THE MAN WITH ALL THE HONEY: Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance #3

by Cathryn Cade

  Finally, she gave up, went downstairs, and turned Stick's huge television on, keeping the sound low. She watched her favorite home improvement show until she fell asleep for the third time. At this point she gave up, walked the house to make sure all the doors were locked, turned the lights off—except for one lamp in the living room and a side-lamp in the kitchen, because this was a big house, and despite what she'd told Jack, she was a little nervous.

  Only natural, with everything that had happened, even if the action was a few hundred miles away.

  In the morning, Sara fed the boys cereal and banana slices with milk, helped them choose clothing for the day, more superhero tees, clean cutoffs, socks and sneakers. Then the three of them headed to the grocery store in Airway Heights to buy some foods the boys would enjoy. She felt a little guilty about not having them in car seats, but for such a short jaunt, she belted them into the back of her Lexus.

  In front of the store, the boys ran to one of the huge carts that looked like toy cars and climbed in, so Sara tossed her purse in the top and pushed them into the store. She chose staples she knew kids liked—chicken alphabet and tomato soups, cheese sticks, and whole grain bread. The boys chose their favorite juice boxes, a box of crackers, green grapes and then clamored for candy.

  Sara leaned down and gave them the look her mother had used on her and her brothers. "Enough. Behave, and you may each choose a Hot Wheels vehicle on our way out, okay?"

  The boys looked at each other, then back to her. "And one candy," Dash said, with the air of making a counter offer.

  Sara bit back her smile, and then nodded. "Deal. One car and one candy."

  As they moved away from the checkout line, two older women passing by smiled at Sara. "Your boys are so cute. They look just like you."

  Sara opened her mouth to correct this, and then simply smiled. "Thank you. They are pretty cute when they behave."

  "Behaving sucks!" Kick announced loudly.

  "Yeah," Dash agreed, and they fell against each other giggling.

  Her face flaming, Sara pushed the cart as swiftly as she could toward the exit.

  "We don't say 'suck'," she informed them out in the parking lot.

  "Papa says it all the time."

  "Well I don't. So let's think of some other words we could use, hmm? I know, what about 'behaving is cool'."

  They giggled again. "You're funny, Sara. It's not cool—it's boring."

  "Yeah, it's for girls."

  She shook her head at them. "You are such guy guys, aren't you?"

  "Yeah. We're just like our Papa."

  "Let's hope not," she muttered under her breath as she got into the driver's seat.

  With their big blue eyes and cute little faces, they were going to be handsome devils when they grew up, and two carbon copies of Stick Vanko loosed on the female population? Hang onto your panties, girls.

  Back at the house, the boys helped her stow the groceries in their kitchen, then escorted her to her house, which meant they charged ahead while she followed more slowly.

  Sara let them feed Blackie, who wagged his tail, but darted away when they started toward him. Losing interest, the boys showed her how fast they could ride their low-rider style trikes out and back on their paved driveway.

  Then it was time for lunch, after which the boys played in their big sandbox in the shade of a spreading tree. While they drove vehicles around carrying sand and building some structure only they understood for their new Hot Wheels motorcycles, Sara checked her email and perused Pinterest for leather craft ideas.

  When the twins' play degenerated into bickering and throwing sand, she brushed the sand off their clothing, hair and shoes, took them inside to wash up, gave them a snack, and helped them select a movie. They assured her Papa let them watch whatever they liked, she gave them the choice between two cartoon movies. They pouted for approximately thirty seconds, then chose one, and settled down to watch.

  Sara settled on one corner of the sofa to keep an eye on them. She watched with amusement as they slouched back in the big sofa, Dash fiddling with the hem of his brother's tee, and Kick with one leg flopped over his twin's.

  Her phone rang, the sound that signaled an unknown number. Her heart clenching with alarm, Sara answered quickly. Was Seth in trouble again? "Hello?"

  "Blazhinka," said a deep, cool, all-too-familiar voice. "Peter tells me you are with my boys."

