Suddenly You

by Sarah Mayberry

  “Relax. It’s fixable.”

  “Really? Honestly?”

  “Yeah. It’ll take a bit of patching and some paint, but it’s not a big job.”

  “Really?” She sounded hugely relieved. As though he’d taken a massive weight off her shoulders. “I thought it would cost a fortune to fix. But if it’s not that big a deal, maybe I should talk to a plasterer or a builder or whoever fixes these kinds of things.”

  “Save your money.” He walked to the kitchen to collect his toolbox.

  When he returned, Pippa moved to one side as he stood on her bed and reached up to assess the plaster more closely. Using the claw on his hammer, he dragged the dangling chunks of board free and tossed them to the floor.

  “You’ve punched through two sheets of plaster. The easiest thing to do is to rip them out completely and replace them. Once the joins are patched and plastered and the whole lot painted, no one will ever know anything happened.”

  “Apart from the fact that it will be the nicest, newest, cleanest part of the house,” Pippa said.

  “If you say so.” He glanced around her room, noting the embroidered cuff on the snowy-white sheets on her bed, the silky-looking robe hanging on the hook near the door, the many-hued floral patchwork quilt folded across the foot of the bed. Pairs of well-worn shoes sat along one wall, lined up like good little soldiers, and a chair in the corner was draped with colorful scarves and discarded pieces of clothing.

  It was a feminine room, but not in a bad way. It was soft, comfortable and welcoming. The kind of room it would be easy to while away a lot of hours in. Unlike his own bedroom, which boasted a bed, one bedside table and precious little else.

  “It’ll take a day to get the supplies, then I’ll start.”

  “It’s not urgent. I can sleep on the couch for a few weeks,” Pippa said quickly.

  He glanced at the hole again. “Afraid there are rats up there, huh?”

  “I know there are. Why do you think I fell through the ceiling?”

  “Then I’ll pick up some bait stations, too, while I’m at it. And I’ll be here after work tomorrow. That okay with you?”

  Pippa’s warm brown eyes softened with gratitude. “Harry… Thank you. For coming so quickly. For being so bloody generous—”

  “About that. I have a couple of conditions.” Might as well get a few things straight up front.

  “Conditions?”

  “If I fix the roof, I also fix the door and the lock. It’s a package deal.”

  She blinked, then a slow, grudging smile curved her mouth. “You’ve got a real thing about that door, haven’t you?”

  “It’s a fire hazard.”

  She gave him an assessing look. “Okay. You can fix the door and the lock—on the proviso that I cover any and all expenses, and that you accept dinner from me every night you work here.” She raised her eyebrows expectantly as she waited for his response.

  “I don’t eat salad,” he said, tossing his hammer into his toolbox. “And I hate pumpkin.”

  “Then I definitely won’t make you my roast pumpkin and feta salad.” She was grinning, pleased with herself.

  For some reason, he thought of Steve. His friend had had this woman with her infectious smiles and wit and creamy skin and colorful underwear in his life, and he’d let her go. Worse, he’d abandoned her when she needed him the most.

  “I should go.” He hefted his toolbox and headed for the door. He could feel her following him.

  “Sure. I’ll see you out,” she said, brushing past him.

  It was tempting, but he didn’t say a word as she wrestled the door open. Her expression was wry as she stood to one side to let him pass.

  “Very big of you.”

  “No point being a sore winner.”

  She laughed, low and throaty. He’d always liked her laugh.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he said.

  “Bring your appetite.”

  Like that was going to be a problem.

  He stepped out into the rainy night. When he got to his car, he glanced over his shoulder. Pippa was silhouetted in the doorway, the hall light a golden nimbus around her head.

  He had a sudden, stupid urge to climb the steps and ask her if she felt it, too—the sharp, insistent pull of desire and need and attraction whenever he was with her. Did she look at him and wonder what his mouth would feel like on hers? Did she think about his body, about how his skin would feel against hers? Did she wonder what it would be like to be naked, to have him slide inside her…?

  He got in his car, started the engine and reversed into the street, not allowing himself another glance at the house. There was no way he was having that conversation with her. Steve might be behaving like an asshole of the highest order right now, but it didn’t change the fact that he was Harry’s oldest friend.

  Pippa was taboo. End of story, nothing to see here, please move on.

  Any second now he figured the raging hard-on in his jeans would get the memo. Any second.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SHE HAD OVER-PREPARED. She knew she had, yet it didn’t stop her from peeling another potato and placing it on the baking tray.

  Pippa couldn’t afford to pay Harry in any conventional sense, but one thing she could do was ensure he never went home hungry while he helped her out. Tonight she was offering him roast beef, roast potatoes, fresh green beans and peas, homemade gravy and apple pie for dessert. She had beer in the fridge, and the moment she’d arrived home from university she’d showered and changed into her jeans and a T-shirt so that she’d be ready to act as his right-hand woman, should he need her.

