by Marie Force
She poked his side. “Come to bed, dear.”
“Why?” he said, still half asleep.
“Because I want you, Brandon McCall. And I need you to know that I’m going to want you close to me every day for the rest of my life.”
“I’ll be here,” he answered. “It sure did take you a long time to find me.”
“I know. Funny how love was right in front of me. I just had to open my eyes.”
He leaned down and kissed her tenderly with just the right kind of kiss she’d been waiting for all her life. “Marry me,” he whispered against her lips.
She whispered back. “I don’t know you well enough yet, Doc, but maybe I will by morning.”
WRAPPED AROUND YOUR FINGER
Shirley Jump
To my running, swimming, and biking friends, near and far. Thank you for the laughs and conversations on long runs, for pushing me when I think I can’t take another step, and for being people who inspire me every single day.
ONE
IN THE SMALL Georgia town where Maggie McBride had grown up, beauty queens ruled and only boys hammered nails and wore boots. Girls were brought up to be ladies who paraded around in heels and never cursed, and worked respectable jobs while raising photogenic families who went to church on Sunday and said please and thank you, ma’am.
Maggie hated heels. Cursed like a trucker when the occasion warranted and had no idea how to fry chicken or stitch a pillowcase. Conformity is for everyone else, she’d once been told. Don’t be everyone else, Maggie dear. Be bold. Be brave. Be yourself.
Which was exactly what Maggie had done for the past twenty-eight years. Her parents had long ago given up on her and written her off as “that incorrigible child.” Fine by Maggie, who never did have much in common with the people who had raised her. Or the world she had left behind.
Until that dare arrived in the mail.
Maggie had promised Rachel Winters—the two of them best friends since that day in first grade when Maggie slugged the bully trying to steal Rachel’s lunch, and Rachel later shared her sandwich with her new friend—that when Rachel got married, she would go back to Chatham Ridge, slip into an uncomfortable pink dress she would never wear again, and spend a few hours in a torturous pair of high heels. For Rachel, Maggie would do almost anything.
Except what had been asked of her in that note.
A note Rachel had slipped inside the invitation to her wedding, along with a book, and a reminder that Maggie might have moved away from the traditions of her past, but they still had a way of sneaking up on her when she least expected it.
“Hey, be careful with those. I’d like to be able to have children someday, you know.”
Nick’s deep voice jerked Maggie back to the present. She adjusted the stack of two-by-fours she was carrying and swung to the right, just before she collided with Nick’s hip. “Sorry.”
“What, no quick comeback questioning my manhood? You disappoint me.” Nick grinned, reached over, took the pile of lumber from her and loaded it into the back of his battered blue pickup. The scuffed bed was filled with the detritus of a completed construction job—buckets of leftover mortar, boxes of porcelain tiles, a few bags of trash. After a month of hard work, they had finished up a remodel of an old mansion on Rescue Bay’s western edge, one of those beachfront places built in the twenties. Maggie loved these old houses, with their quirky personalities and long-buried mysteries, all waiting to be brought to life again by her and Nick’s handiwork.
“Earth to M.J. You okay? Not gonna faint on me, are you?” Nick put a hand on her forehead. His touch was warm, tender. Familiar.
For about five seconds, Maggie could almost believe Nick was worried about her. Then she remembered this was Nick, who was about as emotionally deep as a fingernail.
She and Nick had worked together, side by side, for the better part of two years now, rehabbing homes and renovating businesses all up and down the Gulf Coast. They’d sweated together on long, hot days of demo work, then, when the day was done, sat on overturned plastic buckets and cracked open cold beers together. She’d listened to Nick complain about the girlfriend du jour, and they’d debated the Steelers versus the Packers two falls in a row. They were friends, buddies, coworkers. And nothing more.
