“In that case,” he said rather glumly, poking at that last bite of lasagna, “you should probably bring them to me. It’s my mess, after all.”
“It’s not really a mess, just disorganized.”
“It’s a mess,” he repeated. “In the beginning, I didn’t pay much attention, because all I was trying to do was. . .”
“Keep busy?”
He picked up the slice of garlic bread. Put it down again. Finally, he looked at her. Saw he didn’t have to explain, she had already put together the timing. Zee had probably told her.
“Yes.”
“You must have loved her very much.”
“I did. We were together since ninth grade.”
Her eyes widened. “Real high school sweethearts?”
“I know, corny. But Amanda was the one. It was like finding the other half of myself. Half the time she knew what I was thinking before I did. We just always knew we would be together. And when my folks were killed, she was the one who stepped in and handled everything, took care of Zee, until I could get here.”
He wished he hadn’t blurted all that out. He was usually able to keep the old memories barricaded in his mind. She didn’t say anything, just looked at him. Somehow that was worse than the chattering he sometimes got, when people didn’t know what to say. Apparently when Hope didn’t know what to say, she didn’t say anything. But then, he’d already snapped at her when she’d been about to use the usual “I’m sorry,” response.
And then she turned it around on you, digging into territory you haven’t visited in a very long time.
Finally, she spoke. Quietly, staring down at her plate. “I’ve seen bonds like that, but I can’t imagine having it, so I can’t even come close to imagining the pain of losing it.”
Perhaps we met so young because this was all we were ever going to have.
Amanda’s words, spoken from the hospital bed that had been set up by the hospice group in their apartment living room, the day before she had finally lost her valiant, painful battle.
“I hope you never do,” he said, his voice harsh with the memory that hadn’t been so vivid in some time.
“And yet you built something out of it. Something successful, helpful, and unique.”
And then he was in the unexpected position of being the one who felt like chattering. Anything to push that memory back into its cage. “I never expected this to turn into anything. That’s why everything from back in the beginning is disorganized, because I didn’t think it was going to become what it did. Some friends needed stuff done, didn’t have time to organize it, so I did. I kept the paperwork because it seemed like the thing to do, but I just tossed it in a box. A shoebox, at the time.”
She smiled. Damn, those real, genuine smiles of hers were something. “So when did you realize you were gonna need a bigger box?”
He found himself smiling back, the difficult moments past now. “Those friends told other people, who told people, and it just sort of grew from there.”
“Shows you how valuable—and rare—someone with those skills, and a knack with people can be. And who is also utterly trustworthy.”
He’d been told that, or variations of it, before. But somehow it seemed different coming from her. Perhaps because of her emphasis on the trustworthy part, as if they were some fabled species she hadn’t quite believed really existed.
“You already got the job,” he said lightly. “You don’t have to flatter the boss.”
“It’s not flattery if it’s truth,” she said with a shrug. And then, so straight faced he wasn’t certain if she was serious or not, she added, “Besides, Zee says she’s the boss.”
His brows shot up. “She does, does she?”
For a long moment she just looked at him. And then he saw the corners of her mouth twitch. And then she was laughing. And it was the most beautiful sound he’d heard in longer than he could remember.
“She told me to say that to you, I swear she did.”
“I’ll just bet she did.” He was grinning at her now.
“She said really you’re partners, and she’d hate to ever have to work with anyone else. And that she’s very, very proud of you.”
He blinked. “Zee said that? My sister, Zinnia Rose Mahan said that?”
“Zinnia Rose?”
“Damn, don’t tell her I told you that. She hates her full name.”
“I think it’s lovely. Different.”
“Too different for her,” he said as he rose and gathered up his plate and utensils. “She doesn’t like to stand out.”
Hope did the same. “Doesn’t want to stand out? Or wants to blend in?”
He looked over his shoulder at her as he headed for the dishwasher. “Isn’t that the same thing?” he asked as he put the dishes in the rack.
“Not necessarily,” she said. He reached out for her plate, and when she handed it to him he slid it into the next spot in the rack. She dumped her own silverware in the bin for it before she went on. “But it would be nearly impossible for a woman who looks like your sister not to stand out. She’s so beautiful. Those Mahan genes, I guess.”
He straightened, stared at her. “Flattery again?”
She held his gaze for a silent moment. “You have to have heard it before.”
In fact, on occasion, he had. It was just that most of the time he never paid any attention. The part of his life where it might matter what he looked like—other than the occasional business contact he cleaned up for—was over. The part where it might matter in that male and female way. And yet. . .
“Not something I aspire to,” he muttered, turning away, putting his back to her before he said something stupid.
“Of course not.” She said it as matter-of-factly as if she were commenting on the dishwasher she now closed. “If you did you wouldn’t be nearly as attractive.”
What the hell was she saying? He spun back. She’d moved, and they collided. Instinctively he grabbed her as she wobbled, knocked off balance. Her hands came up, her fingers curled around his arms. Squeezed, but not trying to push him away. She stared up at him, and he saw once more how warm those cinnamon colored eyes were, saw the golden specks that seemed to sparkle.
