If I Stay

by Tamara Morgan

  “I can probably rustle up something,” he said doubtfully. “But my clothes aren’t nearly as pretty as yours.”

  “As long as you didn’t recently use them as a urinal, I think it’s a step up.”

  The dog wriggled in his grasp, eager to get down, but as the creature had long since reached empty, Ryan decided its participation in the evening’s events was done. “Come on up. You can meet Mrs. Grimstock and show her what her dog did.”

  “Maybe she has a shirt I can borrow.”

  “I’ve never seen Mrs. Grimstock in anything but a robe and slippers—the same ones she wears every day. Don’t get your hopes up.”

  Amy loped up the stairs after Ryan, making faces at the fluffy white face peeking over his shoulder. It was a good thing the dog gave her a pretext for coming upstairs and snooping around Ryan’s apartment, or she might be in a much worse mood right now. She’d walked up and down the block about three times, trying to decide whether or not her high-handed change of plans for the night would be met with his approval or his anger.

  Well, now he couldn’t be angry. She had pee in her hair. In situations of comparative irritation, hair pee always won.

  The apartment building where Ryan lived wasn’t quite what she’d expected when she’d weaseled the address out of the Montgomery’s housekeeper, a grouchy but efficient man who, despite having no military affiliations whatsoever, went by the name of Sarge. For some reason, she’d envisioned Ryan set up in some kind of bachelor-pad haven full of remote control doors and mirrors placed at creepy angles. It was probably because he’d chosen not to live at Montgomery Manor—she assumed his place would have to be pretty wicked to turn down free room and board.

  Maybe there was some charm in the warped wood stairs and the way each doorstep boasted its own colorful welcome mat, and at this time of the evening, a delicious generic food smell pervaded the air. Of course, it wasn’t three thousand square feet overlooking the Montgomery Manor tennis courts. That was a view to which she’d always been partial.

  Ryan knocked loudly on a white door with a doormat instructing all comers to Go Away.

  “How charming,” Amy said, pointing at it. “I think I’m beginning to like Mrs. Grimstock already.”

  Ryan grinned. “Nope. It’s me you like. I gave that to her last Christmas.”

  She didn’t have time to respond as a grizzled, white-haired woman with the most enormous breasts she’d ever seen pulled the door open. True to Ryan’s promise, she wore a robe that, though crafted in a lovely pink terrycloth, probably wasn’t much better than Amy’s urine-soaked shirt in terms of general cleanliness.

  Mrs. Grimstock closed one eye as she took in the pair of them, hesitatingly taking her dog back. “You weren’t gone long enough for two park loops.”

  “That’s because your dog mistook my friend here for a fire hydrant.”

  “So?”

  “She’s very upset.”

  “She doesn’t look upset.”

  “She’s really good at hiding it.”

  Amy laughed and immediately slapped her hand over her mouth. She was ruining Ryan’s man-in-charge moment here, but she couldn’t help it. She and ill-timed laughter had something of a longstanding relationship.

  “She’s also slightly hysterical,” Ryan added, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her from the doorway. His arm was strong and friendly—exactly as she’d imagined it would be. Strong, friendly arms were the best kind. “I better get her somewhere safe. And clean.”

  “By the way, what’s the dog’s name?” Amy couldn’t help asking as he led her away. She liked to know the names of everyone who’d christened her with his bodily fluids. It was something of a life goal.

  “Beau.” Mrs. Grimstock’s puffy cheeks lifted in what Amy assumed was a smile. “It’s short for Beauregard.”

  Ryan ushered Amy through his front door before she had a chance to say more. She was pleased to note on the way in that he had a much more cheerful, if slightly out-of-season doormat showcasing a Thanksgiving turkey.

  His apartment was also the mansplosion of expensive electronics and leather she’d hoped for, all crammed into a space so tiny it practically swelled at the seams. She loved it when guys gave in to the somber call of stainless steel and mirrored surfaces. It was as though they couldn’t help themselves, inexplicably drawn to the shiny.

  “Nice.” She nodded at the perfectly gleaming kitchen counters, at an island holding nothing but a half-full glass of water. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen your apartment in a movie before.”

  Ryan looked around, a heavy crease in his brows. There was a scar at the edge of his right one, long and jagged and cutting a half-inch path of hair. She hadn’t noticed that one before. “You have? Which movie?”

  “Oh, you know. Just every one ever made with a bachelor character in it. Fifty bucks says you have a hidden dartboard somewhere in here. I’m guessing it’s inside that cupboard over there.”

  Chagrin was a good but subtle look on Ryan. His ears flushed with color as he scrubbed a hand along the back of his neck. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “I watch a lot of movies. And based on your apartment, I’m guessing you do too.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Is the dartboard electronic?”

  “Ye-es.”

  She nodded once. “It’s bad.”

  Ryan’s shoulders shook as he gave in to a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m getting you a clean shirt. You can poke around in corners and pass more judgments on my lifestyle while I’m gone.”

  “Not one of your shiny clubbing shirts, please.”

  “Ha!” He clapped once, triumphant. “I got you there. I don’t have any shiny clubbing shirts.”

