“We?”
“I live with my mother.”
Best guess, she and Ryan were about the same age. Which made her wonder why a successful man in his thirties chose to live with his mother. The answer came immediately.
He didn’t live with her; she lived with him. There was a gravity surrounding Ryan that hinted at pressing responsibilities, greater obligations than most adults carried.
“She’s retired now,” he added. “She taught art at a private high school near our home in Cincinnati.”
“Interesting. My dad taught at Sweet Lake High. Social studies. My sister got the post when he retired. Not that he’s slowed down much. My mom’s a CPA in town, and he runs the house, gardens—he loves to cook, and they’re always holding parties in their backyard.”
“I wish my mother were as sociable. Change is really hard for her, so she keeps a strict routine. She’s turning into a recluse. I’m working on springing her from a self-imposed prison.”
“Good works for charities, and you look out for your mother.” With a laugh, Cat made the connection that should’ve dawned when Jada handed her the newspaper this morning. “Your name is a perfect fit.”
“D’Angelo?” Devilry glimmered in his eyes, tripping her pulse. “Cat, I’m no angel. I got so many speeding tickets in college, the cops took away my license—twice. Call it a late adolescence, with me acting out because I wasn’t successful at processing the worst parts of my childhood.” They approached the lake, and though his features grew somber, he seemed carried away by his loosening tongue. “When Miri hired me? I blew my first two accounts by showing up late more often than not. Too much drinking in my twenties, too many women—I didn’t get my act together until recently. One of those shock-and-awe moments that blast you into normalcy.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had one of those.”
“Mine came while cleaning out the garage, of all things.”
Again he came to a standstill to take in the melody of the waves and the sands cradling the lake. He appraised his oxfords with ill-concealed disgust.
Cat slipped off her pumps. “Take yours off,” she advised, wishing he’d finish the story. What was the shock and awe that brought him to his senses? In a garage, of all places. “The sand will destroy them if you don’t.”
He did, hooking his expensive shoes on one hand and stuffing his navy socks in his blazer pockets. The breeze tufted his raven locks. He quickly gave up on smoothing his hair into place.
Veering from the surf, she made a line in the sand with her toe. “This is where we’ll put the dance floor for the music.”
“You’re holding the concert the second weekend in October, correct?”
“The second Saturday.”
“Where will you put the band?”
“We’ll set up the dais over here.” She pointed to the area. “We’ll put folding chairs in rows, leave the sides open for people to sit on the sand. I’m also bringing in a bar to serve drinks and a line of tables for munchies.”
“Plans for Sunday?”
“Jada’s putting together a brunch service in the ballroom. We don’t have enough rooms for everyone who’ll come to the concert. We’re hoping to lure some of them back.”
“We should put together a trifold brochure to have visible during brunch, with spring and summer discounts if people book early. You’ve got a captive audience—don’t let them leave without pitching future bookings at the inn.”
She liked the idea. “I’ll talk to Linnie about rate discounts if people book early.”
“Who’s playing Saturday night?”
“Midnight Boyz, from Cleveland.”
“They’re an unholy pain.”
“You’ve worked with them?”
“Pulled my client out in the nick of time. We needed ambient noise for a commercial.” Head bowed, Ryan followed the line she’d made in the sand. “They e-mailed a crazy list of demands. I told the client I’d find another band.”
“Porterhouse steaks, that sort of thing?”
“I would’ve agreed to a year of free meals at Sizzler. The client owns sporting goods stores in Ohio and Pennsylvania. Midnight Boyz wanted free rock climbing equipment and an all-expenses-paid trip to Joshua Tree.”
He continued trailing behind, too close, and she picked up the pace. “Talk about chutzpah,” she said, moving nearer to the forest’s shade, where she planned to set up the tables for snacks.
“Chutzpah,” he repeated, chuckling softly. “There’s a word I didn’t expect to hear from the hot Latina client. Who taught you Yiddish?”
