by Helen Brenna
“What’s in that building?” Jason asked, and pointed to his right.
“That’s my workshop.”
“Can we see it?”
“Sure.”
Garrett walked across the yard and held open the door. This workshop for him had been a dream come true. In Chicago, he’d made do by parking in the driveway and using his one-car garage for woodworking, and he’d never had enough room to do the kinds of projects he’d wanted. Here, he could do whatever his heart desired.
“Don’t touch anything, kiddo,” Erica said.
“I won’t.”
As she glanced around, Garrett noticed her hair had grown, giving the ends a softer look. She seemed calmer, less likely to bolt at the slightest trouble. More and more, she was looking as if she was settling on Mirabelle.
“So this is where you build all your furniture, huh?” she asked.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Can I make something?” Jason asked.
“Sure,” Garrett said. “If it’s okay with Erica.”
“Not today, kiddo. Garrett was probably in the middle of something and we’ve taken up enough of his time.” She set her half-empty bottle of water on one of the workbenches as if she suddenly couldn’t get out of there quickly enough.
Jason picked up a hammer off one of the workbenches and spun around in search of something to pound.
“Jason, don’t touch any—”
He knocked the end of a board of cherry lying across two sawhorses and spun it toward the cement floor. Erica grabbed for the wood at the same time as Garrett and he bumped into her, knocking her off balance. He reached out to steady her, his hands landing on her waist, and held her up as she managed to catch the piece of cherrywood before it hit the cement floor.
“I’m sorry!” Jason cried.
“It’s okay.” Erica set the wood back on the sawhorses, turned around, and her gaze connected with his.
“Good save,” he whispered, absorbing the feeling of the curve to her hips. For a moment he breathed in the scent of her hair. Sweet like oranges. No. Tangerines. “Thank you.”
“I’m going back outside,” Jason said, but Garrett barely heard him.
“It’s a pretty piece of wood,” she whispered. “What is it?”
He didn’t want to let her go. Not yet. “Cherry.”
“I thought cherry was dark,” she said, an almost breathy quality to her voice.
“That’s the stain.”
“Oh.”
His hands were still on her waist. Jason was outside and Garrett’s back was to the door with Erica in front of him. If he pushed upward, he would no doubt drag her T-shirt along, baring her skin and no one would see except him. Before he could stop himself, his rough fingertips connected with warm soft skin. Upward even more and he’d hit the lower swell of her breasts. He wanted to feel her again, the weight of her in his hand.
The sound of his own breath puffing from his chest in a short burst snapped him out of it. “I’m sorry.”
“There you go again.” She picked up his hand and ran her fingers over his rough calluses. “Why is this so wrong?”
“You make me lose control.” He looked into her eyes. “I touch you and I can’t think. All I know is want. Need. You. Now.”
“And that’s bad?”
“For me it is. You have no idea what could happen.”
“I think I have an idea.” She pressed his hand to her breast. “And I’m not the least bit sorry. Or frightened.”
He closed his eyes and grew instantly hard for her. She was killing him. Bending his head, he leaned toward her. Those lips. Just a quick kiss and—
The door creaked and they jumped away from each other.
“Erica, are you coming?” Jason asked. Clearly, he hadn’t seen them touching.
“I’ll be right there.” She stepped away from Garrett.
Garrett ran a hand over his face, as if that would clear his head.
“We have to go.” There she was again, that skittish colt. “Thanks for the…water.” She dashed out of his workshop and into the yard.
“Yeah, thanks, Garrett.”
Garrett took a moment to regroup, let his body settle back down and then followed them out. “No problem,” he said, walking across the yard.
Erica went to her horse and stood there, looking at the stirrups.
“Need some help?” He came up behind her.
“No, I can—”
He held her at the waist and lifted her up into the saddle. She was so light he could probably do a few bicep curls with her on his arms.
None too gently, she shoved her feet in the stirrups and turned her horse toward the driveway. “We have to go, Jason.”
