“Gimme ten minutes.”
“I’ve got nowhere else to be,” she said with a faint, humorless laugh.
“Hold tight. I’m on the way.”
The guys at the auto garage were busy, but the trucks weren’t, so he swiped the flatbed and headed to Waffle House.
He spotted Sam from a full block away. Her Caprice was backed in at the street side of the parking lot, and she sat on the curb, wind playing with the length of her golden hair while the late sun burnished it. The picture she made – in her prim black slacks and white shirt, sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on her nose, with all that rich honey hair – softened him in unexpected ways. She looked like someone’s sister, daughter, friend. She wasn’t a vixen; she was human.
She stood when he double parked the truck in front of her car, dusted off the seat of her slacks in a normal, self-conscious, un-sexy maneuver. He wasn’t used to being around woman who did normal, self-conscious, un-sexy things, he realized. Any woman who wasn’t related to him was nothing but batted lashes, tossed hair, squeezed-up breasts and model poses.
Sam was neither his relative, nor one of his usual females.
And the thought of Tonya sitting on a curb made him want to laugh.
“Thanks for coming,” she said, but didn’t quite meet his stare, looking somewhere over his shoulder.
He didn’t understand her awkwardness, so he said, “Which tire is it?”
She showed him. “I could hear it, while I was driving.”
When he crouched down to look at it, she bent forward at the waist and looked along with him, like she was waiting for him to unveil something she’d missed in her earlier examination. Her hair swept forward and brushed against the side of his face.
“Oh, sorry.” She pulled it back, tossed it over her shoulder.
When he glanced up at her, several things hit him at once. One: he’d never seen her hair loose like this. Two: it smelled amazing. Three: when her glasses slid down her nose, like they had now, she had the biggest, brightest, most colorful blue-green eyes he’d ever seen. And four: bending forward like this, he could see down her shirt, the swells of her breasts held snug in the lace cups of her bra.
Like he was seeing her for the first time, or through a different set of eyes, it dawned on him: Samantha Walton had grown the hell up and she was beautiful.
“Aidan.”
“Uh – what?”
“I asked if you can tell what happened to it.”
“Oh…uh…” He was stammering like an idiot. At least until he refocused on the tire. “Yeah, you don’t have a flat, you’ve got dry rot, babe. The tread just fell off this thing. I’d bet the rest of your tires are in this shape.” He turned a frowning look up to her. “Hasn’t your dad or boyfriend noticed this?” He didn’t care if anyone thought it made him a chauvinist: keeping the cars in good running shape was a man’s job, and he felt suddenly pissed that the men in Sam’s life weren’t keeping up with what was already a pretty shitty ride.
She captured her lower lip between her teeth and again her eyes refused to meet his. “I’m not dating anyone seriously. And my dad’s been dead for a while.”
“Oh.”
She shrugged. “I should have been paying better attention. It’s my fault.”
“Nah. This is a dude area.” He gestured to the car.
She suppressed a laugh behind one ladylike hand. “Dude area? How progressive you are.”
“I ain’t progressive for shit. Pardon my French.” He tapped the rotted tire with his knuckles. “You oughta set up a regular oil change appointment with the shop. They’ll check your tires while you’re there.”
“Yeah.” She nodded and sighed. “That’s a good idea.”
“I’m serious now. You can’t get busy with work and just forget to keep up with your car. You don’t wanna be a pretty girl stranded on the side of the road. Some creep-ass outlaw biker’ll throw you on the back of his Harley and take you to Sturgis with him.” He waggled his brows at her and she burst out laughing, like she didn’t want to, but couldn’t help it.
He grinned; he hadn’t gotten too many female laughs lately.
She calmed with a groan. “Okay, so, how much is a new set of tires gonna set me back?”
He winced on her behalf.
“That bad, huh?”
He sat back on his rear end, legs extended before him beneath the car. “They’re gonna cost you more than this sniper-mobile is worth.”