She sensed his attention weaving across her back. “My brother’s girlfriend. They live in Columbus.” Heat spiraled across her shoulder blades, the pleasure it brought unwelcome. “And don’t call me hot.”
“A woman with an aversion to compliments. Must be a first.”
“Ryan, we agreed not to flirt.”
“Did we?”
Hesitating, she dug her toes into the sand. They’d almost reached the edge of the forest. Ryan, honed in on her with his usual intensity, didn’t seem to notice.
On an intake of breath, she found the courage to face him. “It was implied.”
“I suppose.” He gave an appraising glance. “I’ll admit to a strong desire to ask you out, if only to get the lowdown on the Magic 8 Ball. Do you also read tarot cards?”
“Hardly. The Magic 8 Ball is more like a nervous tic.” He waggled his brows, prodding her on, and she added, “Don’t you have any silly superstitions? Stuff you do for no logical reason?”
“Like step over cracks in the sidewalk? Sorry to disappoint you.”
“What do you do for fun?”
“Big Cav’s fan, and I’ll never stop rooting for the Browns. I don’t care how many times they tank in the second half. I also like to dance. I don’t get much chance to lately, with all the work.” The devilish gleam was back in his eyes. “Do you like to dance?”
“Let’s wrap up the beach tour. Did I show you where I’ll set up the buffet?” She loved to dance, but imagining the pleasure of his embrace would upend the professional relationship they’d only started to build. He grinned, no doubt aware of her discomfort, and she added bluntly, “Whatever this is that we’re doing to each other, we have to stop.”
“You first.” He suddenly looked feverish, his Adam’s apple convulsing. “Stop doing that thing with your dress.”
She stared at him blankly.
Embarrassment followed. While kicking up sand, she’d bunched her stretchy skirt in big handfuls. Add in a daydream about dancing with him beneath dim club lighting, and she’d managed to hoist the fabric halfway up her thighs. Speaking around her frozen larynx proved impossible.
The unconsciously sensual act sent her thoughts into free fall.
Did he think she was deliberately taunting him? He’d displayed more than common courtesy by arriving early today, taking the initiative of sorting through the mess in her office. Without his encouragement, she would’ve let the boxes grow dust until Christmas.
“Ryan, I’m a nitwit. I didn’t mean to—”
With bewilderment, she broke off.
The passion sank from his features like the moon dipping beneath dark waters. It disappeared so quickly, the air stuttered in her lungs. He no longer seared her with a hungry stare. His pupils constricting, he no longer seemed aware of her at all. Transfixed, he locked his attention on whatever he glimpsed beyond her shoulder.
The trees.
For reasons beyond comprehension, the forest terrified him.
Cat knew she wasn’t the most practical woman. She wasted too much time daydreaming, too much time primping instead of deciding what to accomplish in any given day. But her protective streak was bred to the bone.
Taking Ryan by the arm, she forcibly walked him out of the shade. She led him all the way to the water, her palm pressed firmly to his back. His shirt was damp; perspiration beaded on his brow.
Without seeking permi
ssion, she slung her arm around his waist. He was a good four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, but he leaned into her like a child caught in a nightmare.
A waking nightmare, triggered by the forest.
Helplessly, she searched his face. “What is it?” A shudder convulsed his back, and she held on tight. “I feel awful—I had no idea. You weren’t kidding about hating the great outdoors.”
“No worries. Just give me a sec.” He shrugged off her embrace. He stood apart with his eyes fixed on the waves rolling toward shore. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had one of these attacks. Doesn’t usually hit this hard. Hell, I should’ve noticed where we were walking. I hate forests.”
“Should I get help?”
“Relax. I’m not diabetic or anything like that.” He scraped a lock of hair from his brow. “So much for booze on a work night and too much conversation.”
“With your mother?”
“Last night.”
“What did you talk about?” she prodded, and her stomach fell at the blankness on his face.
With the methodical rhythm of an ingrained habit, he traced the scar beneath his left eye. An old injury, a mark left from childhood no doubt, but one so deep, he’d carry it for a lifetime.