Her lips parted, and for a moment he imagined she was leaning in, trying to get closer to him. Then he realized it was not imagination, because she moved, took that last crucial step that separated them. And then she was there, so near, so close that he could feel her heat, and it stirred him in a way he’d utterly forgotten was possible. He was surprised his body didn’t snap audibly as it woke up, reminding him that while his heart might be done, the rest of him was not. After those moments when he’d watched her reading, he wasn’t surprised that it woke up to her. And then there was the way he’d responded when he’d thought her just a kid. And how relieved he’d been when he realized she wasn’t.
He just hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t ever expected it, not since the day they put Amanda in the ground.
“True,” she whispered, and he had no idea if she meant his name or what had sparked to life between them. He sucked in the air that seemed to suddenly be in short supply. But air didn’t seem to matter. The only thing that mattered were those eyes, that mouth. . .
He leaned down, wanting to feel that mouth more than get that breath of air. She reached up to him, moving her hands to his shoulders now, urging him on. He lowered his head and—
He stopped. Something had caught the corner of his vision. The tattoo on her left wrist, that band of sharp edged curves with a tribal look. It reminded him sharply of everything he didn’t know about her, of everything she’d left behind. . .and that she was afraid was still after her.
Afraid.
If I tell you I’m twenty-three, will it change your mind about how I can pay you back?
He released her suddenly, backed away, hands up as if that would help him keep them off of her. He wasn’t sure it would be enough.
It had to be enough.
“True—
”
“Stop.” His voice was colder than he’d meant it to be, but it was the only way he could beat down the fire she’d so unexpectedly kindled in him. “You don’t mean this. You’re just feeling. . .obligated.”
“Is that what I’m feeling?”
He countered with a question of his own, still unanswered. “What are you running from?”
She didn’t answer, but he saw the heat fade from her eyes, felt it as if the chill had swept him as well.
“If you don’t trust me enough to tell me that, you sure as hell shouldn’t be trusting me with. . .anything more.”
For a long moment she just stared at him. So long he felt his pulse begin to hammer again, felt his body’s signal that it was more than agreeable to resuming what he’d so abruptly ended. No matter how wrong it was.
And then she turned away, and without another word left the room. A moment later he heard her footsteps on the stairway. In sudden need of support he reached for the counter, closing his eyes, grabbing the edge of the cold stone and holding on.
To stop himself from going after her.
Chapter Fourteen
Hope didn’t make it to the bedroom. Instead she dove into the bathroom, because it was closer. And had cold water. Which she needed, after what the man downstairs had fired in her.
She pulled the door closed, turned the lock. Knowing him—oh, God, knowing him—he could probably open it with a couple of toothpicks, but it gave her sense of security anyway.
If you don’t trust me enough to tell me that, you sure as hell shouldn’t be trusting me with anything more.
And then she realized that yes, he could likely unlock this door, but he wouldn’t. Because, outside of an emergency, he wasn’t the kind of man who would ignore such obvious signals. And he would honor them. Because that’s who he was.
Her back against the door, she slid down to the floor, shaking. She tried to think of him ever running from what she’d left behind. The images wouldn’t form in her mind, because she knew he never would. No, honorable, strong True Mahan would never have run. He would have stood up to them, he would have found a way to do it, and to keep everyone safe. She’d been wrong when she thought he couldn’t match them.
Oh, yeah, that’s what she needed, a tall, dark, studly Texan, maybe with that rifle in the back of his truck, barreling in and taking charge. Cagan and the rest wouldn’t know what hit them.
That it was so easy to imagine, that he could and would, just made the differences between them seem even starker.
And insurmountable.
She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there, her arms wrapped around her knees, when she heard the tap on the door. She didn’t even jump; she was too weary of it all. And she’d known he’d come anyway.
A silent moment passed. Then, “Hope, say something.”
That seemed an odd enough request that her head came up.
“Say anything. Tell me to go to hell. Just so I know you’re. . .alive in there.”
Faintly, as if from a long distance, something sparked inside her. “Go to hell,” she said, as instructed. A moment later she heard footsteps retreating down the hall.
When it was quiet again she thought about that spark. Realized it was because he’d been afraid she had come in here and. . .what? Committed suicide? She nearly laughed. If she’d had his kind of nerve, maybe she would have back then. It would have put an end to it, for sure. But she hadn’t had the nerve then, or now. She wasn’t like strong, solid True Mahan who had gone through seven kinds of hell and not broken. True Mahan, who would take a stand and protect those he loved. But she didn’t have that strength, so to keep those she loved safe, she had run. It was the only thing she knew how to do.
Well, that and nearly ravish the man in his own kitchen. Apparently she knew how to do that.
She wondered what would have happened had he been a different kind of man. The kind who would take what she’d obviously been offering. And probably more, whether she offered it or not.