Garrett turned toward the boy and helped him onto his saddle.
“Thank you,” Jason said, turning his horse to follow Erica.
“No problem.”
With a deep sense of loss, he watched them trot back down his drive and out of sight. What was he going to do about her? Them?
He went back to his shop and glanced at the cherry lying there, waiting to be put to use. He ran his hands along the smooth grain and closed his eyes, remembering the feel of Erica’s skin. He imagined her naked. On her side. Showing off her wonderful curves.
A bed. He was going to make a bed. With a headboard as smooth and curvy and beautiful as he knew Erica would be lying on her side. If all that work didn’t drive her from his system, then he might have to do something about this crazy, all-consuming obsession for her. That’s all it could be. A crazy, sure to be short-lived obsession.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BETWEEN THE UPDATED décor and the new menu, business almost tripled at Duffy’s Pub during the month of June. Some of the regulars were upset with the crowds destroying their favorite local haunt, but Lynn offered resident discounts for everything on the menu and at the bar, and all was well again.
Once the summer college crew had arrived, several servers, a couple more bartenders and cooks, Erica’s role of head cook evolved into more of a general manager. She helped with scheduling and ordering and stocking, and when the kitchen closed down at ten, Lynn usually went home, leaving Erica to lock up.
Tonight, though, was the Fourth of July, and they’d been nonstop busy. After the kitchen closed, both Arlo and Lynn stayed to help Erica out at the bar. Although the island fireworks display over the marina had long since been played out, and the families with kids had gone home to bed, Duffy’s Pub was still crowded and didn’t look to be clearing out anytime soon.
Erica was busy getting one of the waitresses several rounds of drinks for her tables when three rough-looking characters, for Mirabelle at least, sat down at the bar. From their sunburns and T-shirts, they looked like fishermen who’d had a long day of too much fun. Little except their hairiness and size distinguished one from the other. The biggest one sported a goatee and also happened to be balding. The other two were cleanly shaven with full heads of hair, one graying, the other still dark.
She walked toward them. “What can I get for you boys?”
“Well, sugar,” the balding one with the goatee said, “I’m sure there’s a lot you could do for us.”
The other two guys laughed. None of the three looked as if he was experiencing any pain, but it was hard to tell whether or not they’d already reached their limits at one of the other restaurants or bars on the island. If Erica had been back in Chicago, she may not have served them, but here on Mirabelle she didn’t need to worry about any of them jumping behind the wheel of a car. “You boys staying on the island?”
“We’re sleeping it off on my boat docked in the marina, sugar, so gimme a martini. So dry I only want you to look at the bottle of vermouth.” Baldy chuckled.
“I’ll take a beer,” dark hair said.
“Same here,” said gray guy.
Erica prepped the drinks and set them down in front of the men. “You want a tab?”
“That I would,” Baldy said. “And I’d like
a smile to go with my cocktail.” He grabbed Erica’s wrist. “Lemme see a big one. Come on, sugar.”
She couldn’t help sizing him up. If push came to shove, she couldn’t take this guy. He was too damned big. She gave him as tolerant a smile as she could muster. “Let go of me.”
“Oh, but you feel so good.” He ran his hand up her forearm, sending prickles of warning up through her shoulder and down her spine.
“Hey, fellas.” Arlo came over. “Why don’t you just enjoy your drinks?”
She tugged again and the hulk let her go, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she needed to wash her arm. She glanced up at Arlo and, by unspoken agreement, they switched stations. Arlo took the loudmouth and his two friends and she stayed on the other side of the bar.
Less than half an hour later, Arlo was busy at the waitress station when from the corner of her eye she saw Baldy waving his arm. “Hey, Erica!”
Dammit. One of the servers had probably given him her name. She walked over, making sure to keep away from his reach.
“What’s it gonna take to get another martini?”
“What about you two?” She glanced at the other men.
“I’ll take another beer.”
“Me, too.”
