“Nothing.” She waved off the distress he noticed in her posture. “I handled him.”
“Handled him? What the fuck did he do, Cara? Either you tell me or I’ll ask him myself.”
His need to protect her flared as if no time had passed between them. With one main difference…life had shortened his fuse quite a bit. One spark and boom, he’d explode. His shrink called him a loose cannon. At this point, sparks flew everywhere.
She sighed in defeat. “He came into the library one day.”
“Library?”
“Yeah, I’m a library assistant at the Main Street Library.” John hadn’t told him that. A sudden image of her dressed in a pencil skirt, her hair twisted in a bun, and a pair of sexy glasses hanging on the tip of her nose flashed in his mind. He groaned as his cock throbbed. “Your stepdad came in one day to use the computers. He mentioned doing some kind of research on get rich schemes or some junk. He asked for help, so I gave him a hand. He muttered some perverted comments to me. I told him he’d be walking funny if he came near me again. He backed off. End of story.”
Pete said nothing else for the last forty miles as the news about his stepfather aggravated an already boiling pot. Soon his old neighborhood came into view. Cara made a right turn and then a left before pulling up in front of a colonial-style house.
Memories rushed through his mind and none of them good. Peeling blue paint clung to the rotten siding. Warped and decaying shingles flapped in the breeze, exposing sections of the roof to the elements. On the second floor, a slab of wood covered an obviously broken window. Overgrown bushes lined the perimeter and the grass grew well over a foot high. A worn-out rocking chair sat on the small porch in front, accompanied by a resin side table littered with beer cans. Two old cars were parked in the dirt-lined driveway. To the side, an old camper sunk in weeds and mud.
Cara put her car in park. Opening the door, she stuck her foot out and began to lift herself off the seat when he grabbed her wrist. She plopped back in position. Pete glared back at the house. Funny how some things never change.
“Did he touch you?” Years ago, Frank had said things to him about Cara. Inappropriate comments about her body, innuendos about his relationship with her. Pete had kept quiet back then.
She shut her door and closed her eyes, dropping her head back against the seat. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tight enough to make her knuckles blotchy. Sometimes silence said more than any words. Pete knew this was one of those times.
The screen door opened. As if on cue, Frank pushed his way out onto the porch, holding a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The door slammed shut behind him. Pete clenched his fists. The man must have put on about thirty pounds. Sweat stains riddled his shirt. Stubble infested his jaw and neck. This piece of shit had dared to put his hands on her.
Pete swung open the passenger door. He jumped out, ignoring the shooting pain along his thigh. With the adrenaline pumping through his body like a drug, he limped over to the house.
Frank glanced up with a cocky grin. “Petey boy, how’s it hanging?” He took a long drag. “Heard about the leg, tough break.”
Cara fell in close behind Pete. She grabbed at his arm. “Stop, he’s not worth getting in trouble over. It happened over a year ago.”
“Didn’t expect to see you, sweet thing,” Frank drawled.
Cara might as well have spoken in tongues because Pete heard nothing except the rush of blood through his veins and the crack of his knuckles. He marched straight up to his stepfather, pulled back his fist, and punched the stupid smirk off his face. Frank fell back into the chair. The bottle in his hand shattered against the siding, while his cigarette flew off into the grass.
“Touch her again and I swear to God, I’ll kill you.”
The screen door burst open as Pete’s mother rushed out of the house. “Jesus Christ Peter, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” His mother had a bruise on her cheek and a cut on her lip. Yep, nothing’s changed.
“Tell him to keep his hands off her. He’s three times her fucking age. Sick pervert.” Pete kicked Frank’s leg.
His mom crouched beside her husband, glaring at his split lip. “He’s gonna need stitches. I think you broke his nose.”
“Be glad that’s all I broke.” He glanced at Frank. “You got a wife at home. Stick to your vows like a real man and stop sniffing around the library.”
His mother zeroed in on Cara. “Should have known you’d be at the root of this, stupid trailer trash.”
