Bad for Her

by Christi Barth

  “The hospital belongs to the Chamber of Commerce. I volunteered to be their rep. Can’t beat the excitement of all the town’s movers and shakers in one place!”

  Mollie didn’t just love her hometown. She lived, breathed, and believed in it. That made her the perfect person to smother his inner skeptic/smart-ass/big-city groupie and convert him.

  Plus, he got to rest his hand on her thigh. Which skyrocketed this into one of the top ten meetings ever. Right below the one with the U.S. Marshals Service that promised him they’d keep Flynn and Kellan out of McGinty’s grasp.

  “Want me to flag down a waitress so you can order?”

  “No.” She flashed him a cheery smile of thanks. “Cheryl saw me come in. She’ll bring my usual.”

  He moved his hand in slow, deliberate strokes up and down her thigh. She immediately responded by crooking her ankle around his. It gave his hand more room to roam. God, he could sit here touching her like this all damn day. Trying to keep things looking normal above the table, Rafe said, “You have a usual?”

  “We meet here every month. When I find something I like, I stick with it.”

  If any other woman had said that, Rafe would’ve assumed it was a dig. A hint that they wanted, no, expected a long-term thing with him. But Mollie didn’t play those games. She said what she meant, with no hidden meanings or double-talk to figure out. God knew she’d been up front about just wanting a fling from the start. Rafe had no doubt she’d be equally up front if she changed her mind. It was a fucking relief after years of examining every conversation for double-crossing and lies, too. With Mollie you got what you saw. Period.

  Not that he gave her anywhere close to the same.

  Squeezing her hand, he dialed back in to the guy in the fisherman’s cap still yapping.

  “I know you’ve all been waiting with baited breath—get it?” he said, tapping the double row of hooks and lures hanging from his floppy brim.

  Great. Puns. Another reason why this meeting needed booze.

  “Floyd, get on with it.” Mick whipped off his faded gray USMC cap. Whapped it against his palm, re-creased the brim, then resettled it over the messy strands that didn’t so much cover his scalp. “The May meeting is when you kick off discussions on the Cranberry Festival. There’s no drumroll or surprise. Just a hope that you’ll wrap it up before my burger comes.”

  If Rafe didn’t already—grudgingly—like Mick, he would now. Any man who could cut through the bullshit and move things along was aces in his book.

  “What’s Mick’s business?” he asked Mollie.

  “None. He’s here on behalf of the public. To make sure the business owners don’t forget who keeps their doors open.”

  Rafe didn’t buy it. “He showed up one day and nobody shooed him away.”

  “More or less,” she said as a smile quirked up the corners of her mouth. “But he’s smart. Always wants what’s in the town’s best interest. Mick has a good hand at reining people in, too. Tempers, ideas, you name it.”

  Making it to full colonel in the Marine Corps required a cool head. Rafe felt another ping of recognition for the fellow soldier. He’d always thought of himself as half soldier, half businessman.

  Until now.

  Now he was . . .

  A mechanic? A whole new man? A guy holding his family together with nothing more than hope and a shit-ton of cussing?

  Floyd was now brandishing several clipboards. Jesus. Clipboards? Had they traveled back in time when he crossed the border into Oregon? If the Irish mob could use Google Docs, so could the Bandon Chamber of Commerce. “As usual, in addition to the manpower each business contributes, we’ll need volunteers from the community.”

  Mollie waved her hand in the air. “To do what? Remember, we’ve had some newbies join in the past few months. Let’s be sure to give them the full picture.”

  Great. Why not write new guy on his forehead with a Sharpie to really get their attention? Putting down roots and staying under the radar—per Delaney’s instructions—seemed impossible to accomplish simultaneously. Too bad he couldn’t tell which one gave them a better chance of surviving here.

  “Right you are, Dr. Vickers. I wouldn’t want anyone to be at sea with all the wonders,” Floyd swooshed his hand into a large arc, “that the Cranberry Festival has in store.”

  The wonders in store? That did it. No doubt in Rafe’s mind. Floyd lived with his mother. Probably had three cats, too. This guy was a trip.