She glanced at Arlo and he nodded, letting her know he hadn’t served them, and she prepped another round of drinks. She noticed the hulk get up from his stool and breathed a sigh of relief that she would be able to deliver the drinks without having to hassle with him again.
There was movement at the end of the bar and something touched her arm. Before she realized what was happening, the hulk had tugged her out from behind the bar and was towering over her.
“Look at you. Sexiest thing on this island.”
That ugly face moved toward hers and Erica reacted. She smashed her knee into his midsection and pushed his shoulders. He was too tall. She’d missed his groin, pissed him off and forced his two buddies to cover his back.
“Now that—” he grabbed her wrists and pressed her back against the wall “—wasn’t very nice.”
FINALLY, AFTER A VERY LONG day monitoring and shutting down the more disruptive of the island’s Fourth of July revelry, Garrett was off duty. He’d changed out of his uniform and into khakis and a T-shirt and was about to head home and relax when the call from Duffy’s Pub came into dispatch. At the mention of Erica’s name, he immediately switched gears.
“I’ll send someone right over,” the dispatcher said.
“I’m going, too,” he called, grabbing his gun, cuffs and badge.
After running full out the six blocks to the pub, he was right behind Herman and one of their part-time officers as they rushed through the door. Quickly, he glanced around. Most of the pub’s patrons were still at their dinner tables, so things couldn’t have gotten too far out of hand.
He glanced toward the bar. Three men surrounded Erica, not a one of them less than a foot taller than she. The sight of her, scared, but stubborn as hell, sent an immediate jet fuel-like shot of adrenaline pumping through him. If they hurt her, manhandled her in any way…
He held himself back. Barely. Settle down, G.T. Settle. He wasn’t in uniform and in his current state of mind and body any involvement on his part wouldn’t be pretty. Better to let his officers defuse things while he hung back and surveyed the situation. Let his boiling blood cool to a simmer.
“Police!” Herman yelled. “Leave the lady alone, boys.”
The biggest asshole was standing right in front of Erica, looking extremely pissed. The other two seemed appeared ready to back up their man. Arlo and Lynn were behind the bar. A couple of waitresses were standing by, staring. The people at the tables closest to the action were quickly becoming aware something was wrong.
“If you need help,” a man whispered behind Garrett. “I’m a cop with the Chicago PD, and I got your back.”
“I’ll let you know,” Garrett said, without taking his eyes off the disturbance.
“Now everyone settle down,” Herman said. “Okay?”
One of the three men turned around and moved fast. Two swings and Herman was down for the count. The other guy moved toward the part-time officer. The young man freaked. He sputtered and fumbled for his gun. The man swung, hit him solid in the gut, and the officer doubled over and fell to the ground. Sucking air.
Three against one. Garrett had faced worse odds.
The big guy laughed and leaned in toward Erica. “Now how ’bout that kiss?”
Erica remained perfectly still. Good girl.
Arlo picked up a chair and went at one of the men. Garrett used the distraction to make his first move.
“Don’t even try it, old man!” One of the men whipped out a hand and yanked the chair out of Arlo’s hands.
Garrett surprised the other one with a kick to the gut. As he went down, Garrett grabbed Herman’s cuffs and swiftly secured the man’s wrist to the bar railing.
One down, two to go.
The other guy came at Garrett with the chair he’d taken from Arlo. He swung. Garrett ducked. The chair smashed to pieces on the bar. He came up, grabbed asshole number two’s shoulders, yanked him down and kneed him in the face. The satisfying sound of bone breaking echoed through the suddenly quiet bar. A solid punch to the kidneys had the man groaning on the floor.
“Lynn! Cuff him.” Garrett tossed her his cuffs and then focused on the big guy.
He watched Garrett, gripping Erica’s wrist in his beefy hand. “You come any closer, and I might have to hurt her.” The guy whipped Erica in front of him and cinched an arm around her neck.
“Let her go,” Garrett bit out. “Then—maybe—I won’t kill you.”