  Sara relaxed with a whoosh of breath. "Oh, it's you. Yes, I'm with your boys. When are you going to be back?"

  "What, you no longer find them cute and adorable?"

  She made a face at the phone, then remembered the boys were present, and froze. Luckily, their attention was on the silly antics of animals attempting to escape a high fence.

  "Kick and Dash and I get along just fine." Unlike he and she. "We even went grocery shopping."

  He made a sound which might have been amusement, or disbelief. "You took them shopping? Didn't think you were that brave, or maybe that stupid. What are they doing now?"

  "Well, they got tired of playing with knives," she said sweetly. "Now they're watching a movie. I must say, I'm a little surprised you let them watch violent cop movies, but they assured me you do. So, I guess you know best."

  Now he did chuckle. "You forget I know you. You probably have them watching one of those sweet little Christian stories, where all the veggies are kind to each other, and everyone learns a lesson."

  It was her turn to snort. "Um, no. It's an animal cartoon. Over the Fence? No, Over the Hedge."

  The boys chortled as one of the animals fell, causing all his companions to tumble after him with appropriate sound effects, and Sara grinned. "Hear that, Papa? They're having fun."

  "I hear," he said. "How about you? Are you having fun snooping around my house?"

  Now how the heck did he know that? Sara cleared her throat. "I wouldn't dream of snooping."

  He chuckled again. "I don't believe you. Not a woman alive who could resist, being alone in a man's house. Especially one she's fucked."

  Sara's enjoyment at their verbal sparring disappeared. That's all she was to him, one in a long line of easy women. Like the redhead on his porch.

  "Well, we both know that was a mistake," she said flatly. "Now, do you want to talk to the boys? Because if not, we're done here."

  "Yeah, put them on."

  The boys were delighted to pause their movie for their papa. Sara put the phone on speaker so they could both speak with him, and walked into the kitchen.

  She poured herself a glass of water and drank it, staring out the window at past the trees to the county road.

  A pair of motorcycles passed slowly by, and Sara wondered if they were Flyers patrolling past their president's place.But they rode on.

  The boys pelted into the kitchen, Dash with her phone held high. "Papa wants to talk to you, Sara."

  Handing off the phone, they ran back to their movie. Sara sighed as she put the phone to her ear. "Yes?"

  "Good to know I can trust you to care for my sons," Stick said, his voice silky. "Keep it up, yeah?"

  "I had intended to," she said stiffly. "Now are you through, or would you like to threaten me with some dire biker-style retribution if I don't perform child care to your expectations?"

  "So, you can be a bitch, eh?" he asked. "Maybe I'll show you some other things you can do with that mouth when I get home, blazhinka."

  "Oh, I think you've got plenty of other women for that!"

  She ended the call with a hard poke of her thumb on the screen, wishing it was his face. She was so angry she forgot she hadn't thanked him again for saving Seth.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Deciding she needed to poke something, Sara got out her back of leather, and worked on her brown belt at the kitchen counter. She may have whacked her new rose stamp a little too hard on the first few roses, but then she calmed down and got into the rhythm of the work.

  Stick was not the man for her, and no wishful dreaming into her p
illow would change him into that man. He was a tough, rough-talking biker king who could turn charisma on and off like a faucet.

  Each time she warmed up to him—more like burned for him—he turned around and drenched her with icy reality. Yes, he was a magnificent lover. And a good father. And, okay, a hero for saving Seth. And, his biker brethren thought highly of him, even Jack and Keys.

  But Kit and Lindi had warned her to stay away from him, and now she understood why.

  Other women wanted him, and saw her as competition. She snorted—if only they knew that any of them had a better chance of holding onto him than she did. Because while they didn't seem to mind coming back for more emotional ice, she was different.

  No man, no matter how hot he was, was going to treat her like a slut who hung around hoping for sex with a biker. And he wasn't going to talk to her like one, either.