  “It is a multiday event celebrating our region’s most famous crop. It all begins with a blessing of the cranberry harvest. We’ll be choosing which local bog gets that particular privilege this year, so submit your nominations here.” He handed off a clipboard to make the rounds of the two big tables. “There’s the crowning of the queen and court, the hotly contested Food Fair for the best cranberry dish, a pancake breakfast, bake sale, bazaar, games, live music, the Cranberry Bowl, and of course, the parade.”

  Multiday event? This thing sounded like it lasted for a whole month. Rafe leaned in to Mollie. “Why all the hoopla?” he whispered. She gave a full body shiver as his breath tickled over her ear. Good to know she was as revved up as he was. He’d have to drag her away soon to take the edge off of all this heat between them. “Who even eats cranberries, aside from the can of stuff on Thanksgiving?”

  Her deep pools of green rounded so wide that her upper lashes brushed her skin. “Shhhh! Are you looking to be blackballed out of the C of C on your first day? You can’t say something like that in Bandon.”

  Rafe thought of the huge variety of festivals that dominated almost every weekend, spring through fall, in Chicago. You couldn’t turn a corner without hearing bands, smelling charcoal and spices, and stepping in puddles of beer. There was no way this half-assed excuse for a town could throw a decent festival. “This sounds like a whole lot of excitement over nothing.”

  “Do you know how many pounds of cranberries Americans eat in a year?” Her whisper sliced back, as sharp as her scalpel.

  “No.” Rafe barely stopped before rolling his eyes. Instead, he just muttered, “Not sure I give a rat’s ass, either.”

  “Four hundred million pounds. Every year.” Her ponytail jerked as her head bobbed on each word, driving the point home. “Cranberries are a very big deal, and they are everything to the people of Bandon. They are our livelihood, our purpose. And yes, for a few days every September, they’re a heck of a lot of fun, too.”

  Shit. Cranberries evidently made the earth turn here, so he’d need to get on board. Well, first, he’d have to dial back his natural inclination to mock this piss-ant “festival.” Then he’d get on board.

  But damned if he’d suffer by himself.

  Rafe shot his hand in the air. “I’ve got three volunteers for you.”

  “Wonderful.” Floyd rushed at him like a quarterback aiming for the goal posts. “To do what?”

  How the fuck should he know? Forcing his gritted teeth open into maybe a smile, Rafe said, “Whatever you need. My brothers and I are good with our hands. Flynn can build anything. Kellan could help write press releases. I just want to be a part of the action.”

  Especially if volunteering got him more action with Mollie. If it made him look like a good guy, a decent guy, in her eyes. Mollie, who was now patting his thigh in approval. Now her hand was moving up, up, to something that wasn’t his thigh. Rafe jerked his chair farther forward to hide her wandering fingers from Floyd.

  “You’re the new mechanic over at Wick’s, aren’t you?” Instead of looking at Rafe, he skimmed his gaze over everyone else at the long table, as though looking for them to agree. He hooked a thumb into the gap between the pearlized snaps of his graph paper shirt.

  Deciding he didn’t want anyone else to speak for him, Rafe grunted out a, “Yeah.”

  “That skill set will come in very handy on our parade committee. Put your contact info on the sheet. Bandon’s lucky to have transplants that already care so much about the town.” Floy
d pulled another clipboard from under his arm and waved it. “All right, moving on. Who wants to track down some new bands this year?”

  If Bandon knew who the Maguire brothers really were?

  They wouldn’t feel lucky at all.

  But Rafe felt damn lucky. Signing all three of them up for this so-called festival would satisfy the marshal’s insistence that they do community service and the Maguires didn’t mind giving back . . . in theory.

  Their mom had insisted on helping others, even when they were little. Dad didn’t care, but Rafe made sure to pass it down as his mom’s legacy. Back in Chicago, Flynn mentored kids at a gym. Kellan tutored. Rafe did Habitat for Humanity. Figured it was the least he could do to tip the scales back the right way to putting the city together that he was occasionally responsible for pulling apart.

  It was the government more or less ordering them to do it that chafed like a starched jock strap.

  “I had no idea my bad boy was such a do-gooder,” Mollie teased, nosing at his neck. It shot up the tiny hairs there.