“I’m going to make my way outside.” The guy dragged Erica with him down the back hallway toward the emergency exit. “Let me get to the marina. And I’ll let her go.”
Arlo came to as the man was moving past him. He grabbed the guy’s leg, making him stumble. Garrett moved. He shoved Erica out of the way and rammed the man. The guy threw a couple punches at Garrett, connecting once or twice. Garrett tried to subdue him, but it wasn’t happening. Time to get tough. He pushed the guy backward down the hall and outside through the emergency exit.
The minute the idiot charged Garrett, grabbing him around the waist and smashing him into the wall, that was it. Garrett let loose. He punched the man in the gut, the face, the gut again. “So you like to pick on women, huh?” He hit him again, and again and again.
Vaguely, Garrett was aware of someone coming through the back door. “Garrett.” The whisper barely penetrated the sound of blood rushing through his brain.
The guy fell to his knees.
“Not such a big man anymore, are you?” Garrett said, air pumping in and out of his lungs. He felt like an animal. Enraged and mindless.
“Stop.” Erica. Her hand on his arm was soft, but insistent. “It’s over.”
The jerk staggered to his feet, made one last lunge toward Garrett. Garrett backed up and let him fall on his face.
“You all right?” she asked. “Garrett?”
He turned around and swallowed. “You’re all right. That’s all that matters.” If this man had hurt her, no one would’ve been able to keep Garrett from ripping him apart. His hands shook. He glanced down at the blood, his mixed with the other guy’s, covering his knuckles. He’d almost killed a man. Again.
“Garrett.” She touched his arm.
He pulled away, couldn’t look at her. Shame, dark and heavy, closed over him. “Get up!” He yanked the guy to his feet and pushed him toward the street. “Let’s see how you like sleeping it off behind bars.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
IN HIS WORKSHOP, Garrett sanded the cherry, one long sweep after another. He might not be able to deny the fury he’d felt last night, but he could work it off. He could use the wood, use the easy comfort of the mindless routine to lose himself, to forget the world and its ugliness. Only this ugliness wasn’t going away.
The all-c
onsuming rage that had jolted through him when the jerk had grabbed Erica had clung to him through the night, infusing his dreams with darkness, charging his body with tension. Sanding wasn’t going to cut it this morning. The reality that he had no business becoming a husband to any woman, let alone a father, sat on his shoulders like a four-hundred-pound barbell. He may not have killed that man, but he, and he alone, had killed his dream last night.
He stalked over to his table saw, flicked on the power switch and grabbed a length of pine. No way was he risking ruining his inventory of cherry or black walnut, not this morning. He measured as little as possible, cut, drilled and hammered as much as possible, and at the end of a good hour of focused concentration, he had a pine bookcase.
By no means was it a perfect piece of furniture. He’d pounded the soft wood too much in most places, denting it. They made trendy lamps out of pounded metal, why not furniture out of pounded wood. He grabbed his mallet and whacked it a few more times. It made him feel better and might even make for an interesting look. He’d probably stain it up and varnish it for the hell of it.
He pounded. Pounded. Pounded. When a hand touched his shoulder he spun around, his mallet in the air. Erica stood, looking at him.
“What do you want?” He was growling at her, but that’s what she got for sneaking up on him.
She didn’t even back away. “I brought you something to eat.” She held a thick pizza box in her hands.
The smell alone made his mouth water and his stomach grumble. He hadn’t eaten since dinnertime yesterday. “I’m not hungry.”
“You’re not hungry for a homemade Chicago-style pizza?”
Damn.
“Fine.” She set it down on the workbench. “I’ll leave. You can eat later.” Her gaze shifted to his hands and she reached out, pulling one toward her.
He pulled back, but her grip was surprisingly firm.
“You should get something on these cuts,” she whispered.
“And you should be frightened of me.”
“I’m not.” She pulled his hand to her lips and gently kissed each busted-up knuckle.