Her distressed expression stirred something in his gut, regret blended with sympathy. He didn’t like giving her the bad news.
“Why do you drive this thing anyway? You’d get way better gas mileage if you drove a chick car.”
“Chick car?” Her brows lifted above the rims of her glasses, and her mouth puckered up in patented disapproval.
It was hot.
“You know, a Camry or an Accord or something. Women don’t care about the cars they drive.”
“You’re seriously oh-for-two on the sexist comments thing,” she said, but it looked like she was trying not to grin.
“I’m cute enough to get away with it,” he said, throwing her his best smile.
She snorted. “Yeah, you are, that’s the worst part of it.” She sighed and sobered a bit. “I used to have a chick car, actually. I had a little Corolla.”
He cocked his head, inviting her to explain.
“My parents bought it for me before I turned sixteen. It was going to be a surprise. My dad took it to the shop to have it all freshened up for me. He was T-boned by a truck on the way home. And it killed him.”
“Shit,” Aidan breathed. The bottom dropped out of his stomach as he watched her expression grow dark, the light in her pretty blue-green eyes dimming. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
She offered him a thin non-smile. “It was a long time ago.” She heaved a deep breath. “Anyway, the Caprice was his car. I haven’t been able to part with it.”
“Damn.”
“Like I said.” She shrugged. “So, you can change this? And quote me some new tires?”
“Tell you what: I’ll change this. And the new tires are on me.”
She coughed in surprise. “What? Oh, no. I can’t let you do that. That’s too–”
“Sam, let me.” He gave her the smile again, the softer, more sincere version. “It can be my good deed for the week.”
“I…” Her eyes were bright with argument…and an unmistakable gratitude. “Are you sure? I would feel terrible about taking advantage–”
“No arguing. I’m the tire fairy, and you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”
She smiled, a tired, thankful smile. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
She stared at him a moment, maybe a moment too long. Then shook herself. “I’m gonna run inside for a second. I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time.”
She was back about five minutes later, as he was pulling the ruined tire off, with a takeout container and two foam cups. “Sweet tea and a whole mess of bacon,” she explained, sitting down on the curb again.
“Thanks.” He took the offered cup and watched her pop the lid on the takeout container. Inside was nothing but a pile of bacon. He chuckled. “You weren’t kidding.”
She lifted a piece between two delicate fingers and blushed. “I had them drizzle it with maple syrup. Hope that’s okay.”
“Never say no to syrup on bacon.” He let her hand him three pieces, so he wouldn’t get his greasy hands all over the rest of it, and crammed it into his mouth gracelessly, watching her nibble at her own.
“Why are you single?” he blurted, before he could catch himself.
She choked on her bacon.
“Shit, I didn’t mean to kill you.”
She coughed a few times and took a slug of tea. Her voice was hoarse. “Why would you ask that?”
“I…dunno.” He felt his face heat and turned away from her, picking up the spare and fitting it into place.
“Just curious, I guess.”
“Curious why I’m single. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because people aren’t single.”
She huffed a laugh. “Lots of people are single, Aidan.”
He reached for the lug nuts he’d set aside and sent her a pointed glance. “Good looking girls aren’t single. Why are you single?”
She shrugged, and again avoided eye contact, cheeks flushing crimson. “I’m a geek. I dunno.”
He grinned. “You’re bad at flirting, aren’t you?”
“I’m not just bad at it, I don’t do it. Ever.”
“Why the hell not? Ditch the glasses and smile a little bit, and you’d have dudes lined up down the block.”
She sighed. “I don’t want dudes lined up down the block.”
“Why the–”
“ – hell don’t I want that?” she finished. She sighed. “Because I don’t like dating. I hate putting on a show and hoping someone will like me, and doing it again the next weekend and the next, with someone new. I don’t want ‘dudes.’ I want a man, who’s all my own. I want ‘the one.’” She gave him a halfhearted smile. “But you probably think that’s lame, don’t you, playboy?”
