Wanting to think of something other than his tense relationship with his father, he returned his thoughts to his neighbor. Lucy had moved in in June. A moving truck hadn’t followed. No signs of a guy tagging along. A few days later, a big rig backed partially into their shared driveway. Men unloaded a couch, a bed and frame, and some other wood pieces into her place.
When she’d had her garage open, there was no car, only a very expensive looking bicycle. One late summer day, while Bryce worked on his motorcycle in the driveway, Tom had stopped by to chat. He’d gone on and on about Lucy and the strawberry crepes she’d made for him and his wife, June.
“It’s like biting into a deep fried piece of heaven,” Tom had said. “Has she made any for you?”
“No,” Bryce had mumbled in response.
Except for an occasional nod at her when he’d run into her in the mornings, they had avoided one another. During the day, she’d shut her blinds and curtains. She kept to herself, and he was fine with that. Whatever made her happy, he recalled thinking.
Then one particular day, she’d pissed him off. Well, not angered him. He shoved snow off the steaks. He was pissed at himself for being so turned on by her.
He had been mowing his lawn early on a Sunday morning after he’d stewed all night over his father’s badgering of him to clean up his act. He had needed an outlet and only loud, obnoxious noise would do.
Lucy had stomped outside in nothing but a pair of short shorts and a pink, barely-there tank top. She’d asked him to stop, had said the noise cut into her sleep.
It wasn’t the noise or her lack of sleep that had worried him. What got to Bryce was how his body had reacted when he saw her—long hair, flushed skin, and toned legs he’d imagined wrapped tight around his waist as he made her come for him over and over.
Hoping to God she hadn’t noticed his erection straining against the front of his shorts, he ignored Lucy and continued to mow the lawn. That day, sexy absolutely described her.
At the time he couldn’t think of his neighbor like that. He had a girlfriend. But now . . . no, he couldn’t start something with Lucy. She wasn’t his type. Shit, how many times would he keep reminding himself?
He zoned in on the steaks. They were cold like a slab of raw meat should be. Yeah. He grabbed his beer. Back inside, he made sure the fire stayed lit before he made the call to Eric, the manager of his restaurant.
“Hey, man, how’s the day going?” He heard the distinct sounds of voices and clinking glasses in the background.
“Fine, boss.”
“Shit, Eric, stop calling me that. We’re damn near the same age.” Almost. Eric was twenty-seven.
A chuckle. “Sure, old man.”
Bryce laughed. He liked Eric. For some reason, his good friend, Dan, didn’t. When he had asked Dan about it, Dan had said he couldn’t put his finger on what was “off” about Eric. Five months later, Dan still hated the guy but couldn’t come up with a good, solid reason other than a gut instinct.
“Look, I’d stop by, but can’t right now. Did enough staff make it in?”
“Yeah. Business is picking up though.”
He glanced at his watch. Close to lunch time. Power was out. The restaurant ran on generators. People would gather at places that could provide heat and ready-made meals. By dinner time, the Grill could be hopping with business.
“I’ll head over in a few hours and help out. Until then, call me in an emergency. Got that?”
“Yeah, Bryce. I get it.”
After he hung up, he paced in the kitchen. He’d have to take Lucy to the Grill with him. There, she’d stay warm and out of trouble. Also, he’d get her skinny ass fed.
But once he brought her into his restaurant, everyone would jump to the conclusion they were seeing each other. Dammit, he didn’t want to be linked to Lucy in a more than neighbors’ kind of way. Yet, if he spun it right, his workers and friends would see that they were just that—neighbors.
He leaned against the kitchen counter and planned his next move. Yep, he’d let everyone know that he was just helping his helpless neighbor from sunny Palm Springs navigate through the snow of the Pacific Northwest.
Yeah, him and Lucy neighbors. He grinned only to feel his smile falter. To get a meeting with her stepdad—Dammit, he had a feeling she wouldn’t introduce him to her family unless . . . unless he meant more to her than just a neighbor.
Earlier when she’d mentioned her family, he got the feeling there was no love lost between them. To get a meeting with her stepfather, Bryce would have to convince Lucy he was in love with her. That was the only way.
He raked his fingers through his hair. He was stumbling further into the dark side. Bribing a girl? Now, concocting a plan to pretend to fall in love with said girl?
This was not a guy he knew, understood, or liked. He should throw leverage out the door, return Lucy’s diary to her, and outright ask her for a meeting with Levi Peterson. Mulling over the idea, he finished off his beer.
If she said, “yes,” they could be spending more time together. Or, she’d make the arrangements and return to avoiding him. Neither thought sat well with him. She was too lonely, and he was starting to like her.
Fine, he and Lucy would be friendly neighbors. Bryce had a feeling that was as near perfect as he could get to a reserved and private woman like Lucy.
* * *
Stepping out of the bathroom, Bryce watched Lucy wake up. She ran a hand over her eyes, stretched, and looked around.
“What time is it?”
“One.”
“Any power yet?” She smoothed her palms over her hair, got up and headed his way.
“None.”
He swore she cursed under her breath. Her attention shot to his damp hair. Yeah, he’d just showered. She started for the front door.
