The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance)

by Laura Drake

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  When he didn’t look up from the Harry Potter book, she opened the door and walked out. The click of the door closing sent jitters skittering over her nerves. She pressed her lips together to even the lipstick, brushed invisible specks from her structured jacket, and shot the cuffs.

  When Olivia pulled the door open Priss knew she’d messed up. Five women lounged, drinking tea in the living room, dressed in blingy, old-lady sweats and coordinated pastel cotton tops and sneakers.

  She slung off her jacket, grateful she’d chosen the fitted white cotton blouse over the satin one.

  “Everyone, this is my across-the-hall neighbor, Priss Hart. Priss, this is the Widow’s Grove Literary Society, dedicated to bringing good taste to the backwaters of Santa Maria County.”

  “Oh.” Priss swallowed. “As long as there’s no pressure...”

  “Liv, you’re so full of crap.” One of the silver-haired ladies stood and walked over to take Priss’s hand. “Hon, we’re much more likely to drink too much wine and argue the ump’s call of the latest Winos’ game. I’m Betty.”

  Olivia’s tinkling laugh echoed off the high ceiling and they all came over to introduce themselves.

  An hour and a half later, Priss sat in a wing-back chair, bare feet tucked up under her. She’d contributed some to the conversation but mostly listened.

  Betty said, “Golding clearly thought that savagery was an unavoidable part of man’s makeup. It was bound to come out eventually.”

  Jane, a former high-school math teacher said, “Haven’t we seen that over and over in history? Rome had their circuses, and I’d put reality TV up as an example that we’re going the same route in modern times—the lowest common denominator is the standard we’re judging by nowadays.”

  “I don’t agree,” Priss said.

  The heads swiveled to her.

  You were right, Mom. I should have listened when you tried to teach me restraint. She bounced her foot to keep it occupied and from carrying her across the room and out the door.

  Olivia said, “What do you think, Priss?”

  She took a breath. “I think Ralph tried to lead the old way, taking the conch and walking away, assuming everyone would follow.”

  Bonnie said, “So you think that Jack’s kind of primal violence is always going to win out?”

  “Not at all. It’s just going to take a different kind of leadership today. Democracy only works when the vast majority of people buy into the goals, right?”

  Heads nodded.

  “Well, when you have a group of people who don’t understand, or feel like they can’t win in a democratic society, they’ll become disenfranchised. Look at the lower class in the U.S. Historically, they bought into the American Dream, thinking if they worked hard their children would achieve a better life.”

  Olivia glanced over the edge of her teacup. “Yes?”

  “Well, the lower classes aren’t drinking that Kool-Aid anymore. They don’t believe that their children can become president...especially when they look around their neighborhoods and see drug dealers and pimps. We’ve got to get to the kids. Bring them back into the fold. If they don’t believe they have a chance at winning, they’re not going to play. Then we all lose, and the Lord of the Flies will win.” She took a breath.

  Not a cup clink or whisper broke the room’s silence.

  She felt like the ragtag mutt who’d wandered into the Westminster dog show. Her face burned, realizing she’d given away way too much about where she’d come from.

  Well, that’s that. You gave it your best shot.

  Betty cocked her head. “I’ve never thought about it that way before.”

  Olivia cleared her throat. “That was a well-thought-out analysis, from a unique perspective.” She set down her teacup. “Ladies, I’d say we have a new member. Don’t you agree?”

  Priss felt like she’d won the blue ribbon.

  * * *

  THE WHOLE THING was pretty easy, actually. He just waited for a day when Priss had to do grocery shopping. That gave him an hour and a half between when he called her until she got home. He always chose a house with kids’ stuff in the grass beside the house, and no dog. Most moms worked, so the house would likely be empty. And now that the weather was warmer, he could almost always find one with a window left cracked.