Not that she didn’t find Nick Patterson attractive. A woman would have to be dead and buried not to find Nick attractive. The man could have been Ryan Gosling’s twin, with his sandy brown hair and blue-green eyes, and that lopsided grin. He had a tattoo that peeked out from under one sleeve from time to time, like a mystery waiting to be unraveled, and a deep voice that rolled through her belly. But he was also a major pain in the ass, and a man who lacked a commitment gene. That kept him squarely in her Just Friends column.
She jerked away from his touch. “Don’t be pretending like you’ve got a heart. You just don’t want to be stuck with cleanup.”
“Of course I care about you. You’re my work wife.”
“For one, I can’t be your work wife unless you already have a regular wife. And for another,” she hoisted a dusty pile of Sheetrock trimmings into the truck, then coughed when it caused a blowback of dust, “if this is what being married to you is like, then I want a divorce.”
“Hey, I’m not so bad.” He tucked a few tools into the stainless steel box behind the cab of the truck. His arms flexed, and that tattoo made an enticing, winking appearance. “You should be impressed that I’m at least feigning concern.”
She snorted. “Yeah, very impressed. For a second there, I almost believed you.”
“Then my evil plan is working.” He smirked, then grabbed the next bag of trash before she could, and tossed it into the bed. “Let me take that before you hurt yourself. You are a hot mess today.”
“Gee, thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel pretty.”
He leaned in close to her, so close she could catch the dark scent of his cologne and see the faint dusting of stubble on his cheeks. “If you want me to make you feel pretty, then go on a date with me.”
Nick had been asking her out almost from the minute they’d met. She’d turned him down every single time. She was here to be taken seriously, to earn her chops as a worker and, she hoped, down the road, a contractor. Doing that did not involve dating the guy who helped her frame walls. He was interested in her, all right—but not in anything that lasted longer than the time it took to paint a wall. “Date you and become notch number 422 on your bedpost?” She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“For your information, I do not make notches on my bedpost. Nor have I dated 422 women.”
She rolled her eyes. “So I’m off by five or ten notches.”
“Seriously, though, you’re never this distracted, M.J.,” Nick said, calling her by the nickname he’d given her on their first day together, when Mike Stark had hired Margaret Jean McBride as part of his construction crew. Maggie wasn’t sure whether it was because Nick didn’t see her as a Maggie, or whether it made it easier to work a construction site with someone whose name sounded less feminine. Either way, Maggie was glad Nick had always treated her as an equal and not as a girl.
“Yet, all day,” Nick went on, “you’ve been walking around in a fog. If you were any other woman, I’d be asking if there was a shoe sale or something.” He grinned, then tossed the last bag of trash into the back and shut the tailgate. “But you’re not any other woman. You’re more like . . .”
“One of the guys?” she filled in.
“Well, you do swing a sledgehammer better than anyone I know.”
“I can swing a sledgehammer better than you,” she said, pulling open the passenger’s-side door and climbing into the cab.
Nick got in on the other side and settled his tall, lean frame behind the steering wheel. “You only think you can swing a sledgehammer better than me.”
She smirked. “Keep telling yourself that, Conan. It’s all in the center of gravity.” She wriggled her hips in the seat.
He wa
tched her hips, his blue-green eyes darkening, then he slipped on a pair of sunglasses and started the truck. “So, what are you going to do with your week’s vacation?”
With the Fourth of July falling on a Tuesday this year, and with the lighter summer workload, Mike had decided to give everyone at Stark Construction a paid week off for the holiday. One of a million reasons why Maggie loved her job.
“I’m heading up to Georgia. My best friend is getting married.” She thought of the note. The words Rachel had written. The challenge at the end.
I dare you.
A challenge—Lord knew Maggie loved a challenge. Tell Maggie that she couldn’t do something or shouldn’t do something, she would do it anyway, just to prove the naysayers wrong. Rachel knew that—as did the rest of the girls in the Southern Belle Book Club. No doubt, that was what had them sending her the note, and the book.