Images rippled through her mind, images like those that had taunted her as she listened to the shower running, imagining him with rivulets of water running over his naked body. Images of being in his arms, feeling his strength and solid goodness, of that tall, lean body taking hers to heights she’d never felt before. Giving her what she’d never known.
And she would take it. Because that’s what she did. That’s who she was.
Nowhere near good enough for the likes of Truett Mahan.
*
For at least the third time in the last hour, True picked up his phone, stared at it as if it held the answer, then put it down on the desk again. Once he’d gotten as far as pulling up the number, but hadn’t called.
When he picked it up again he made a call, but not the one he’d been pondering.
Deck’s cell phone was a relatively new addition, acceded to only because he didn’t want to be out of touch with Kelsey. “Besides her, you’re the only one who has the number,” Deck had said warily when he’d first gotten it. “Well, and Mom.”
True knew he meant Kelsey’s mother, from whom Kelsey got her heart, her strength, and her beauty. The creature who had biologically produced Deck wasn’t worthy of the name.
Mindful of Deck’s trust, this was the first time he’d initiated a call on it; usually he called the house phone and left a message there, which Deck would eventually answer one way or another, usually a way that didn’t involve actual speaking. Although that, too, had changed since Kelsey.
Surprisingly, he answered on the first ring. Not surprisingly, he didn’t bother with hello.
“If you need more decisions, I’m fresh out.”
True laughed, felt better about calling. “Not going well?”
“Sam,” Deck said sourly, “can be a real jerk sometimes.”
“Can’t we all?” True said, meaning it on levels he could never explain right now. “But no, no decisions. Not even wedding decisions. Just a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Just how pissed were you when you found out I’d had Ducane check you out?”
“Really. If you hadn’t told him to stop when and where you did, we wouldn’t be here now. I didn’t. . .forgive easily back then.”
“But you did.”
“Eventually.” There was a moment of silence, but True didn’t speak. He knew this whole friendship thing was new to Deck, and he did best with time to process. And finally he went on. “I think part of the reason I was so angry was that. . .I really liked it here. I didn’t want to have to move on again.”
“But if I’d pushed too hard,” True began.
“I’d have been gone.”
True thought of Kelsey. “Then I’m really, really glad I didn’t. For lots of reasons.”
“Me, too. So, you going to dig into what your girl’s running from?”
He tried to ignore the flash of. . .whatever that was that shot through him at the words “your girl.”
“Would you?”
“If it was Kelsey in trouble, I’d dig down to the core, and damn the consequences.”
After they’d ended the call, True tapped the phone against his palm. He wasn’t really any further along than he had been. Because there was one major, irrefutable difference in their situations. Deck would have every right with Kelsey. He loved her to distraction, and she knew it, and loved him right back just as hard.
What Hope Larson felt was nothing like love, but a debt to someone who had helped her. And that was something a man simply did not cash in on. Not if he wanted to live with himself. And he felt nothing of the sort for Hope either. What he felt was merely concern for a person in trouble. Nothing more.
Those flashes of heat and sexual awareness were just. . .reminders he was still breathing. And if what he’d felt when they’d almost kissed nibbled away at that certainty, he ignored it.
He pulled up that first number again, and this time he hit the button.
*
Hop
e was feeling quite relieved this morning. True was already gone when she got up, and when she arrived at the office next door, Zee mentioned casually that she’d be providing the promised meals for the rest of the week. She seemed upbeat about it, so Hope guessed she wasn’t being ordered to by her brother, at least.
And she guessed her brother hadn’t told her why. That he didn’t want to be around in case his house guest/temporary employee tried to jump him again. Hope supposed it was a measure of the distance she’d gained from her old life that that now seemed like the stupidest thing she’d done in recent memory.
But Lord, she’d wanted that kiss. And she couldn’t ever remember feeling like that before.
She realized Zee was talking and snapped back to reality, hoping she hadn’t missed much.
“—the music festival this spring. He’d love to get a foot in there, it’s a huge deal and they always need this built or that organized.”
“I’m sorry, where?”
Thankfully, Zee only laughed. “The Kerrville folk festival. I keep forgetting not everyone outside of Texas has heard of it. Bet you’ve heard of some of the names that have came out of there, though.”
“It’s a big thing?”
“About thirty thousand people show up. About two and half weeks of a big campout with music, crafts, a ton of food vendors. And,” she added, “one of their usual staff who builds and maintains the stages, booths, and other structures just crashed on his motorcycle. They called us to see if True could help out until he’s back on his feet.”
Hope nearly laughed out loud at herself. So much for thinking True’s absence had anything at all to do with her, or what had happened last night.
When did you start having delusions of grandeur? As if True Mahan would run rather than face you. As if he’d run rather than face anyone, or anything. It just wasn’t in the man.
Belatedly something occurred to her. “When will he be back?”
“No idea, maybe a couple of days, maybe not until the weekend. Definitely not tonight, at least.” Zee eyed her curiously. “Does it matter?”
Whiskey River Runaway (Whiskey River Series Book 2) Page 9