“This isn’t her fault!” Pete shouted. “Blame your damn husband for not keeping his hands where they belong. He’s been making sick comments about her since she was a kid.”
“You’re not welcome in this house. You’re just like your damn father.”
“Ah, Mom, you say the nicest things.” He raised his hands and face to the heavens. “Thank you, Lord, for making me like my father and nothing like these two freaks. At least my dad didn’t get off on beating women. At least he had a job and took care of his home. Look at this place.”
“Get out of here. Get the hell out!” his mom screamed.
Pete offered his mother a stern salute, spun, and hobbled down the walkway. Cara hurried behind him. They jumped in the car, slamming the doors in unison. Neighbors hovered, their stunned eyes dissecting the heated exchange as if brawls weren’t commonplace living next door to a drunk and his punching bag.
“Drive,” he told Cara. When she didn’t shift gear fast enough, he added, “Drive now or I’m gonna get out of this car and finish what I started.”
She shifted gear and punched the gas, leaving the scent of burnt rubber behind. “I can’t believe you TKO’d your stepfather. Are you out of your freaking mind?”
Pete pulled out his cell phone. “Not yet…but I’m getting there.” He went through his contacts.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling John. I need a place to crash for a while.”
She grabbed his phone before he hit send. “John is a no-go. He lives in a one-bedroom bungalow. Unless you don’t mind sleeping on his lumpy couch, I’d make other arrangements.”
After all this time, he’d lost touch with everyone he knew. Besides, most of his old friends were probably married, getting married, or living with someone. He had no other family in the area to turn to. They all lived several hours away on Long Island. The local VA might be able to offer him something, however placement took time and he had no time to spare.
“You can stay with me,” Cara blurted out.
“Not gonna happen, Cara.”
“Listen, I know things got messed up between us. I want to believe we’re still friends, Pete. I’ve got a spare room in my house. There is already a bed and a dresser. Not the Ritz Carlton, but it’s yours. You’re welcome to stay. No time limit.”
“A bad idea.”
“Please, I’m the reason you have no place to go. Let me do this for you.” She fluttered her lashes and his resolve began to crumble.
“You’re not the reason. My fist and that piece of crap Frank are the reasons.”
“Still, I feel responsible.”
Pete raked his fingers through his hair. “John will freak. Forget about your dad.”
“They won’t care. You’re family.”
The idea of family made him think of his chunky Aunt Lynn or goofy Uncle Todd, not sexy-as-hell Cara Sands. “I’m gonna regret this.”
“What the heck are you so worried about?” She turned to him with her teeth raking her full bottom lip. “This isn’t because of…you know…the thing that happened back—”
“No,” he blurted out. They were not talking about the kiss. Wait…did she refer to the most mind-blowing experience of his life as the thing? He breathed a heavy sigh. “Fine, I’ll stay with you until I get on my feet, but I’m paying you rent and half the utilities. No argument.”
Cara flashed a huge grin. “No argument from me. Electric is sky-high these days and my mortgage is no
joke, either. Come on, Pete, let’s go home.”
Shit, what did I just get myself into?
Chapter 2
Twenty minutes later, they pulled onto a rustic road lined with towering oak trees. The dense forest gave way to a couple of small farms and the occasional dirt road that seemed to lead to nowhere. They drove for about three miles before pulling onto a long pebbled driveway. Although in need of updating, Cara’s place possessed a mysterious sense of calm.
Yellow shutters hugged each window. Aged wooden shingles encased the walls and scalloped molding framed the pitched roof. Floral lace curtains wavered in the breeze, popping out through the open upstairs window every now and then, giving an old world essence to the overall image. Pete grinned when he caught sight of the red rooster weathervane perched on the top of the house. The proud, crimson guardian jerked with each gust.
Now, this is a home.
He considered offering the bird a salute once he got out of the car. He shook his head. The shrinks were right. He was losing his grip on reality.