That elusive “one,” the partner his father had been telling him about. The stand-beside-you woman who never faltered, and carried you when you weren’t strong enough to stand on your own conviction. He’d actually been searching for that this time, but he’d been so far off base. He’d thought the bad bitch would make a good queen. But bad bitches were just that – bad.
“No, I don’t,” he said softly.
Her brows lifted. “You don’t?”
“Nah. It sounds pretty nice, actually.” He turned back to her tire, securing it into place.
“The spare’s pretty rotted out too,” he told her when he was finished, and had strapped the ruined one to the back of the flatbed. “So you’ll need to come in as soon as you can to get the new set.”
She nodded. “I’ll do that.”
He was getting ready to climb into the truck when her hand on his arm pulled him up short. He glanced down at the sight of her white fingers on the messy scars of his forearms, the distorted lines of tattoos that would never make sense again.
“Aidan,” she said quietly, and when he met her gaze, she was looking directly into his eyes this time, her pretty irises turquoise in the fading light. “You don’t have to settle for what’s readily available either, you know. You could have your ‘one,’ if you wanted to.”
He rolled her words through his mind all the way back to the garage. He needed to talk to Mags, he decided. It had been too long since he’d sought her wisdom.
~*~
He got the chance two weeks later, when he walked into the hospital with a blue teddy bear tucked under one arm, ready to meet the newest Lécuyer.
He’d missed all the rush beforehand, the delivery itself, the cleanup afterward. He didn’t want to see any of that, to be honest. He just liked showing up as Uncle Aidan. They had a private room, and Ava was dozing in the bed. Maggie had Remy on her lap and Mercy was holding the new little bundle, showing him proudly to the grandparents.
Aidan eased the door shut behind him. “Hey.” Whispering felt like the thing to do.
Mercy glanced up at him with a smile that made him embarrassed for some reason, the naked joy in the other man’s face more than he wanted to bear, as a non-parent. “Hey, bro.”
Calvin Louis Lécuyer was placed in his arms, a tiny red-faced human beyond his wildest comprehension.
“Y’all named him for Uncle Cal?” he asked, glancing over at Ghost, whose younger brother had died as a child in an accident.
“Yeah,” Mercy said. “Him and my Gramps.”
Ava stirred. “That fuzz on his head is blonde,” she said, smiling tiredly. “He’s got some recessive genes in him.”
“That’s your story anyway, huh?” Aidan asked.
“Hey, I’m blonde,” Maggie said, tossing her hair. “And your grandfather was, right?” she asked Mercy.
“Yeah. He was real pale. And he’s where the nose comes from.” He tapped his own.
Aidan looked down at the baby in his arms. “He does have a beak, I’ll give him that.”
As if he’d heard and been offended, little Cal started to squirm and whimper.
“Uh-oh.”
“He’s hungry, bring him here,” Ava said, sitting up higher against her pillows.
Mercy took the baby back and went to the bed, which meant breastfeeding was about to happen, which meant Aidan didn’t want to stay in the room.
“Hey, Mags? Can I talk to you a sec?”
“Sure, baby.” She stood and passed Remy to Ghost. “Here, Poppy. I’ll leave you in charge.”
“Come here, man.” Ghost took the kid with an ease that always amazed Aidan. Crappy dad, good grandfather. That’s just how it went sometimes.
Maggie slid her arm through his as they left the room. Ghost headed down toward the vending machines, and she steered Aidan the other way, toward the window pouring warm light into the cold tile hallway.
“It’s been a while since you asked to talk to me about something. I feel honored,” she joked, bumping him with her shoulder. “You usually go to your sister for female advice these days.”
“Well, sometimes…”
She chuckled. “That’s good. She’s a woman now. She’s a good source of womanly wisdom.”
He snorted. “Maybe about some stuff.”
“But not other stuff?” She gave him a lifted-brow, penetrating glance.
“Not about…well…I mean.” He sighed. “She was born into the club. And she knew she wanted Mercy all along. Which is gross, by the way, when you think about it.”