  “Of course you do. Dozens of them. You leave the top two buttons undone and put gel in your chest hair so it curls over the top.”

  He turned and moved toward the back of the apartment, where she could just make out a shiny gray comforter and a bed that was much too large for a single person living alone. “You’re a strange woman, Amy Sanders.”

  “I’m not the one who combs my chest hair!” she yelled back, and was rewarded with a thump on the wall next to her head. Neighbors. Yet another reason life in the Manor would be so much better than this. Why live next to strangers when he could take up residence right down the hall from her?

  Ryan clearly had no idea what he was missing.

  * * *

  Ryan rummaged in his drawer until he found a respectably clean T-shirt that wasn’t stained around the edges with motor oil. He had a better wardrobe than this—not quite at the shiny clubbing shirt level, though there might have been a sparkle or two involved—but no way in hell he was pulling those out. There was no need to give the woman in his living room any more ammunition than she already had against him. He didn’t care how much he might want to rip off her shirt and lather up her skin with his own hands. Almost two years he’d been living in Ransom Creek, and he’d managed not to let anyone this close.

  Five more minutes, and he was pretty sure Amy would have his Social Security number and the exact dollar amount on his last tax return. She got under his skin in a way that felt so comfortable, so inoffensive, she could take up residence there forever and he’d be perfectly content to let her.

  “I hope you’re a big fan of Metallica.” He emerged from the bedroom and handed her the shirt.

  “Oooh, I am.” She held it up and laughed to see the band name in monolith size lit up with lightning. It was one wolf howling at the moon short of tragic. “Back in ballet school, we did a performance to a symphonic version of one of their albums.”

  He grabbed the bottom of the shirt, refusing to let go. “If that’s the only version you’ve heard, I want my shirt back. You can wear dog pee.”

  She t
ugged. “It counts. We even had a fireworks display. Our stage director got third-degree burns.”

  “Bodily harm does not a Metallica fan make.”

  “Bodily harm is what’s going to happen if you don’t point me toward the bathroom right this minute.”

  Laughing, Ryan let go. Amy was the sort of woman who wouldn’t lift a hand to kill a mosquito. “It’s through the bedroom. Follow the trail to all my expensive hair care products.”

  As she sprang in that direction, she ran her fingers playfully through his hair. He wore it military-short, a relic of his stunt driving days, and the twitch of her fingers against his scalp felt intimate—the kind of intimacy that acted like a reflex on his body, putting all of his parts on instant, twitching alert. He struggled to send those parts a message of overriding calm.

  Down, boy. That line you’re straining to cross right there is a finish line.

  No matter how strong the temptation, he wouldn’t get tangled up with this sweet, generous woman only to toss her aside when he finally got the call. His agent back in Hollywood was so close to getting him behind the wheel of a stunt car again. Three more months, tops. He was sure of it.

  “Liar,” she teased. “Your hair feels like you use baby shampoo.”

  And on that pronouncement—quelling, quashing and sadly true—she whisked through his room to clean up and change. It was only then that he realized how strange it was for her to appear outside his home like this. Although his apartment was located near the center of the downtown area, a location chosen for its proximity to anything and anyone, no one at work knew where to find him.

  It was an odd combination of housing prerequisites, he knew. He didn’t want to live in isolation—needed the thump of people coming and going, the irate neighbors who left passive aggressive notes on his door—but he also didn’t want to constantly be thinking of Montgomery Manor.

  In retrospect, that had been an unattainable goal. He couldn’t walk five feet from his door without being reminded, in some way, of the fifty-room mansion on the outskirts of town. The Montgomerys owned this place, ruled it, blanketed it with the money and their protection. It was a little bit unnerving—especially since no one he encountered seemed to think it odd. But how could they? The hotelier family employed at least one member of every household in the county. They were practically living in a serfdom.

  * * *

  “There. Now I’m an official Metallica fan.” Amy emerged from the bathroom feeling only slightly ridiculous. She was cleaner and, as far as she could detect, smelled much better. But men’s T-shirts never fit her quite right. They were always too tight across the chest, too wide everywhere else—and Lord knew their logo placement could use a little work. In this particular instance, the band name stretched tightly over her breasts, flashing lightning at the peak of each nipple.

  “Still doesn’t count as being a fan.” Ryan paused, and she could see the sweep of his eyes as he took her in, lightning bolts and all. It would have been a stretch to say she felt a tingle of electricity at each tip, though the sensations weren’t too far off. “But the shirt looks much better on you than it ever did on me.”

  “That’s because I have boobs.”

  His eyes widened as he choked on his shock. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “I know. It was very gentlemanly of you.” Since she finally seemed to have pushed him off guard, now seemed as good a time as any to spill the reason she’d stopped by. “And as long as you’re in the mood to be polite, I might as well confess to stalking you.”

  His eyes got even wider.

  “Don’t get too excited—I stalk an alarming amount of people. This guy who works at the gas station down on Fourth had to take a restraining order out on me in high school. I couldn’t help myself. He looked exactly like a young Robert Redford.”

  Ryan turned his head in profile. “I’ve been told I look like a young Robert Redford.”

  “You do not. You look like Tom Hardy and Daniel Craig had a secret love child.”