“Where you going, darling?” he called after her.
“I’m not your darling.” She didn’t turn around. “And it’s none of your business.”
He could let her go and freeze her ass off in her heat-deprived place, but the guilty part of him said, “Hell no.”
He got to her before she had opened the door. Grasping her by the arm, he spun her around to face him. “If you want to shower, do it here. After you’re done, you can sit by the fire and warm up.”
He ran the pads of his thumbs over her cheeks. They were cold. Her lips parted as though she was ready to say something to him.
Good God, her lips . . . He lowered his head. Time appeared to slow. Before Bryce could cover her mouth with his, Lucy jerked out of his hold.
A flush colored her cheeks. She balled her fists at her sides. They understood what this was. Attraction. Dammit. Keep your cool, Morgan, and stop touching Lucy. It seemed a long time before either of them spoke.
“I’ll stay,” she said.
“Good.” He started to reach for her hands to rub out the cold. Then he remembered. He shouldn’t touch her. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to stop touching her. “We’re eating lunch here. Later I gotta stop by the Grill and check on my workers.”
She nodded.
“You’re coming with me.”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “I’d rather stay here.”
“I don’t trust you around the fire, Lucy.”
“You did last night.”
Yeah, what she said was true . . . but, “You need more meat on your bones. You’re too skinny. I bet if you plumped up a little bit more, you’d interest a guy and he’d take good care of you.”
Glaring at him, she poked a finger into his chest. He held back his surprise. Lucy had a temper. She kept poking.
The tip of her nail hurt. He snatched her finger and began to stroke. A different kind of heat lit up the hazel depths of her eyes. She opened her mouth. When he zoned in on her lips, she licked them. The small gesture sent fire to his groin.
“Lucy—” Shit, his voice sounded husky.
She yanked her finger out of his grip. “Don’t tell me what
I need, Bryce. Ever. Only I know what’s best for me.”
For some damn reason, her words pissed him off. Maybe it was because he realized her status quo didn’t make her any happier.
“If that’s the truth, then why are you so lonely?”
“I’m not. I like it this way.”
“I disagree. A woman like you wants all the fixings in life—marriage to a man who loves you more than life itself, kids, and a place to call a home.”
He stepped forward expecting her to lurch back. Instead, she stood her ground, bringing their bodies too close, just like in the coffee shop.
“You’re wrong. I don’t want any of that.” Her lips thinned into a fine line. “I’ll go, but promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
She sighed. “Don’t feel sorry for me afterward.”
What did she mean by that?
“Bryce?”
“Okay, I promise.”
Relief replaced the sadness he’d glimpsed on her face. With a quick, “I’ll be right back,” she headed out the front door and returned a few minutes later with a bundle of clothes and her backpack.
While Bryce fired up his gas grill and barbecued the steaks for their lunch, Lucy showered. Though there was no electricity, the bathroom had a window. She had enough natural light to shower by.
The bathroom door opened, and she strolled over to the kitchen table wearing a pair of black tights and a grey skirt with a grey, long-sleeved top that had scarf-like ties off the shoulders. She had those tied across and slightly over her upper chest. The wrap drew his eyes to her chest.
She coughed, and Bryce realized his gaze had stayed fixed on her chest for too damn long. Wondering how he had missed those round perfections, he rushed over and pulled out a chair for her.
“Thank you.” She sat and acknowledged the plate of food in front of her with a nod.
“If you get too cold, let me know.” He took a seat across from her. “We can move next to the fire.”
So far, the fire heated his place just fine. And the woman across the way warmed his body in a different manner all together.
In between bites of steak, he told Lucy about the Grill. How he had started the business the same year two broken legs took him out of the circuit. How rough that first year was. Yet of how much pride he felt knowing his business created more jobs for a town he’d moved to and had instantly thought of as home.
Ten years ago, his dad had relocated them to Bellingham for his new job as foreman of a large construction company. Bryce’s mom had stayed in Florida with her boyfriend. Bryce got the occasional birthday card. Otherwise, his mother could care less about her only child.
He didn’t give a shit. Only one person mattered—his father. Over the years, his old man had sacrificed time and his livelihood for Bryce.
“Rehab was the worse this time around,” he admitted. “I ditched the pain meds and went all stoic.” Stoic was excruciating pain to the point of almost passing out. “I didn’t want to be dependent on the pills.” He shrugged. “And I drank too much. It wasn’t a safe combo.” He shoved a piece of meat into his mouth, and after he chewed and swallowed, he followed it with the rest of his beer.
He raised the empty bottle as though toasting her. “I chose my vice.” He set the bottle down.
In silence, she’d watched him play out his usual evenings. He’d cook. He’d eat. He’d drink his beers. Sometimes a six pack in one sitting. Alone.
Taking Bryce by surprise, Lucy reached over and set her hand on his. “I understand.”
Two words—said so softly and with such tenderness—branded his soul. She listened without judgment and hadn’t given advice or said something—anything—to stroke his ego. Instead, when Bryce’s voice had wavered with long buried emotion, Lucy had given him a gift. Empathy.