  Who knew being good had so many rewards? If it wasn’t for Mick eagle-eyeing them across the room, Rafe would’ve turned the bare half inch to take her mouth. Instead, he ran a hand down her ponytail and gave it a tug at the bottom. Zeroed in on her smoky green eyes like they were totally alone. Eyes that darkened with some serious want the longer he stared at her. “Whatever it takes to keep you turned on.”

  “Apparently, that’s very little when it comes to you.” Her hand caressed his forearm. Not anything so sexy it’d be in a porno script. But the way Mollie did it had him almost leaping out of his chair. Rafe was so aware of her, aware of where they touched at the sides of their feet, their knees, their arms. Aware of the combo scent of forest air and hospital sterile scrub that was so her.

  No need to pay attention to Floyd now that he had Rafe’s slave labor lined up. But their suggestive whispers ended when a waitress slung plates down in front of them. The shift in their positions made Rafe aware of someone staring at them.

  Staring daggers.

  A man, his own age, way too handsome for Rafe’s taste, what with the possessive way his eyes all but shot handcuffs around Mollie’s arms.

  Fat chance.

  The best prime rib sandwich in town would have to wait a couple of minutes. Apparently Rafe needed to send a message.

  Because he didn’t believe in sharing. Not a pen, not his clothes, and damn sure not his woman. The mob had taught him to cling to what was his. If you loosened your grasp, even a little, someone would snatch away whatever was precious to you.

  This thing with Mollie was casual. Temporary. A flash in the pan. But while they were in it? He was all in. One hundred percent.

  So hands fucking off, you nameless, nosy bastard.

  Chapter 10

  “Come with me.” Even before he finished the order, Rafe pulled Mollie from her seat.

  It was kind of fun, how effortlessly he lifted her to her feet. Sexy, of course. But sex wasn’t the uppermost need in her body right now. Flirting was fun. Food was a necessity after starting her shift two hours early to vaccinate the high school band for their upcoming trip to Brazil. “But my Bogwich is here.”

  “Your what?” he asked, still leading her out of the dining room toward the bar.

  “The Hounddog Bogwich. My sandwich.” The one she’d dreamed of all morning. Stabbing teenagers in the arm, it turned out, worked up quite an appetite. “Turkey, swiss, and cream cheese with Bogworks cranberry sauce.”

  He stopped without any warning. Mollie tripped over his size humungous feet in hard-tipped work boots and fell against his side. Not that she was complaining about the full body slam. Any time she could rub up against Rafe Maguire and his six-plus feet of lean muscle, she would certainly jump on it. On him.

  Except . . . those blue eyes squinted down at her, almost . . . pissed off? At her sandwich? Geez, if he had that much buyer’s remorse over his own sandwich, she’d split hers with him.

  After demanding at least a half-dozen kisses as payment. Because Mollie clearly had the leverage in this situation.

  “No. Tell me you made that up.” Rafe’s hoarse plea sounded as serious as Jesse’s unadulterated horror at her suggestion he put bananas on his waffle last weekend.

  “The Bogwich? I told you, we live, breathe, and yes, eat cranberries here in Bandon.” Not to mention its complete, tongue-melting deliciousness. Mollie had dreamt about this sandwich all through her residency. The mere thought of it got her through some endless thirty-six-hour shifts. It was the first thing she ordered when she got back to town.

  “It’s an abomination.” The harsh words dragged out of him like tires over gravel.

  That got her off of his chest. And made her mentally scroll through a few other casual comments in which Rafe had revealed Bandon was far from his dream destination. Mollie got that small-town life could require . . . an adjustment. It could be intrusive. It felt claustrophobic even to her the first few weeks after coming back from residency, and she loved Bandon more than ice cream.

  She’d take a wild guess that the small-town charm hadn’t drawn him here. Rafe wore big-city slick all over him like an invisible hand-tailored suit. It was in the way he walked and moved and talked. Which was unusual for a mechanic. His job also led her to believe he didn’t come to golf every day at one of Lucien’s world-famous resorts—not at the $250 a pop greens fees.