Maggie made a disagreeing sound.
“What I mean is, she doesn’t know much about being outside the club and coming into it.”
“Who are you wanting to come into the club, baby?” she asked, giving his arm a little tug so they stopped in the patch of sunlight and she moved around to face him. She had a seemingly innocent stare that could have forced a confession out of a mob boss.
“Not a new member,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck, wanting to shift his feet. “But…” He exhaled. “That girl I brought to the party a few weeks ago.”
“Ah.” Her expression tightened. “The princess.”
“Yeah, her. Well, I was thinking, when I asked her out, that since she was different from some of the other girls–”
“Collections of dead braincells.”
“ – I’ve been out with–”
“Screwed around with.”
“ – that she might be, I dunno…a good old lady.”
“Are you serious?” Her hazel eyes widened.
“I know she’s not,” he rushed to say. “She’s a bitch, and a brat, and I don’t ever wanna see her again.”
“Thank God.”
“But I was trying this time, Mags. Really I was.”
She smiled sympathetically. “That’s good. I’m proud of you.”
“So how do you know” – an image of Sam popped into his head, her pretty eyes behind her glasses, the unbound waves of her hair, her tea and syrup-drizzled bacon, the catch in her voice when she talked about her dad – “when someone’s really old lady matieral?”
“Oh, sweetie.” She smiled again. “It takes time to know that. Women don’t come with resumes.”
“Unfortunately.”
She chuckled. “You’ve got to find someone who sees Aidan underneath the cut, who’s got her eyes open wide, and who doesn’t run when she gets scared. The good ones are always harder to catch,” she said. “But they’d never think of running once they’re caught.”
Forty-One
Three Weeks Later
“Dad, the longer you delay, the later it’s going to be when you get done. And I’m not going to hold dinner for you.”
Karl gave her the most wounded look, and for the first time in her memory,
his eyes were clear, his gaze sober. AA was working. So far. Falling off the wagon was a distinct possibility, but given how grouchy and uncooperative he was, it was a safe bet he’d stuck to his pledge today, at least.
“You’re cruel, Emmaline,” he told her. “Trying to let me go hungry.”
“Not trying, Dad, no. I’m trying to get you to implement a little time management. If you’re the groundskeeper around here, then you have to stick to the farm schedule. And Miss Walsh is coming in tonight, and she’ll be starving, so I won’t hold dinner just because you wouldn’t get your butt in gear.”
He glared at her, grumbled under his breath, but finally started the lawn tractor and rolled away.
Emmie folded her arms and watched him ride off a moment, feeling a sense of pride in her father for the first time in…ever. He was just mowing the grass, but that was worlds better than what he’d been doing – which was nothing.
It was Walsh who’d started Karl on the proper road. They’d gone to drag him out of Bell Bar and Walsh had put his foot down. Dumped ice water down his back and gotten in his face when Karl started to go on a drunken rampage. “You’re breaking your daughter’s heart, you sod! Bloody step up and be a man for once.”
He was three weeks sober, and he was the new Briar Hall groundskeeper. Small steps, but positive ones.
The sound of a car engine on the driveway drew her attention, and she saw Walsh’s truck swing past the barn and head up to the house, three heads silhouetted in the back window where before there had been one.
She took a deep, shaky breath, nerves jumping all at once. It would have been terrifying enough to meet a boyfriend’s mother, but to meet her mother-in-law? That typically wasn’t done in this order. Hi, I married your son almost two months ago, nice to meet you!
Ugh, what was this woman going to think of her?
She ducked into the tack room and glanced in the mirror above the sink. “Oh, shit.” Her hair was coming loose, curls clinging to her damp neck. A big smear of horse slobber marred what had been a clean polo shirt, and there was an inexplicable smear of dirt across the bridge of her nose.
She did the best she could with damp paper towels, called herself a lost cause, and took three huge deep breaths that did nothing to calm her.
The Skeleton King (Dartmoor Book 3) Page 34