  He stood in the dining room, listening to a clock somewhere tick into the silence. Every house had a different smell. Some were stuffy, while others smelled flowery from the stuff they put on the carpet then vacuumed up. But underneath it, they all had one smell in common—a combination of bodies and cooking, damp towels and everyday life. The smell of a home.

  His sneakers didn’t make a sound as he walked down the carpeted hall. The kitchen door came up on his right and he stepped in, walking to the refrigerator. Crayon-scrawled artwork and photos held on by magnets covered its surface. Photos of a boy younger than him, squatted in the surf, mouth open in a happy squeal. A fat, pretty lady and a tall guy posed for the camera on the front porch, the kid between them. A picture of the same little kid in a cap and gown, graduating from kindergarten. He pulled open the fridge and scanned the contents. “Score.” He breathed, lifting the lid on a glass dish of homemade tapioca pudding.

  He found a spoon and ate it standing at the counter.

  Something touched the back of his legs and he jumped, dropping his spoon.

  “Mowrr.”

  A tabby cat wound around his legs, stepping over his shoes to rub its head on his jeans.

  When he bent, his heart tried to beat out of his chest. “You scared me, kitty.” The cat arched into his hand, so he picked it up, cradling it like a baby. The cat closed its eyes and purred.

  He carried it into the living room and sat on the couch with it. On the wood mantel over the fireplace there were more photos: the mom and dad getting married, two really old people playing golf, and an old-fashioned one of a baby in a long, frilly dress.

  Burying his fingers in the cat’s soft fur, he sat listening to the echoes of voices that lived here: conversations, shouted play, laughter.

  He knew what he was doing was wrong. Even if he didn’t hurt anything, he didn’t belong here. But he couldn’t seem to stop doing it. It was like a magnet that got stronger and stronger, pulling at him until it got where it was hard to breathe around the big empty space in his chest.

  Sitting alone and quiet in a family’s house, it was like he got filled up again. Like a car at a gas station. It worked, but he knew he was still basically stealing what he needed. It would run out one day and he’d sneak in to another house, even though each time he promised himself he’d never do it again.

  Then the other night, walking the sidewalks after dark, he’d looked into normal lives and just watched. Yellow light spilled out of living-room windows. A mom brought a man in a recliner a beer. In the next house, kids sat on the couch; the mom was helping them with homework.

  They were like those panoramas he’d seen at a museum once. Dirt and plastic bushes made to look like a desert, a painted sky in the background that looked real because of the backlights. There were Indian statues with buckskin breechcloths and black wigs, meant to show you how those people lived.

  And even they were a family. A warrior, a squaw and two little kids.

  He knew he was weird. No one else did this. The kids at school all went home at night and didn’t even notice everything they had—a house, a pet, a family.

  Priss took care of him and their apartment was a lot better place than the kid warehouse, but it wasn’t a home. He was trying to do better, to make her want to keep him, but it was hard. It was like there was a war going on inside him all the time.

  And he didn’t know which side would win.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FRIDAY NIGHT, PRISS
stirred the pan of gravy on the stove, phone tucked into her shoulder, listening to it ring and ring then go to voice mail. She snatched it and stabbed the end key. No use leaving a message for Barney’s son; she’d left seven already. She, Ian and Porter were taking turns visiting Barney in the cardiac care unit where his future was still uncertain. The only sure thing seemed to be that his useless ass son wasn’t coming.

  “Nacho, come get this puzzle off the table. Adam is going to be here soon and we have nowhere to eat.”

  He didn’t even look up from the book. “But Voldemort is about to steal the stone!”

  She couldn’t help but smile. Nacho, not wanting to put down a book? He was changing whether he realized it or not.

  And here she was, mooning over it.

  Crap, is that a lump in the gravy? And that? Shit! She stirred faster. “Dude, if I have to do it, I’m going to just dump the whole thing back in the box.”

  “No!” He tossed the book down and popped up off the couch. “How can I get it off the table without ruining it?”

  “I left a piece of poster board out. Just slide the puzzle on there and carry it into the bedroom.”