  A little voice pointed out that the shower part hadn’t been strictly necessary, nor had the bit where she’d smoothed on lipstick and spritzed on perfume. She chose not to examine her motive for either too closely. Mostly because she was already more than aware she’d developed what could only be described as a crush on her ex-boyfriend’s best friend.

  She wasn’t sure when she’d stopped kidding herself. Maybe it was the moment when she’d opened the door last night to Harry on her porch, rain glinting in his short dark hair, toolbox by his side, looking lean and mean and powerful in a black T-shirt and dark denim jeans less than fifteen minutes after she’d asked for his help.

  Or maybe it was the moment in her bedroom when he’d insisted on striking a deal with her before he consented to helping out with the ceiling repair.

  Maybe it was a combination of all of the above, along with the fact that when he was in the vicinity she was achingly aware of where his body was in relation to hers, of how wide his shoulders were, how deep his chest, how powerful his thighs. If she closed her eyes, she could summon the smell of him—warm skin and clean soap—and she could remember exactly how hot and hard his body had felt when she’d given him that impulsive, impromptu hug.

  Your basic, garden-variety crush, really, complete with inappropriate sexual fantasies and sweaty palms and racing heart rate because he was due any second and she’d been both anticipating and dreading seeing him again all day.

  The anticipation was for obvious reasons, the dread because she was terrified she would embarrass herself by doing or saying something over the next few nights to clue Harry in to her developing obsession. She was smart enough to know that nothing would ever happen between them. Not only was she the absolute antithesis of the bar bunnies he usually hooked up with, she was also Steve’s ex-girlfriend. Harry might look like an outlaw, with his tattoos and his piercings and his burly build, but at heart he was a deeply honorable man with a very strict personal code. In his head, she was Steve’s, even though the relationship had ended more than a year ago and they were about as estranged as two people could get.

  Satisfied that dinner was more or less ready to roll, she went to check on Alice. Sure enough, there had been action down south and she gave her daughter a quick bath after wiping up the mess. Dressing her daughter, Pippa reminded herself there were other reasons why her crush on Har
ry should remain only her private, dirty little secret.

  Like Steve, Harry was a player. A sexy boy-man who treated life as though it was an extended long weekend. He lived for his mates, saw women as playthings and avoided responsibility as though it was contagious.

  A woman would have to be crazy in the coconut to even consider going there.

  Okay. We done with the protesting-too-much? Because it’s getting wayyy old and it’s pointless. Nothing will happen with Harry for the very simple fact that you have learned your lesson where guys like him are concerned. Right? Right?

  Pippa’s hands stilled on the snap fasteners on Alice’s Onesie.

  She didn’t like thinking about the dark days immediately following her discovery that she was pregnant, but perhaps now was a good time for a reminder of how grim it had been. She had been alone and scared, and she had been bitter, angry and hurt after Steve’s rejection. Most of that bitterness and anger had been directed at herself. She was the one who had chosen Steve, after all. She was the one who’d entrusted him with her body. It had been her decision to spend six months of her life with him. Her poor judgment. And the knowledge that her unborn child would be the one to bear the consequences of her choices had sent Pippa spiraling into despair.

  Her mother’s warm, practical support and her own innate fighting spirit had saved the day. She’d pulled herself together, gotten her life on track. Enrolled for her diploma, started saving in earnest for the hard months after the birth when she wouldn’t be able to work. And she hadn’t looked back.

  Pippa closed the last snap, smiling as Alice gurgled her approval. The anxiety and excitement had all but faded in the face of her self-enforced reality check.

  Harry might be roguish and hot, but he was not for her. Not in a million years.

  The doorbell rang, and she hoisted Alice into her arms and went to answer the door.

  “I do like a man who’s prompt,” she said as she swung it wide.

  Harry’s gaze swept over her before returning to her face. “Is that dinner I can smell?”

  “Why, yes, honey, it is. Can I take your tool belt for you before I fetch your pipe and slippers?”

  He didn’t say a word, simply gave her a look before carrying his toolbox into the house. The moment he’d dumped it in the hall, he headed back out to his car. She tucked Alice into her crib for safety before joining him to help bring in the remainder of his gear and supplies. After several trips there were two sheets of plaster leaning against the hall wall, a ladder, a can of ceiling paint and a bunch of painting gear. Harry dropped a power saw beside it all and dusted his hands together, eyeing her expectantly.

  She laughed. “All right, I’ll feed you.”

  She waved him into a chair at the dining table, which she’d set for two, then crossed to the fridge for a beer for him.

  When he saw it in her hand he shook his head.

  “Not for me, thanks. Not while I’m working.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Nonplussed, she put the beer back. Steve had never said no to a drink. In fact, he’d never said no to anything that involved pleasure or excess.

  She felt oddly domestic as she carved the roast beef and served the vegetables, very aware of Harry at the table, waiting for his meal.

  She tried to think of something to say, but her mind steadfastly refused to come to the party. In the end, she fell back on convention.

  “So, um, how was your day?”

  “Busy. But it always is at this time of year.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Summer, the lead-up to Christmas holidays,” he elaborated. “Everyone suddenly remembers they should get their car serviced before they take off on the family holiday.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  She poured gravy onto both plates, then ferried them to the table.

