn’t apply to him. “Then you met me and found out I was a fucking son of a bitch asshole dickwad prick with a God complex.”

  “Shush!” she said, leaning toward him.

  “You said it, woman. Not me,” he reminded her.

  “I was angry,” she defended her insult.

  “You were pissed,” he said and licked mustard from his thumb.

  A piercing clap of thunder shook the entire building and she jumped. There was only a bite left of her sandwich so she pushed the basket to one side and opened the barbeque chips—not wanting to offend him though she really didn’t want them.

  “Storm’s getting worse,” she said.

  “We’ll take my car over to the nursing home,” he said.

  “We will?”

  “You shouldn’t be driving in this muck.”

  “And you should,” she said. “Why’s that?”

  “Women drivers and all that rot,” he replied.

  “I’m going to pretend I’m not offended by that sexist remark,” she said. She looked at Jed. “Don’t you think they’ll mind if I leave my car out there?”

  “My car, actually,” he said, “and they don’t.”

  “You know this because?”

  He grinned. “I own the store,” he said. He wiped his mouth with the napkin, balled it up and tossed it into the empty sandwich basket. “Matter of fact, I own the entire strip mall.”

  “Well of course you do,” she said with a sigh. “But what about my car?”

  “I’ll have Jono drop Craigie off and Craigie can drive it back to your house.”

  He began shoveling the last of the jalapeño potato chips into his mouth, the bag crinkling as he fished out every last morsel then tipped it to his mouth.

  “You’re nothing but a big kid,” she said.

  He crumpled the bag then placed it gently in the basket, his blue eyes burning as he leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Baby, believe me. I’m all man.”

  She felt a heated tingling and pulse of quickening between her legs and had the wild urge to grab his cheeks and kiss him hard. Her gaze dipped
to his lips for a second then slowly lifted it to his. His gorgeous face sent spirals of desire trekking through her. Unconsciously, she curled her tongue over her bottom lip.

  “Promises, promises,” he whispered and the heat in his eyes blazed back at her with such force she felt her knees go weak.

  He leaned back in the chair, stared at her for a long time then scooted out of the chair. He gathered up their trash, took it to the garbage bin then came back to the table. He held out his hand.

  “Let’s go, woman,” he said.

  She slipped her hand into his and felt the power in his grip as he pulled her to her feet. There was something fierce and thrilling in the way he was looking at her and she wasn’t altogether sure she should get in the car with him.

  Not that she feared what he might do to her. She didn’t.

  What she feared was the rampant desire that was setting her blood on fire and what she might do to him.

  “Please try to remember to drive on the correct side of the road,” she said as he opened the door for her.

  “Your correct side or mine?” he countered with a grin.

  “There is only one correct side of the road in Georgia,” she said with a sniff.

  “Do you know where it is?” she asked as he held the door open for her.

  “Yeah,” he said. His free hand was at the small of her back.

  The rain had slowed but lightning still stitched across the sky. He pointed out his car—a black BMW she realized was the same one she’d seen him driving that other day in the rain—and he hurried her to it. Opening her door, he didn’t give her a chance to pull the seat belt around her but leaned in and buckled it himself.

  “Now you’re my prisoner,” he said huskily before stepping back to close the door.

  “Won’t keep me from mauling you if I’ve a mind to,” she mumbled under her breath, watching him come around the hood to the driver’s side. The memory of his hard cock rubbing along her palm made her squeeze her thighs together.

  Traffic was light as he pulled into the street. He turned on the MP3 player on his dash and the smooth voice of Alan Kim Cochran singing The Bonnie Woods of Hattan came hauntingly into the car.

  “I love this song,” she said. “I love his music.”

  “Me too,” he replied. “Especially The Somerset Mare.”

  “Oh, that one is so beautiful, so poignant!” she said, twisting around in her seat to face him.

  “Lost love,” he said, “is always poignant.”

  “Have you ever heard Not Alone by Patty Griffin or The Ends of the Earth by Lord Huron?”

  He nodded. “I’ve got them on my iPod. I also have all of the Coyne Brothers and Sean Cullen albums.”

  “You’re kidding!” she said. “They are my absolute favorites!”

  “I know,” he said. “Mine too.”

  “My favorite song by them is The Prince’s Lost Lady.”

  “Sad love song but very beautiful. It’s haunting.”

  “Have you ever been in love?” she asked.

  “No.” The rain stopped to a light sprinkle and he turned down the speed of the wipers. He glanced at her. “You?”

  “You mean to tell me you don’t know?” she asked. “I thought you knew everything there was to know about me.”

  He put his elbow on the edge of the door and propped his head against his fist, the wrist of his right hand draped loosely over the steering wheel. “I didn’t care if you’d ever been in love. All I wanted to know was if there was a man in your life now. There wasn’t, so I didn’t think twice about what went on before. To me the past is dead and should be buried six feet deep.” He braked for a red light and looked over at her again. “You didn’t answer me. Have you ever loved a man?”

  “I loved a boy,” she said softly. “Desperately loved him.”

  “What happened?”

  “His father,” she said. “He didn’t think I was good enough for his son.”

  He looked away from her. “Yeah, that shit happens a lot.”