  He walked to the table, picked up some stray pieces and dropped them into the box. “Why can’t we just eat around it like we do every other day?”

  “Because we’re having company. The table has to look nice.”

  “How can you like that guy? Sin is right. He’s got a stick up his butt.” Nacho demonstrated, waddling round the table.

  “Hey, show some respect.” She bent to check the browning pie in the oven. “He’s helped us out a bunch. Dinner is the least we can do.” And maybe an apology is in order, too. Nacho focused on keeping the partially assembled puzzle intact while he slid it onto the thin cardboard.

  The tap at the door was soft but she jumped just the same, her eyes flying to the clock on the stove. He’s early!

  “Dude, hurry up.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” Taking one halting step at a time, Nacho balanced the flimsy puzzle-filled cardboard on his outstretched arms.

  Dammit, no time to change. Dusting flour from her jeans, she crossed to the door. “Just lay it on the bed.” She said over her shoulder as she opened the door. Strong hands clasped her upper arms and she was jerked into the hall. Off balance, she fell into Adam’s arms and his lips found hers, urgent, seeking.

  Her hunger fired in a flash-point explosion and she clung, all her focus on the demands of his mouth, her lips issuing her own without consulting her first. Their tongues danced in perfect agreement as her body loosened, opening to him.

  Adam ended the kiss and took a long shaky breath. “Hi.” He didn’t let go.

  He smelled heavenly, of night air, soap and pheromones. Her base impulses stood on high alert, a reminder that this man could become an addiction.

  “I really like how you say hello.” She got her feet under her and took a step back. “Come on in.” She held the door as he passed, painfully aware of the fabric of her bra against her stiffened nipples.

  * * *

  HANDS IN HIS pockets to hide what lay between them, Adam stepped into his old apartment, noting subtle changes he hadn’t noticed before: the scarlet throw on the back of the old couch, an ornate iron cross hanging on the end of the cabinet in front of him, a framed poster of a mountain landscape on the wall above where the TV used to be. Seeing her things in his old space brought up feelings. Proprietary, possessive feelings. “Sure smells good in here.”

  “Crap!” Priss ran the few steps to the kitchen, donned oven mitts and opened the oven, releasing more delicious smells.

  Nacho slouched past him.

  “Hi, Nacho.”

  The kid only grunted a reply, continuing on to the table where he swept puzzle pieces into the top of a box.

  Priss set a golden crusted pie on the cook top. “Luckily I didn’t burn it.”

  “Wow, is that dessert?” He stepped closer.

  “That’s dinner.” She removed the mitts, then stirred a pan on the stove. “Nacho, we talked about this. Say hello to Adam properly.”

  Nacho stuck out a tattooed hand.

  Adam was so surprised, it took a moment to register that the kid wanted to shake. He extricated his hand from his pocket.

  Nacho’s grasp was limp. “Hi.” He mumbled, his eyes scanning the table, the floor, Priss. He looked anywhere but at Adam.

  When he would have withdrawn, Adam held on until the kid’s gaze returned to him. “Firm, like you mean it.” When Nacho’s grip tightened, he nodded and let go. Poor kid, he thought, wondering when the boy’s father had exited his life, or even if the guy had ever been in it at all.

  “Nacho, will you set the table, please? I’m almost done here.” Priss turned off the heat.

  “I’ll help.” Adam reached for the bright red placemats on the counter.

  Minutes later he held out Priss’s chair, then settled onto his own. “You made chicken potpie from scratch?” He shook the cloth napkin into his lap.

  Priss passed the gravy boat across the table to him. “It’s no big deal. My mom taught me. She made it on the cold nights in Vegas.” She shrugged. “It’s not an expensive meal.”

  “She made it for me, too.” Nacho said. His swinging legs had him bouncing in his chair.

  The tough-guy exterior sometimes made him forget that Nacho was just a kid. Adam poured the gravy, then passed it to Nacho, on his right. “Tell me about your mom.”