Your presence is also hereby requested at book club, because it’s been an eon and a day since we saw you! Getting you started with this month’s pick, Dared to Love by J. K. Simmons. Yes, it is a romance novel, and yes, you’d better just suck it up. Want another genre? Come another month. Anyway, in keeping with the theme of the book, we’re all embarking on a dare of our own. Here’s yours, specially crafted by Rachel:
I dare you to bring a hunky man to the wedding as your date. Like that hottie Nick you work with. (That’s what you get for introducing me to him last summer when I visited .) Give him a chance, and in the process, keep my aunt Ethel from asking when you’re getting married. Flirt with the guy—and not about the size of his chain saw. Maybe even take the ultimate dare—and fall in love, you commitment-phobe, you.
Invite Nick as her date? What was Rachel thinking? It was enough that Maggie had agreed to wear a dress and heels. Rachel knew Maggie didn’t do girlie. Didn’t do makeup and manicures, and sure as hell didn’t flirt. As for falling in love? With Nick, of all people? Emotional suicide.
Years ago, Maggie had fallen head over heels for B. J. Thompson, who’d played running back for the Chatham Ridge High Chargers. She’d followed him to Florida after graduation, promising to be the homey little woman he wanted. Then two weeks later she’d come home from the grocery store to find him in their bedroom, fondling the neighbor’s breasts. Maggie had packed her bags, gotten her first job in construction, and flushed those happily-ever-after notions once and for all. Her friends could go and play Mrs. Cleaver all they wanted, but Maggie was much happier right where she was—smack-dab in the center of Tomboy.
But that argument wouldn’t stop Rachel, who had to be as stubborn as Maggie. If Maggie didn’t show up with Nick, or with a date, Rachel would undoubtedly find one for her. Maybe what Maggie needed was someone who could play the part and convince the girls that Maggie was taking the dare seriously. Then they wouldn’t bug her about it every five minutes during the reception.
She glanced over at Nick as they drove away from the construction site and into downtown Rescue Bay. He had a nice profile with a strong jaw and an easy lopsided smile that appeared at the drop of a hat. He wasn’t a troll, and he did have a few good manners—like taking that wood from her and opening her door, even though he knew damned well Maggie could take care of herself—so maybe . . .
Was she crazy? Spend a week with Nick? The same man who dated like some people dieted—in a constant binge and purge? What if it changed things between them? She liked things just as they were. Unencumbered, unattached, unsexualized. More or less.
Flirt with the guy—and not about the size of his chain saw. Maybe even take the ultimate dare—and fall in love, you commitment-phobe, you.
It was Friday. She was leaving Wednesday, to spend the week in Chatham Ridge before the wedding next Saturday afternoon. If she didn’t ask Nick—where on earth Rachel got the idea that he would make a good date, Maggie had no idea—then where was she going to find a man in the next few days who would go along with this crazy plan? Maggie didn’t go out, didn’t date, didn’t do a whole hell of a lot besides go to work and go to sleep. Her best—and pretty much only—prospect was sitting right beside her.
“So . . . uh . . . what are you doing this week?” she asked Nick.
He stopped for a red light and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. A country song played at a low volume on his radio, something about pickup trucks and beer. “Monday, I’m planning on drinking a lot of beer on the beach with women in teeny-tiny bikinis.” He tossed Maggie a grin. “Rinse and repeat for Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday—”
“I get the picture.”
“You almost sound jealous, M.J.”
“For one, I am never jealous of you and the hundreds of women who parade through your bedroom—”
“Hundreds? That’s an exaggeration. But a good one.”
“For another, I think you can do something far more productive with your week off.”
“Something far more productive? Like what?” The light turned green and Nick turned left, now moving away from downtown and toward Maggie’s condo. “You have a side job lined up or something?”
“Something like that.” She fidgeted in her seat. If she showed up without a man, she knew Rachel was right. Her well-meaning relatives, who had taken Maggie under their wing years ago as a sort of surrogate sister to Rachel, would find one for her. Given the debacle with Rachel’s cousin Wilbur two years ago—him and his “feel my neck, see if I have the mumps” moments—she didn’t want to put her destiny in anyone else’s hands but her own.