“Where’d you get this place?” He tried to keep his voice neutral, not wanting to come off excited about the prospect of sharing the welcoming farmhouse with her.
“It was grandmom’s. You never came over here. After gramps died, she didn’t give out invitations to visit. She would stop by my dad’s and see John and me, but preferred to be alone in her own home. She left my dad the house in her will last year, and I bought it from him.”
“John mentioned her passing in one of his letters. I’m sorry.”
Cara shrugged. “She wasn’t doing too well. Cancer had pretty much destroyed her. She fought the pain for a few years, but it was too much for her. She’s with gramps and mom now. Dad was gonna sell the place to a realtor. He didn’t want to bother renting it out. John didn’t want it, because it was too far from town. I begged him to let me buy it. I didn’t want to part with the memories, you know. Just needs some paint and some TLC.”
“There’s a lot of property to take care of.”
“Twenty-five acres,” she said with pride.
Pete whistled as he scanned the area. He brought his gaze back to the white porch wrapping around the front of the home. On the left side, a wooden swing rocked in the breeze as if waiting for someone to fill the seat. Off to the right, a knotted mess of grass and weeds stretched several hundred feet. If he had to make a guess, he’d say the nest of overgrowth was once a garden of some type, maybe vegetable. John had mentioned that his grandmother was one hell of a gardener.
“What are you doing with the garden over there?”
Cara shrugged. “That was my grandmother’s expertise. She possessed the green thumb, not me.”
“You bought twenty-five acres of land and know nothing about taking care of it?”
She’ll never change. Always impulsive.
Her shoulders suddenly fell. “I couldn’t let the place go. It was all I had left of her—besides, I plan to hire someone for all that stuff. Eventually.”
Peeking out from around the back of the house, he noticed another overgrown field, perfect for crops, and a large red barn, which had seen better days. This may not have been the best arrangement, but he saw promise in this plot of land.
“Tell you what. Why don’t I fix things up around here? I clear out the weeds and get the grass mowed and manicured. In exchange, you cook me a hot meal every night.”
She glanced at his leg. “Are you sure you should be doing that stuff? It’s a lot of work and—”
He bit his lip hard. His fingers strangled the handle of his cane. “I’m not a fucking invalid, you know.”
“I know. I thought…”
He didn’t need to hear what thoughts swirled in her mind. He knew. Not wishing to suffer a rundown of his limitations, he jumped out of the car. “I’m going to take a look around.”
* * * *
Sixty minutes after Pete had disappeared into her backyard jungle, he had managed to amass a pile of weeds three feet high. Cara observed him from the kitchen window, her eyes locked on his flexing body
Although he was meticulous and determined, she had noticed him falter on several occasions. Each time, he had stopped and quickly stretched, first his spine and then his leg. Now, he started to roll his shoulders forward and back. She wondered how he managed to work at all, considering the pain she witnessed him suffer at the airport. He’d almost collapsed when putting his bag in the trunk. Pete’s stubborn nature shouldn’t surprise her. He was never the kind of guy to bow down to anyone or anything. Nope, Pete was the kind of guy that would tear through years of overgrowth in the blistering heat, suffering through obvious discomfort, to get the job done. As if to prove her point, he wiped his brow, bent down, and pulled out another handful of dead grass.
Sweat saturated his pale green shirt. Not an attractive look for a man, but Pete had the ability to make perspiration sexy.
The oven timer pinged. She tore her gaze away from Pete’s glistening muscles, opened the oven, and took out the roast beef. After pushing aside the pot of cooked potatoes, she lowered the roasting pan and checked the meat’s temperature. Almost done, just a few more minutes. She quickly placed the meat back in. Pete deserved a wonderful meal on his first day back. Besides, grandmom always claimed the way to a man’s heart bypassed the eyes and went straight to the gut.
She returned her gaze back to the yard to find Pete stretching his thick arms over his head. He started to twist at his waist, his movements careful and gentle. Without warning, he froze. Each muscle in his back tensed. He scanned the area as if danger hid somewhere in the distance. All of a sudden, he spun, staring straight at her. She dropped beneath the sill, crouching in her kitchen like an idiot.
