She flipped her hair behind her back. “It’s bath day.”
Reese pulled away and this time he let her go. He watched as she dropped to the ground and gathered the puppy in close, laughing as the tiny dog wriggled its wet little body against her.
“For them or you?” he asked, smiling at the sound of his daughter’s laughter. But as he studied Carla, that smile faded. Her long dark curls were gathered into a ponytail on top of her head, but the ringlets hung wet and black down to her shoulders. Her T-shirt clung to her breasts, outlining the lace of her bra and molding itself to her figure. Her gray sweat shorts were soaking wet and those long legs of hers looked tan and luscious enough to fuel daydreams designed to taunt a man. And that silver toe ring seemed to wink at him in the sunlight.
She pushed a long wet strand of hair out of her eyes and said, “I’ll answer that, wise guy, as soon as you tell me why I wouldn’t want to see you today.”
One eyebrow lifted. “Well,” he said, remembering how it had been when he and Diane had had their legendary arguments, “I figured after last night, you’d need some time to cool down.” Diane had always needed days. And expensive presents.
Carla laughed. “Are you serious?” Shaking her head, she set the puppy aside and reached for the hose. Scrambling to her feet, she added, “For an Italian, yelling just means you’re alive.”
“Is that right?” Tension he didn’t know he was carrying unwound inside him, and he smiled as he watched her waving the sprinkler end of the hose.
“Oh, yeah. So.” She swung the sprinkler closer toward him and asked, “You alive?”
“You wouldn’t.” But he backed up a step just in case.
Carla laughed. “Never dare a Candellano.”
He closed his eyes as the water hit his face.
* * *
That night, Carla prowled restlessly through her house. Her nuked half-eaten frozen dinner sat abandoned on the kitchen table and the TV sounded from the living room. Some game show host was snidely pronouncing her contestants Too Stupid to Live and Carla didn’t care enough to go in there and shut the rude woman off.
She turned her back, leaned one hip against the counter, and stared at the kitchen. “I guess I could clean.” Abbey cocked her head as if surprised by the suggestion. Carla laughed. “Yeah. I’m not that bored.”
And it wasn’t really boredom clawing at her anyway. It was something else. Something she hadn’t felt in way too long. Heat pulsed inside her, warming her blood and clouding her mind. That had to be the reason why it suddenly seemed like such a good idea to run across the road to ask Jackson if she could borrow a cup of sex.
“Oh, man.”
A knock at the door brought her upright. Hey. Maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s just as needy as she was right now. Maybe—“Hell, Carla,” she muttered, stalking across the kitchen, “just open the door.”
“Well, it’s about time,” the woman on the porch announced. “Is this any way to treat the bearer of coconut rum?”
“Stevie!” Stephanie Ryan, girlfriend extraordinaire. Tall, blond, with a great body, which was, just now, sporting a gorgeous Caribbean tan, she was the kind of woman other women usually hated, just on general principles. But Stevie was also the best kind of friend. She’d tell you exactly what you needed to hear. Whether you wanted to hear it or not. “You’re back!”
“Well,” she said, “to coin a phrase, duh.”
Stevie leaned forward, gave her a quick kiss, then carried her bag of goodies straight through the house to the kitchen. “Hi, Ab. I brought you a present, too.”
The big dog woofed, then snatched the squeaky rubber palm tree out of the air when Stevie tossed it to her.
“And what’d you bring me?” Carla asked, watching her friend pull bottle after bottle out of her bag. God, she’d missed having Stevie to talk to. But with Jackson here, Carla had to admit the two weeks her best friend had been gone had passed a lot faster than they would have without him around.
Stevie flashed her a wicked smile. “I picked up a new favorite drink on that cruise. And being the wonderful human being that I am, I’ve decided to share. I brought coconut rum and all the fixings for a fabulous girls’ night in.”
It did sound fabulous. “Just what I need.”
“That’s not what I hear,” Stevie said, uncapping the first bottle.
“Huh?”
“Good one.” The tall blonde grinned and said, “I wasn’t home fifteen minutes and I was hearing all about you and Mr. Wonderful across the street.”
“Oh, crap.”
“Virginia says he’s a Mafia informer.”
“Perfect.”
“Rachel says he loved her tuna-pineapple slop.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And your mother says he’s your new boyfriend.”
“Good God.”
“So which is it?”
“Would you believe none of the above?”