  Mollie threw her hands up in the air in mock frustration. Which mostly covered her actual confusion. “Why on earth stay in Bandon if you don’t like cranberries?”

  Rafe was silent for a moment. A long enough moment for her to register the clatter of dishes in the wait station. The drone of local news on the television over the bar. Floyd’s loud and impossible to ignore nasal voice still droning on and on and—

  “I like . . . other things about the town.” Rafe slid a finger along the V of her scrub top. Even though she wore a long-sleeved tee underneath, and he wasn’t touching skin at all, the heat burning through the thin cotton seared straight through to her spine.

  As a doctor, Mollie knew that wasn’t actually possible.

  As a woman, Mollie knew that it absolutely was.

  “I’ll tell you what I don’t like.” The hand cuffing her wrist was gentle, but firm as it pulled her the final few steps into the bathroom hallway.

  “Not a surprise. I don’t really see you holding back on your dislikes at all.”

  A sharp, deep laugh bounced off the acoustic tiles above and the cracked linoleum below. “Oh, I think you’d be surprised.”

  “Okay. Rock my world,” she challenged.

  “That comes later.” His voice stayed deep on those words, but with none of the humor of his laugh. It was deep and dark and rich and oozed its sexual promise all over her. Rafe backed her against the wood paneling. “Right now, tell me about the guy.”

  “What guy?”

  First one fist went onto the wall next to her head. Then the other one caged her in. Even though they weren’t actually touching, Mollie felt Rafe. Felt the solid wall of his body throwing off heat and want and strength and edgy power.

  He was almost unbearably sexy. Even though the vibes he threw off felt way closer to unsettled and ticked off. “The one I don’t like. The one staring at you with ownership. And staring at me with an obvious urge to kick my ass right off the chair next to yours and all the way out the door.”

  “Nobody owns me. Certainly no man in this town even has dibs on me. Aside from you, and that’s up for reevaluation depending on how this conversation progresses.” Because, in theory, it was none of his business who ogled her across a room.

  In reality? Mollie did sort of revel in this whole primal, possessive thing. It was the most fun she’d had in a long time. Definitely the most wanted that she’d ever felt. Weird, though. There wasn’t a single man in that room who should’ve put Rafe’s hackles up. He was fierce, harsh, rugged . . . for crying out loud, she could go on for
days . . .

  Rafe took home the trophy for best of everything. Period. Nobody else she’d ever met came close to stacking up to his potent mix of in-your-face sensuousness, muscled athleticism, dry humor, and easy charm.

  Not that Mollie was comparing. Or that those attributes made him sound like the ultimate boyfriend. Nope. This was just a fling. A fun fling. Anything else would be crazy.

  But being pressed up against the wall next to the bathroom door by his sheer presence would stay on her list of hottest encounters for an undoubtedly long time.

  “The guy.” Rafe’s eyes darkened, as did his expression. All the rain clouds in Oregon seemed to have coalesced in his now deep indigo eyes. “The only one wearing a tie.”

  A belly laugh would’ve folded her in half if not for Rafe’s more than six feet of solid muscle keeping her vertical. “Oh, that’s just Lucien. I told you about him.”

  Not a single one of the hard lines on his face relaxed an iota. “You told me that you were just friends with him.”

  “Well, best friends, but yes. Nothing more. Nothing like . . . this.” She waved her hand back and forth between them. “No chemistry.”

  “You sure about that? I know the look when a man knows that he’s lost and has to walk away without the prize.”

  Damn.

  Her inner feminist rose up in protest at the terminology. And yet again, Mollie was simultaneously more than a little flattered that Rafe considered her a prize. “I’m positive. He’s probably just feeling protective. In a big brother way. You are a stranger here, you know. That raises suspicions.”

  “About what?”

  “He was all for me having a fling. But your approval rating dropped considerably when I mentioned that you picked me up on the side of the highway.” That was totally her fault for over sharing.

  Rafe’s mouth turned down at one side. In a sneer. An actual, Al Pacino-esque sneer. “Big fucking deal. I’m employed. I put my ass to sleep at this meeting. I’ve got the responsible citizen thing down cold.”