Busted.
Come on, would anyone blame her for staring at him? God did not create beauty like Pete Cross unless he intended to share said beauty with the rest of the world. Artists would line up in the pouring rain for a glimpse at his thick powerful body and incredible strength.
She rose, stopping to take a quick peek out the window. She released a sigh of relief when she discovered his attention had returned to the garden. She stood by the stovetop for the next twenty minutes, resisting the urge to watch him work. The famous quote from Star Trek echoed in her mind. Resistance is futile. No quotation ever held more truth. Battling his magnetism was useless.
She added the butter and milk to the potatoes. A little salt and pepper for flavor, and she began to mash. All the while, she watched him work.
The sun dipped below the horizon. The first sunny day in over a week ended. Crickets began their dusk serenade, while fireflies blinked on and off, offering a pleasant night show.
Cara stepped over to the fridge, grabbed a Budweiser, and popped the top with a bottle opener. After an hour of weeding, Pete deserved an ice-cold one. She walked out onto the back porch and froze.
Shirtless, Pete Cross knocked the air from her lungs and the balance from her step. Rock-hard pectorals rippled, synchronizing with the best six-pack she had ever seen outside of her most vivid fantasies.
Across his left biceps, Pete’s tattoo shifted and lengthened as if the realistic eagle prepared to soar through the heavens. She continued to admire the definition of his sculpted arm, until he turned, revealing the evil marks stretching over the once golden flesh of his chest. Scars covered most of his torso, finally wrapping around the right side of his neck. She didn’t dare think about the agony he had endured. The possibilities seemed too horrid to consider.
“What are you looking at?” he called out to her, his face dark and stormy.
She bit her lip. Caught again.
She stepped off the porch and closed the distance between them. “Nothing, I was checking out your tattoos.” Good save.
His body relaxed. He glanced at one arm and then the other. “You like tattoos? Always thought you hated them.”
“They’re okay. I’m not into the idea of becoming a walking collage, but a few are cool. I…�
� She halted, wondering if she should tell him about her small tattoo on her inner thigh. Even John and her dad had no idea about it. Yeah, why not.
“You what?”
“I got a tattoo.”
He stepped back as if smacked. “You’re shitting me. Where? What?” He glanced at her breasts and then her legs.
She grinned. “Now, if I told you, I would have to kill you.”
All of a sudden, Pete’s face lit up and his lips lifted into a crooked grin. “John or Pop aware of your ink?”
She loved how he called her father Pop, the title a sign of Pete’s great respect for her family. “A girl’s entitled to her secrets, besides, it’s meant for one pair of eyes.” Which happens to be the pair currently examining me.
His curious stare caressed her breasts, rolling over her stomach, and past her navel. She dropped her gaze to the soft grass. If the cool breeze hadn’t brushed her heated cheeks, she might have burst into flames.
In an attempt to change the uncomfortable subject, she pointed to colorful art on his left arm. “I like this one.”
“Thanks. It’s kind of faded with all the sun I got in The Sand Box.”
“The Sand Box?”
He shrugged. “That’s what we call our deployments to the Middle East.” He rubbed his hand over the design. “This is the Marine Corps emblem. I got this about two weeks after I finished Marine Boot Camp.” The eagle stood with his wings spread wide, atop a globe, propped in front of an anchor, entangled with sisal rope. Though black and white, the image held intricate detail. He pointed to the flag clutched in the bird’s beak.
“Semper Fidelis …what does it mean?”
“It means, ‘always faithful.’ It’s the Marine Corps motto.”
“And this one?”
His other arm scripted the words freedom is never free across the scars defacing his skin. Three names ran underneath the quote. “Got this one as soon as they released me from the VA hospital. The artist wasn’t sure he’d be able to tattoo over such thick ridges, but it worked out. Hey, is that for me?” He stared at the bottle in her hand.
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