  “Is that good?”

  It was very good, especially when paired with his strong, friendly arms. But there was no need to show her whole hand here. Or to make herself appear even more ridiculous than she already did. “Fishing for compliments? Shame on you.”

  “A man has his pride.”

  “He also has a mirror.” She paused a beat, not wanting to lose their friendly momentum. “Unless you need me to write a poem to your dreamy eyes, I think we should address the issue of my hunting you down at your home. It’s about the bar plans.”

  His attitude shifted as if on a dime. Gone was the playful banter, the Tom Hardy smile, the focus on her boobs. His arms crossed and he actually had the nerve to square his stance and glare at her. Glare. Please. She was a nanny now. No one out-glared the nanny.

  “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but we’ve decided to meet at the laser tag place out on Hiawatha Road instead. They have terrible snack bar pizza and their pop machine has been broken for decades so only the root beer nozzle works, but there’s this boys’ soccer team that meets there every Sunday. They’re a bunch of whiny punks. Slaughtering them would make me happy in more ways than I can count.”

  The arms came down, a hint of his smile returned. “You want me to come play laser tag?”

  “Only if you promise to take out as many twelve-year-olds as you can. I’m putting together a team of mercenaries, and we could use a good man like you. You look as if you know your way around a toy gun and chemically manufactured fog.”

  “What happened to the bar idea?”

  She shrugged. “It’s boring. Uninspired.”

  “Then why aren’t you looking me in the eye?”

  Darn it. She really needed to get better at lying. People who wore their hearts and their thoughts and the contents of their stomach on their sleeves were at a real disadvantage in this world.

  “I was inspired to choose an alternate venue.”

  His mouth firmed in a thin line. “One that doesn’t serve alcohol?”

  “Oh, they serve alcohol. But you have to bring fifty dollars in cash and be prepared to meet the manager out behind the dumpster.” She would not list how many times she’d undergone just such a feat. It was a lot. “And all you can expect to get for your fifty bucks is a jug of Carlo Rossi that I’m pretty sure he waters down. It’s not worth it, trust me.”

  Ryan cracked a smile. “Sounds like you had quite the wayward youth.”

  “I did. And most of it occurred behind that dumpster, now that I think about it.”

  “Not with the manager, I hope?”

  It was her turn to fall into a grin. See? Ryan wasn’t such a difficult man to coax into a good mood. Holly had been wrong when she’d said he’d probably shut the door in her face and tell her to mind her own damn business. Such language. And from such a tiny, perky woman.

  “Ew. No. He was old back when I was a teenager. He looks like the Crypt Keeper now.” That elicited another smile from him. “So will you come? The staff only gets a shared day off every two weeks or so. We like to make the most of it.”

  “Only if you tell me the truth. Did you change the location so I’d be more likely to come?”

  There was no way to tiptoe around it. “Yes.”

  “Because of what I said about not doing bars?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you know why I don’t do bars?”

  She refused to look away as the intensity in his voice deepened. Although she was an only child, she’d grown up in a household where money and power were secondary only to personal strength. If she’d wanted to be treated as an equal to the Montgomery children, she’d had to earn it by holding her own, standing her ground, doing all those things that made her sound like a tree or a soldier rather than the inferior, gangly nanny’s daug
hter she really was.

  “I can make an educated guess,” she said.

  He neither confirmed nor denied her guess—which was just as well, as she hadn’t put it into words. She might excel at overstepping people’s boundaries, but she did have enough tact not to call a man an alcoholic to his face.

  “Do the others know?”

  She wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. Of course everyone had theories about Ryan’s antisocial behavior—and what caused it. A former Hollywood stuntman didn’t descend upon Ransom Creek with a chip on his shoulder and a scowl across his face without some kind of backstory filling in the cracks. She’d heard every hypothesis from drugs and a tragic love affair to international espionage.

  It was probably the Daniel Craig ears that accounted for that last one.

  But she just shrugged, showing him how little anyone at Montgomery Manor cared for that sort of thing. They all had baggage. Holly Santos, Mrs. Montgomery’s personal chef, refused to mention how she came to meet the illustrious lady of the house, no matter how many hints they dropped. Alex Morris, the ex-military head of the family’s security detail, had a dishonorable discharge on his record that prevented him from finding work anywhere else. And Amy, well, she’d given up her place on a touring ballet company to return to the bosom of her childhood home.

  At least, that was the story she told.

  “No one is going to point in your face and laugh, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” She perched on the edge of his couch, looking up at him. “And even if they did, so what? You don’t strike me as the type to care about a little friendly gossip.”

  “Friendly gossip is an oxymoron.”

  She ignored the grouchiness in his voice and gestured toward the Metallica shirt. “Thank you for the change of clothes. It’s probably better than the white blouse I was wearing anyway. The dark color and sweet lightning bolts will blend in with the black lights. Those sneaky preteens won’t be able to see me coming.”

  “Or they’ll just gape at your chest and you can win that way.”

  Triumph. Once the boob references were back, it was pretty much a guaranteed victory. “So you’ll come? If it helps, I’ll let you gape at my chest before the game.”