  By the boys' bedtime, it seemed Sara's peaceful time with them was over. Kick dumped toothpaste all over the sink and refused to clean it up, pouting on the closed toilet while she did so. Dash whined for another movie, then threw his used toothbrush at his twin. Before she could intervene, the two flew at each other, tussling on the bathmat, then bursting into tears.

  "I want my Papa," Dash wept.

  "Want Papa," Kick joined in.

  Sara finally got them into Kick's bed, and sat down to read a story with them. They chose a cartoon book about a truck, which was funny but required frequent sound effects, according to the boys. She did her best, while they critiqued her attempts at truck noises.

  "I'm a girl," she told them. "I can't help it. If you want truck noises, you'll have to make them."

  "Papa makes the truck noises." Kick subsided on his pillow with a sniffle, and Dash drooped into his own bed, his face flushed. Sara laid a hand on his cheek, and found it too hot for her comfort. "Do you feel okay?" she asked him gently.

  "No," he said. "My head hurts."

  Sara dispensed the children's acetaminophen she found in their bathroom cabinet, giving some to Kick as well, because he now looked as flushed as Dash.

  "Okay, sweethearts, call me if you need me," she told them.

  Baby monitor in hand, she went downstairs, but instead of returning to her leather work, she used her tablet to look up children's flu symptoms and care on a reputable medical site. If they were going to get sick, she wanted to be ready. And please God, don't let her get sick while she was trying to take care of them.

  A wail from Dash woke her in the middle of the night.

  She rushed into their bedroom to find that he had vomited all over himself and his pajamas. Crooning gently to him, and doing her best not to gag at the stench, Sara got him out of bed and into the bathroom, where she abandoned all notions of modesty to put him in the shower, strip off his soiled jammies and clean him off with warm water and a little bath gel.

  His skin was burning up, his cheeks red, so she took his temperature. One hundred and two, within the safe range according to the medical advice she'd researched.

  She gave him a drink and some more acetaminophen and had him lie down on Kick's bed while she changed his bedding. With the little boy back in bed, the soiled laundry in the washer, she went back to her bed.

  Only to wake an hour later and repeat the whole routine with Kick, whose temp read about the same as Dash's.

  By then it was nearly five am, and getting light outside, so Sara showered, dressed in shorts and a tee, bundled her damp hair back in a ponytail, and went downstairs, baby monitor in hand, to start some coffee.

  Slugging down her second cup, she double-checked the instructions on caring for children with the flu.

  "A fever is the body's way of fighting a virus or infection," she repeated to herself. "Little ones often have higher temps than adults. I'm doing everything they say to do, I'm okay, the boys are okay. It's just the flu."

  She could always call the neighbor with children if she felt the need, and if she got scared, she'd call 911 and the EMTs. Stick could afford this place, he could afford the medical expense.

  Sara didn't have to call 911, although she did call Mrs Dunbar as soon as the clock reached eight am. The woman reassured her that Sara was doing everything the other woman was doing for her kids.

  "Rest, lots of fluids. Diluted apple juice, and some chicken noodle soup when they get hungry," she told Sara. "Such bad luck you ended up watching them during this flu outbreak. You poor thing."

  Sara assured her once again that she didn't mind at all, and ended the call. It was the truth, she realized, pouring herself a third or maybe fourth cup of coffee. She was getting attached to the little rascals. Not that she wanted to smell vomit again for a very, very long time, but she hated that the energetic, funny little boys were sick, and she was glad she got to care for them when they needed her.

  The boys both got sick again, but this time Sara heard whimpering on the monitor and dashed up the stairs in time to get heads over a bag-lined garbage can, so at least no more bedding had to be washed. She gave them both some apple juice diluted with water, and they went back to sleep.

  They slept much of the day, although they wanted cartoons in the afternoon, not the stories she offered to read, so Sara carried them downstairs one at a time and settled them on the sofa with blankies and a movie. Dash fell asleep after twenty minutes, Kick a few moments later.

  Sara sterilized everything they'd touched and scrubbed her hands for the umpteenth time, then made herself a turkey sandwich for supper, although she wasn't especially hungry. What she was, was tired and cranky.