Bryce was wrong. She hadn’t lived a sheltered life like he’d first thought. The world had been harsh on her, too.
Chapter Five
Lucy slipped her hand off of Bryce’s. “I should call my grandmother.”
He cleared the table and avoided her eyes. Her chest ached. The pain he’d gone through and what he’d done to get past the injuries . . . She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for lunch and the conversation.”
He nodded before he took their plates to the kitchen. The ache in her chest faded as the awkwardness between them disappeared. She didn’t want anyone to ever feel bad for sharing pieces of their life with her.
Grabbing her cell phone, Lucy stretched alongside the fire and called her grandmother.
“Lucy, how are you?”
“Good. You?”
“Alive.”
“That’s your answer every night.”
Grandma laughed. “Do you like the snow, cher?”
Bryce had come over by the fire, too. He patted her leg and pointed to the couch. Lucy moved. He poked at the firewood with a stick. The flames flared higher. She smiled.
“I love the snow, Grandma.”
Grandma coughed. It sounded too gunky for Lucy’s comfort.
“Had that cough long?”
“Cher, I’m fine.”
Sure. “You get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Aimez-vous, cher.” Love you, dear.
“I love you, too.”
Lucy ended the call then dialed the direct number to the nurses’ station. She let them know of Grandma’s cough. Better to be safe than sorry.
“Your grandma okay?”
Lucy leaned back against the couch and stretched out her legs. “She’s French,” and left it at that.
A grin spread across Bryce’s face. Uh-oh. She sat straight. Something naughty was gonna come out of his mouth. She was sure of it. Lucy had an idea it had to do with . . . she tipped her chin at him. “Just because I’m half French doesn’t mean I’m all for racy—” she waved her hand in the air “—long johns.”
His gaze swung to the floor, but not before Lucy caught a glimpse of his smile. Definitely sexy.
Actually, Lucy adored French lingerie. A love encouraged by her grandmother, of all people.
“On the outside, you might behave like a tomboy,” Grandma had said in that thick accent of hers. “On the inside, vous êtes satin et dentelle, doux et luxueux, beau et courageux.” You are satin and lace, soft and luxurious, beautiful and brave.
“Do you speak French or Indonesian?” His brow furrowed. “Is that the right word for the language?”
The intensity in his blue eyes pierced her. She squirmed. Their casualness was veering toward the personal.
“I speak French,” she offered with some hesitation, “but not Bahasa Indonesia.”
“Say something.”
She’d rather not. Speaking French to someone other than her grandmother seemed a betrayal to her father’s memory. However, to understand Bryce, Lucy believed he had to understand her. Maybe then, he’d realize she didn’t have anything he’d want to bribe her for.
“Jamais jour je m'ennuie de mon papa. Every day, I miss . . . I miss my dad.”
Her voice hitched on the last word. Bryce got to his feet, grabbed the pile of blankets from the other end of the couch, and settled himself next to her. He covered them with the blankets. She shoved them off and crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t need Bryce’s pity or sympathy.
From the corner of her eye, she caught him giving her a sidelong glance. What story was Bryce telling himself about her? Obviously, she’d had a close relationship with her father. She’d confessed to missing Dad every day.
And she’d said something to Bryce in French, hadn’t she? She must be familiar with the language. Yet, Lucy didn’t speak Bahasa.
In his story about her, had he guessed the truth? That her mom forbade French or Bahasa be spoken? That she spoke French to her dad only when Mom wasn’t around?
Tired of their stretch of silence, she turned and faced him, ready to tell Bryce he could never understand her loss. His words stopped her.
“I’m sorry, Bryce.” She had been wrong about him. He understood. “My father died doing something he loved.” Sharing more of herself would be her peace offering for misjudging him. “He was bicycling on his favorite route when he . . .” She raised her knees and hugged them to her chest. “He was hit by an old man who had a heart attack behind the wheel. They died on scene.” She gave him a slight smile. “My dad’s organs saved eight people.”
Eight people who lived while her father had died. For months, she’d resented them for what they had—pieces of her father. Then she’d realized she had something they could never own—her memories of him. Afterward, she was able to come to peace with what she’d lost and what they had.
“Is your father the reason you bicycle everywhere? Why you don’t own a car?” he asked with a hint of a teasing tone at the last question. She had confessed to him that she wasn’t the best driver.
“Bicycling, running . . . he instilled in me the passion to stay healthy and to get my high the natural way. Isn’t that what you do with your riding and running?” Why should he get to ask all the questions?
“Yep.”
And . . . he left it at that. Wow, now Lucy realized how Bryce must’ve felt when she’d given him either a “yes” or a “no” to his close-ended questions.
He gave her a knowing smile. She resisted the urge to throw the covers at him.
“I take it your mom remarried?”
“A year later,” she said. Once that guy ran out of money and patience with her easy spending, she had divorced him. “That marriage didn’t work. I’m sure my mom’s third will.”
Levi Peterson. He’d been a widower with two young daughters. The ready-made family was perfect for Lin Badeaux, a woman disappointed with her biologic daughter.
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