“Well, if you do find a side job, let me know,” Nick said. “I can always use some extra cash. Helps me pay down the Money Pit.”
The Money Pit was a three-bedroom ranch house a half mile from the water, with a large backyard at the edge of one of the many walking trails in Rescue Bay. A foreclosure, it had sat empty for five years, decaying in the salty air and merciless Florida sun. Nick spent most of his free hours—and all of his free cash—on the ongoing renovations. Maggie had helped him out more than once on other projects he had done and had been impressed with Nick’s design eye. He had a way of bringing everything together—from the flooring to the backsplash—to make a house feel like a home.
He’d flipped six houses in the time she’d known him, all foreclosures that became something amazing when Nick was done. He had claimed he’d bought each one with an intent toward a long-term residence, but he never held on to any of them. He seemed content with his life of impermanence, both in his relationships and his addresses.
Which was what made him perfect for Maggie’s needs. Nick wouldn’t expect anything more at the end of the week than a thank-you—and maybe a check. Rachel would be happy that Maggie had taken the dare, and in the end, Maggie would be no more committed to Nick than she was to her landlord. Win-win.
“I do have one option, if you’re looking to make extra money,” she said.
“I’m all ears. And empty wallet.” Nick chuckled as he turned right onto Maggie’s street and stopped the truck outside her condo. “Spent my last paycheck fixing a plumbing leak that went from one bad pipe to a strip-it-to-the walls-and-start-over-again nightmare.”
“Are you ever going to let me see that house? I could give you a hand, you know.” He’d let her help with all the other projects, but this one he’d been secretive about. Maybe he had some other girl with a hammer handing him nails. Either way, she wasn’t jealous. At all.
“I’m good on my own.” He flicked a glance at her. “I’m debating keeping this one.”
She laughed. “Yeah, right. You’ve never kept any of your Money Pits. So I’ll give you the same advice I gave you the last seven times you put a house on the market five minutes after you finished the reno. Put some flowers in pots on the front porch and in some window boxes before you hang up the For Sale sign. You want a house to say home the minute you see it.”
“And I should make sure I have a swing on the porch, for quiet afternoons and reading. Like you had when you were a teenager.”
She cast him
a surprised glance. That swing had been the one bit of normalcy in her stark, cold childhood. For six months, they’d lived in that rental house, a campus home so unlike the usual no-maintenance apartments her parents preferred. Six months before her parents were offered jobs in California and the house had been packed up, leaving behind that swing and the window boxes. Rachel’s home had been the closest Maggie had ever come to living in a house like that, but it wasn’t the same, not really. Not when it wasn’t her own, wasn’t a place where she could put her own stamp. Hang her own swing. It was why she’d bought the silly thing years ago, though she still lived in a condo, no more permanent or homey than the places of her childhood. Some psychiatrist would have something to say about that, Maggie was sure. “You remember that? Heck, I bought that beat-up old porch swing like two years ago and made you store it in your garage. Someday it’ll find a home.”
“I pay attention more than you think, M.J.” He shifted the truck into Park, then draped his hands over the steering wheel. “Anyway, the house is not ready for you to see. It’s still a . . . work in progress. An expensive one.”
“Maybe if you dated a little less, you’d have more time for the Money Pit.” She put a hand on the door handle, then released it. She wasn’t here to lecture him. She needed a solution to her own problem, and solutions weren’t exactly falling off a bachelor tree.
She looked over at Nick, his hair dusted with a fine layer of sawdust, his gray T-shirt so worn, it was practically see-through, and his hands rough with the calluses of a man who worked hard for his paycheck. It was a crazy idea, one that could easily backfire, but if she put him in a suit and tie, and got him to shave more than a couple times a week . . . “If you come with me to Georgia, I’ll . . . I’ll pay you. Three hundred dollars.”
“What? Why?”