  She was worried, on edge and she wanted Stick to come home and take care of his sons, whom she now adored but was exhausted with being suddenly thrust into the role of primary caregiver.

  She didn't mind the running up and down stairs bringing them juice, and reading a few pages of a story only to have them lose interest, so much, she minded telling them repeatedly that Papa would be home soon. She minded being terrified she would not do this right, and have to call the paramedics.

  And since she did not adore Stick, who was at present somewhere in the Tri-Cities, probably raising havoc with the peaceful populace while he waged gang warfare, biker style or celebrated by partying with pretty biker hangers-on, she expended most of her ill humor on him.

  She cleaned up the kitchen, talked with Kit and then Lindi. These conversations consisted mostly of their amused disbelief and sympathy at her situation, but neither could come to her aid because Lindi had to open her cafe in the morning, and Kit was now nursing Remi, who was ill.

  Sara left a message for Seth and one for her mother, and then walked out onto Stick's porch to get some fresh air. Blackie the dog sat by the hedge, head up as if waiting for her to come home.

  "Hey boy," she called quietly. "Keep an eye on things over there, okay? I'll be home tomorrow ... I hope."

  She went back much sooner than she expected.

  The boys fell asleep at twilight, and Sara turned the kitchen lights on, and worked on her belt for a little while. But when she decided to stamp an additional shape beside each rose, she discovered—thus adding to her bad temper—she'd left that tool on the workbench at her house.

  "Drat," she muttered. Now she had to traipse over there in the dusk. She'd be lucky if she made it through the hedge unscathed.

  It was all Stick's fault. If he were here where he should be, she'd be where she had all her tools around her. After this illogical but satisfying mental rant, she took the monitor and her phone in hand, and went outside.

  She crossed the drive and squeezed through the hedge into her shadowed yard, scowling as she realized she'd forgotten to turn the outside lights on there. Well, she hadn't known she'd be back tonight. She had to fumble for the key in the dark, but finally found it. As she unlocked the door, Blackie growled somewhere in the shadows, a low warning note, and then barked.

  "It's all right, dog, it's just me," she called. "And since I'm the one who feeds you, don't be growling at me."

 
; She went inside, turning the kitchen light on. Crossing to the table where she'd left her project tools, she selected the stamp she wanted and put it in her shorts pocket, then saw her new curved cutting tool. She picked it up along with the sample she'd created with it at Brad's shop. A few of those cuts would look pretty on her new belt.

  Tool in hand, because it was too sharp to put into her pocket, she headed back out onto the back steps, closing the door behind her, key in hand to lock it. She flipped the outdoor lights, thinking she'd leave them on overnight, but nothing happened. "Great, now I need new bulbs." She'd replace them tomorrow.

  Blackie growled again, this time with definite intent, and Sara peered into the twilight yard, the hair standing up on the back of her neck. "Blackie, it's okay, It's just me."

  Then she stopped short, an icy thrill of fear going through her. The dog stood in the middle of her small yard, facing her in a menacing stance. He growled again, and tensed as if to spring.

  "Blackie?"

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Sara’s mind raced. What on earth was wrong with Blackie?

  Was the dog turning on her, as she'd heard feral dogs sometimes did? Why? And did she have time to get back inside the screen door before he attacked? And was the flimsy old screen even strong enough to hold him off of her while she unlocked the inner door?

  Then she smelled something new, and unpleasant on the warm night air. A sharp, acrid scent close at hand. Body odor. There was someone else--a man out here, right around the corner of the small stoop. Blackie was barking, not at her, but at the intruder.

  Oh, God. A stranger slinking around her back door at night. This was every woman's worst fear. He clearly had something bad in mind. What was she going to do now?

  "Call off your mutt, bitch," a voice grated from the inky shadows of the ell between the stoop and the house. "Or I shoot him."

  "No! Don't shoot him," Sara blurted. "He's just trying to protect me. So—you should just leave and everything will be fine."