  “Did it happen to you?”

  “No, but it did to someone I once knew,” he told her.

  “Hurt like hell but I got over it,” she said. “Broke my heart too.”

  The light changed and he accelerated, shifting the expensive machine casually and expertly. “Where do you see yourself in a year, Melina?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Sitting in a big white wicker swing on a big screened porch reading a John Sandford novel while sipping plum wine and munching on very sharp cheddar cheese and pepperoni wedges,” she said.

  He smiled. “You’re going to spend some of my money to buy a new house.”

  “I don’t own the one I’m in and it’s practically falling down around my ears,” she said. “The roof leaks. The rooms stay cold in the winter and hot in the summer. The pipes thump in the middle of the night and there’s a funky smell of poop coming out of the overhead vents.”

  He looked at her. “Poop?”

  “There have been raccoons up there and I’m pretty sure the local mice and squirrels and the occasional bird uses the attic for their public restroom.” She shrugged. “Hence the poopy smell.”

  He frowned. “That’s not healthy,” he said. “I’ll buy you a house.”

  He could feel her staring at him but she said nothing. When he looked over at her there was anger flashing in her eyes. “What?” he asked.

  “I may be your whore but I won’t—”

  He whipped the car onto the side of the road and braked so hard the engine died. He was thankful she was buckled in else she would have hit the dashboard.

  “What is wrong with you?” she snapped, her hand on the dashboard.

  He twisted around in his seat. “First, don’t ever fucking put your hand out like that. You could have broken your wrist if I hit something. Second, you are not my whore,” he said through his teeth. “Don’t you ever call yourself that again!”

  “What am I if not your whore?” she demanded. “You’re buying my sexual favors so that makes me—”

  “Don’t say it,” he warned.

  “Would you prefer prostitute?” she countered.

  “Hell, no!” he shouted and saw her flinch, press close to the door as though she thought he might lash out at her. “You are not a whore or a prostitute!”

  “Then what am I?”

  “My…” He searched for how he thought of her but couldn’t come up with the right description of how he viewed her. He shook his head. “You’re…”

  “What do you think this is, Kiwi?” she asked.

  He thought about it for a moment. “I honestly don’t know,” he answered. “What it was when it started isn’t what it is now.”

  “What changed?”

  “I changed,” he said. He wrapped both hands around the steering wheel and rocked his palms back and forth over the leather cover. “Fuck, Melina, I don’t know.”

  “Well you should know,” she said, turning her face from him. “If anyone should, it would be you.” She looked down at her watch. “I need to get to the nursing home before they start showing the Saturday matinee movie.”

  “Why?” he asked. He started the car then twisted his head around to see if there were cars coming before pulling back onto the road

  “They’ll wheel him down to the day room even though he doesn’t want to go. He hates the movies they show. He won’t say anything to them but I know he hates every minute of it.”

  “What kind of movies does he like?”

  “Sci-Fi and fantasy,” she said, folding her arms over her chest in a defensive posture. “Anything that’s big and sweeping with loud music—which the home won’t allow—and…”

  “We’ll get him a seventy-inch flat screen, a DVD player and a good set of headphones with a long cord when he gets over to Cedar Oaks,” he told her. “A man should have his little pleasures in life.”

  “Yeah,” she said, the bitterness evident in her voice. “I’ll buy him those things with the money y
ou pay me for being your—”

  “Don’t say it!” he snapped, whipping his head toward her. “I mean it. Don’t do it.”

  “For being your mistress,” she said and her defiant look made him want to turn her over his knee.

  “Stop talking,” he said, and when she grunted and turned her head to stare out the window, he wanted to break something.

  Why she was surprised they knew him at the nursing home, greeted him by name, flirted with him didn’t register until they were walking down the hall. She stopped, reached out to grab his arm and bring him to a stumbling halt.

  “Have you been visiting my brother?” she demanded.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “So what?”

  “You’ve been visiting my brother,” she stated in a flat voice, searching his eyes.

  He shrugged. “I’ve come over a couple of times.”

  “And?” she pressed. She was aware she was digging her fingers into his arm but she didn’t care.

  “And what?” he countered.

  “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to meet him. He’s a neat kid. Reminds me of—”

  “What do you do with him?” she asked and watched him bristle.

  “Use him as a doorstop?” he snapped. “What the fuck do you think I do with him?” He shook off her hand then put his up to cover the place where she’d gripped him. He rubbed at the red marks her fingers had left behind. “We play checkers. We talk.”

  She thought her head would explode she was so angry at him. “About what? What do you talk about?”

  “We discuss in length how I’m abusing his sister and loaning her out to all my nastiest, disease-riddled friends,” he said, eyes narrowed. “I’ve told him how I plan to sell you to this Arab sheik I know who likes smart-mouth twits.”

  “Screw you, McGregor!” she snapped. She looked around to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation. “I want to know what you talk to my teenage brother about!”

  “We don’t talk about you if that’s what you want to know!” he told her. “Shit, the boy doesn’t even know who the hell you are, Melina! How could I talk about you to him?”

  That was true but it didn’t make her feel any better. She opened her mouth to ask him again but he gave her the answer she sought.