  “She cooked good.” Nacho drowned his plate then passed the gravy to Priss.

  “She was uneducated, poor, and had awful taste in men.” Priss set the boat on the table and frowning, watched Nacho dig in. “But she was also pretty, hardworking and incredibly optimistic, given her life.”

  “And she smelled good and she loved us,” Nacho said between bites.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Priss took a small forkful, her expression pensive as she chewed.

  “This is really good,” Adam said, anxious for a subject that would erase the sadness from Priss’s eyes. “So, have you told him?”

  “Nah, I thought I’d save the surprise for tonight.”

  “Told me what?” Nacho asked.

  Priss lifted her glass of iced tea and said in a bored voice, “That I’ve decided you can work with Bear.”

  Nacho froze, fork halfway to his open mouth. Delight broke on his face like a happy sunrise. The fork clattered to the plate and his eyebrows rose. “For real?” he breathed.

  “Yeah.” The tea glass Priss raised to her lips didn’t hide her small smile. “We’ll give it a shot.”

  “Holy shit!” Nacho flew out of his chair, threw his arms around her neck and squeezed.

  “Whoa, big guy.” Priss chuckled, juggling her tea before setting it down and patting Nacho’s arm. “No swearing.”

  Adam hadn’t realized the two had identical smiles, having never seen one on the boy. He watched their awkward embrace, tenderness loosening his chest.

  No wonder she goes the extra mile. There really is a kid under all the tats and attitude.

  As if realizing he’d been uncool, Nacho dropped his arms and backed away. But his smile didn’t waver when he sat back down. “Can we go tomorrow?”

  Priss’s smile looked just as permanent. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Bear’s probably not working. But we’ll give him a call.”

  Adam asked, “How’re you going to get out there after school, Nacho? The school’s on the same side of town, but still, it’s probably a good two miles.”

  Nacho picked up his fork and speared another bite of pie. “I’ll walk.”

  “I don’t think so.” Priss frowned. “You can stay in after-school care until I get off work, and I’ll—”

  “But then I won’t have any time!�
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  Adam spoke up. “I have a solution.”

  Both sets of eyes settled on him.

  “I still have my bike from when I was your age, in my garage. You could borrow it.”

  * * *

  NACHO AND BEAR’S first meeting had gone well on Saturday, so he allowed Nacho back on Sunday.

  Priss had every intention of staying, but after a half hour of listening to Bear explaining technique and equipment to Nacho, she fell asleep. She was awakened by Nacho shaking her shoulder and telling her to leave. She’d already determined that Bear only looked scary and Nacho seemed to be hanging on the man’s every word, so she agreed to come pick him up around three.

  She dropped Mona’s top on the drive back to town, enjoying the scent of warm grass on the breeze. With the passing of the rains, the hills had turned from eye-popping emerald to a dun gold, seemingly overnight. The May sun shone with more intent than it had a few weeks ago, a reminder that time was passing. Too soon, she and Nacho would pack up and fly off on another adventure, somewhere else.

  So what was with the nostalgic tug at the thought of leaving? Taking her hand from the wheel, she rubbed her breastbone.

  Adam.

  When she’d fallen into his arms at the door last night, she’d felt protected. Safe. Happy. It may be an illusion, but it was a soft, pretty one. It seemed even his innocent touch could awaken her body— his guiding hand on the back of her neck crossing a street, the brush of the tender skin at the inside of her elbow, his fingers twined in hers.

  Hot sex. That’s all it is.

  Adam’s straight-laced facade disguised an amazingly sensual lover beneath. One she loved to explore. His attention to detail, and his slow, worshipful hands...

  It wasn’t the sun that heated the crotch of her denim shorts, or sweat that dampened her panties.

  You’re in lust with him. That’s all.

  And that was enough. Gravel crunched when she braked and pulled off the deserted road. Pulling her cell phone from her bra, her fingers brushed her pebbled nipple. She hit speed dial.