He stopped tracing the scar, his expression closing. “Let’s get going on the budget proposal.” He retrieved his socks from his blazer and pulled them on quickly. “It’s extensive, with lots of options. You’ll need time to digest it all.”
He didn’t wait for her response. He tugged on his shoes and walked off the beach.
For the remainder of the day, Cat hid her natural effervescence behind polite questions about his suggestions for the inn’s marketing. In the late afternoon, and again throughout the week, Ryan searched for a way to apologize.
He’d upset her on the beach with his ill-advised flirtations, not to mention the panic attack—his first with anyone nearby. She made no more offers to take him outside. She meant well, but her thoughtfulness scraped against his pride. He didn’t like appearing weak.
There was something of the natural healer in Cat’s personality. In the afternoons, she slipped off alone to take in the unusually warm weather and the autumn colors. She returned with short branches of crimson and gold leaves she stuffed into vases, and handfuls of acorns she left in tiny mounds on her desk. If he couldn’t enjoy the riches of the countryside, she seemed intent on bringing the natural world to him.
The sweet tactic brought the unintended result of increasing the attraction he was doing his best to cool. Try as he might to view Cat as merely a warm and engaging colleague, his feelings for her grew deeper and more complex.
On Friday, needing a break from the supercharged air in her office, he invented an afternoon meeting at Adworks and left the inn at two o’clock. In Sweet Lake Circle, a trio of young mothers shared conversation while their children raced between the picnic tables. Taking care not to disturb them, Ryan chose a picnic table at the opposite end to sit with his thoughts in private.
A boy in the group of children broke off his play with the others. Trailing laughter, he began spinning in a circle. Faster and faster he went, his arms flying out from his sides and his face beaming. Then he lost his dance with gravity and flopped to the ground.
The laughter he sent out, the wild, uncontained joy, gripped Ryan with glum fascination.
Turning away, he trudged back to his car.
Chapter 8
The doorbell chimed twenty minutes too soon. Guiltily, Frances weighed the option of pretending she wasn’t home.
A quick peek through the living room drapes sent the notion into the trash. On the front stoop, Ruth swayed from foot to foot with spicy impatience. Ignore the bell, and the retired police dispatcher would stomp around back. Once she found the silver Audi coupe in the garage, she’d pound on the back door.
“Coming!” Frances donned her most gracious, if manufactured, smile. “Ruth, did we have an appointment? Forgive me. We must reschedule. I have another engagement.”
“I only need a minute.” She stalked into the foyer.
“Fine. A minute.” Frances studied the familiar MacBook Air with its lime-green cover. “What are you doing with Tilda’s laptop?”
“Borrowing it. She got a new one in August. Doubt she cares if this one takes a vacation.”
“For a woman with a background in law enforcement, you have sticky fingers.”
“I’m enterprising.” Ruth made a beeline for the living room.
Frances nearly pressed her to remove her dirt-encrusted boots. She loved all the Sirens, her sister warriors in the pursuit of the highest feminine ideals. Unfortunately some of her comrades held little appreciation for the sort of attire one should wear for a social visit—or for planning said visit in advance.
The beautifully appointed colonial was a source of great pride for Frances: antiques handed down in her family attractively combined with newer pieces in a pastel color scheme, brightened with carefully selected art. If her unexpected guest left clumps of mud across the Aubusson carpet, there was no sense in being upset. She’d simply call the cleaning service a day early.
“Can we please make this quick?” It wouldn’t do to have Ruth hovering nearby when the others arrived. For days now, Frances had been searching for the perfect excuse to get them together at her house. Whether they’d appreciate her effort to intervene, she’d discover soon enough. “I do wish I had more time.”
The polite dismissal raised her comrade’s antennae. “What’s the hurry?”
“I was about to go out back to deadhead my roses.”
“You’re gardening this late in the afternoon?”
“About to start.”