  “This looks great.”

  She gave him a quick smile to acknowledge his compliment. For some reason she was having trouble meeting his eyes. “Let me know if you want more gravy.”

  Right on cue, Alice’s cry cut through the house. Pippa stood.

  “Don’t even think about stopping eating. I’ll be back in a tick.”

  She returned with Alice in her arms, then sat and balanced Alice on her knee with well-practiced expertise.

  “One-handed eating,” Harry said. “Haven’t seen that since Justine’s kids were little.”

  “It’s a life skill, that’s for sure.”

  Silence fell as they both concentrated on their meals. Pippa tried to work out why everything felt so strained all of a sudden. She and Harry had never had trouble finding something to talk about before.

  “How are your studies going?” Harry asked after a few uncomfortable minutes.

  “I’m getting there. I have a killer assignment due before the end of the year, but then I’m free until March. Which will be a relief, because homework sucks as much as an adult as it did when I was in high school.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, and I can’t imagine you as a teacher.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. You don’t look like any of the teachers I had when I was at school.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or not,” she said.

  “It’s a compliment. Trust me. I don’t think we had a female teacher under fifty at our school.”

  “Poor you. Guess you had no distractions in class, then.”

  He grinned suddenly. “Oh, no. There were always plenty of distractions. Shannon Lewis, Carolyn Crosby, Nicole Townsend…”

  “Even you didn’t have that many girlfriends in high school,” she scoffed.

  “Define girlfriend.”

  She held up a hand. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”

  He laughed. “Relax. I wasn’t that much of a player.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “When did you have your first kiss? Eleven? Twelve.”

  “How precocious do you think I was?”

  “Very.”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “I was thirteen.”

  She pointed a thumb at her chest. “Sixteen.”

  “Late starter, huh?”

  “Just picky.”

  “You think I’m not picky?”

  She took a moment before responding, spearing peas with her fork. “Actually, I think you’re very picky. Why else would you still be single?”

  He sat back in his chair and frowned at her. She had surprised him.

  “I’m single because I’ve tried it the other way and it didn’t work for me.”

  Honestly, she couldn’t imagine him all settled down and domesticated.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to imagine you buying tampons and milk.”

  “I did it. Mowed the lawn and opened up a joint bank account, too.”

  “When was this?” Not in the past few years or she would know about it already.

  “When I was twenty-three.”

  “Pretty young to settle down.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you still see her?”

  “Deb? No. She wound up hating me.” His gaze was distant for a moment.

  Not a happy time, clearly. She felt bad for bringing it up. “Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Why? It wasn’t your fault. If it was anyone’s, it was mine. I’m not cut out for that kind of life.”

  “So, what? You’re just going to play the field for the rest of your life? A different woman every week?”

  He looked amused. “I don’t have a different woman every week.”

  She made a disbelieving noise. She’d seen the way women eyed him off at the pub.

  Harry took a long swallow from his water. “I don’t get around as much as you seem to think I do. And I’m always up front with women. Always.”

  She propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand, genuinely fascinated now. “Up front. Tell me what that means.” She made a “gimme more” motion with her fingers.<
br />
  “It means what it says. I tell them I’m looking for a bit of fun and that I’m no good at relationships. If they want to leave it at that, they can. But if anything happens afterward, they know the score.”

  Poor, poor women. The man should come with a health warning tattooed on his forehead.

  “You realize that’s like catnip for some women, right? The whole ‘I’m no good at relationships’ thing. Some women hear that and automatically add ‘because I haven’t met the right woman yet’ in their heads. Which makes you a challenge, and them the transforming magical woman who convinces you love and marriage isn’t so bad after all.”

  “I think you’re making it far too complicated.”

  “I’m a woman. Being complicated is part of my stock in trade.”

  “At least you admit it.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Why do men always think that being simple is a virtue?”

  “Because it is?”

  She pretended to think about it. “No. That’s not it.”

  He grinned.

  She leaned across and collected his empty plate. “Hold that thought.”

  She dumped the plates in the sink, feeling unaccountably buoyant. She got a kick out of sparring with Harry. She always had.

  Good for you—as long as you keep in mind what he just told you while you’re getting your kicks.

  It was a timely warning, but it was hardly needed. She knew the score with Harry. She always had. He was fun. Cocky and cheeky and sexy—and a terrible, terrible bet for any woman who was looking for more. As he’d admitted.

  Only an idiot with strong self-destructive impulses would sashay into that particular dead-end alley, and she might be many things, but she wasn’t that stupid.

  She was simply enjoying herself. Enjoying a bit of harmless banter with a hot member of the opposite sex. For Harry this kind of thing was like breathing and sneezing—utterly instinctive. It meant less than nothing and was going nowhere—hence the reason it was so enjoyable.

  They kept up the banter through dessert, then Harry took their plates to the sink and rinsed them.

  “Time for me to meet my end of the bargain, I think,” he said as he turned away from the sink.