Ad-libbing at random proved disastrous, and Ruth arched what was left of her brows. “You’re gardening in a dress and fancy heels? Not like you to risk grass stains on your daywear.” It was strange how the aging process had taken most of her facial hair, while leaving the glaringly white braids dangling from her head.
“Exactly why I’ll change first.”
“Need help? I don’t have plans for the rest of the day.”
“Did I say deadheading roses? Why, I finished the roses yesterday. I meant I’m pulling up poison ivy.” Ruth’s allergy to poison ivy was so severe, she steered clear of any clump she came across. “It’s invading my petunia bed.”
“Guess I’ll pass.” Ruth flipped open the laptop, patted the seat beside her on the couch. “Show me how to set up an Airbnb account and I’ll be on my way.”
“Why are you interested in Airbnb?”
“I might as well make some cash in October like everyone else,” she said when Frances joined her. “I hear the Wayfair is expecting a full house for the concert.”
“You’re renting your spare bedroom to strangers during the weekend of the concert? I can’t say I approve.”
“Color me surprised.”
“Ruth, there are dangerous men in the world.” There were men capable of inflicting great harm. “What if you end up with the wrong sort under your roof?”
“Are you suggesting I can’t protect my hide? Any tough guy who tangles with me better come packin’.”
“Ruth!”
“Relax. Tilda says we’ll mostly draw in young couples. Doubt your typical ax murderer will roll into town just to hear a boy band from Cleveland.”
“There’s no such thing as being too careful. On the off chance an ax murderer is clicking around on Airbnb, I’d hate to find you chopped up in little pieces, all because you were determined to make a buck.”
Ruth glowered. “You got a corset on under your dress? Your adventurous spirit is laced up so tight, it’s just about suffocated.”
“For your information, corsets went out of fashion during the Edwardian era.” Shrugging off the insult was advisable—Cat and Silvia were due any moment. “Airbnb, of all things. Who put this silly idea in your head?”
“The idea’s not silly. Half of the Sirens are renting o
ut rooms. Cat’s got a new ad running on the radio. I hear she’s expecting hundreds of people. Why shouldn’t we cash in on the crowds?”
The doorbell rang. Answering wasn’t necessary—Norah barged right in.
“Has Frances shown you how to put up your profile page?” She plunked her laptop on the coffee table beside the one lifted from Tilda’s house. “If this works, we should open our homes whenever the Wayfair runs big events. I heard the handsome young man who’s helping Cat with marketing has suggested events for every warm-weather month. Imagine how much we’ll earn renting out rooms.”
“I hope we get a chance to meet him,” Frances said. “From what Linnie has told me, he’s giving Cat wonderful ideas to boost the Wayfair’s visibility. They’re on their way to rebuilding Sweet Lake’s reputation as a tourist town.”
A noise between a grunt and a snarl emitted from Ruth. “I met Ryan D’Angelo on the day he took the account. Full of himself, if you ask me.”
“Must you remind us about your one-woman welcoming committee?” Frances replied with a sigh. Ruth was the only Siren to have met Ryan, and she certainly hadn’t rolled out the welcome mat. “Rattling a gourd in his face—if he’d jumped into his car and raced back to Cincinnati, the inn would’ve lost out on his expertise.”
“Stop defending him. He acted like he’d have the final decision on whether the Sirens conduct seminars or not.”
No, Frances thought, he won’t have the final say.
She would.
Soon, in fact, assuming she wrapped up the unscheduled visit before Cat and Silvia arrived. She reached for Norah’s laptop. “Let’s make this quick. All right, here’s the site.”
Airbnb popped onto the screen.
Norah pursed her maroon-tinted lips. “According to the rules, we can decide who stays, and when.” An unbecoming and rather predatory glee lit her features.
Ruth’s antennae went back up. “Norah, it’s your happy day. Tell the site you only want single men, any age, the hornier the better.”
“Must you resort to vulgar allusions?”
“With all the ammo you’re doling out? Yes.”
The Comfort of Secrets (A Sweet Lake Novel Book 2) Page 8