“Nope.” She reached down Carla’s blender from the top shelf. Then, walking to the fridge, she opened the freezer, took out the ice bucket, and plunked some into the blender. “Girl, any man who can get all these women talking is one I’ve got to meet.”
“Why?” Carla asked, suspicion coloring her tone.
“Oooh,” Stevie countered, smiling, “territorial. So tell me, have you two done the ugly yet?”
“No,” damn it, “and we’re not going to.”
“Uh-huh. That was convincing. How bad do you want him?”
“Oh,” Carla admitted, “bad, Stevie. I want him really bad.”
CHAPTER TEN
CARLA SLIPPED THE STICK end of a tiny purple umbrella into her hair to join the others already nestled there and leaned back on the couch. She took another drink of the frothy concoction in her icy glass, then looked at Stevie. She blinked once to clear the image of her friend.
“My tongue ith numb.”
Stevie tried for a sip of her own cocktail, but her swizzle stick nearly blinded her. So she plucked it out and tossed it onto the tabletop. It landed right beside her crossed ankles. She grinned as if she’d made a three-point basket from the free throw line and took a swallow of her drink. “Whaddayou care? You’re not usin’ it for anything.”
“A perthon needth a tongue,” Carla argued, and used her thumb and forefinger to try to shake some life into hers. It didn’t work.
“Some of us more than others,” Stevie agreed. “Long tongues are nish … nice.”
Carla grinned at her friend, then laughed. With all of the paper umbrellas sticking out of her upswept blond hair, Stevie looked like she was wearing a hydrangea bush on her head. “Thath what I like about you,” Carla said, nodding. “You thay, say, jus’ what I’m thinkin’.”
“Long tongues?”
“Here’th … here’s to ’em,” Carla said, and lifted her glass in a mock salute.
They sat in the middle of the couch, their feet propped up on the table in front of them. Across the room, their favorite movie, Practical Magic, was playing on the TV, more for background noise than anything else. And Abbey lay curled up on the floor where she could keep an eye on both of them.
“So tell me about Mr. Hot to Trot,” Stevie demanded, jabbing Carla in the ribs with an elbow.
“Mmmm … he is, ya know.” She clucked her tongue a time or two, to ease up the numbness. “Hot, I mean. He looks at me and I’m ready to lay down and whimper. Plus, he has great hands.”
“Long fingers?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Thass good. Gynecologists and lovers should always have long fingers.”
Carla snorted a laugh. “Eww.”
“I’m right. You just don’t wanna admit it.”
“I don’t mind admittin’ that I’d like to give those fingers of his a try.”
“So, how come you’re not doin’ a mattress dance?”
Carla shifted uncomfortably and stalled by taking another long drink. That rum was really good. “’Cuz I don’t want to care.”
“Take one outta your hair.”
“Nah. So anyway, back to your sex life.”
“What sex life?”
“Essackly.” Stevie shook her head, paused and waited for her head to settle back on her neck, then said, “Carla honey, I love you. But you need to get laid.”
“I know.” Just the thought of hitting the sheets with Jackson Wyatt was damn near enough to make her climax. Just not quite. “Believe me, I know. But I can’t jus’ hop in the sack and then say, ‘Thanks for the orgasm; gotta run.’”
“Why the hell not? Guys do it all the time.” Stevie took another deep swallow and shivered as it slid down her throat. “The creative ones even throw an ‘I love you’ in there somewhere.”
Despite the alcohol-induced haze in her brain, Carla heard the tinge of old pain and enough bitterness in her best friend’s voice that it made her own heart ache. Reaching over, she took Stevie’s hand and squeezed it. “He was a jerk.”
“True.” Stevie’s mouth twisted into a smile filled with regret. “But a cute one.”
“Oh, yeah. Cute, but stupid.”
“I didn’t say stupid. Jus’ a jerk.”
“Hey,” Carla said, “he’s my brother; if I want to call him stupid, I will.”
Stevie returned the hand squeeze and muttered, “Thanks, pal.”
Four years ago, Nick and Stevie were the couple being talked about in Chandler. That is, until Nick had made first string on the team and let all of the media attention go to his head. Of course, it was being named one of People magazine’s Fifty Most Eligible Bachelors that had really ended everything between Carla’s brother and her best friend. Women had come out of the woodwork going after Nick—and being a man, he’d let his penis do the thinking for him.
And with the Little General in charge, he’d forgotten all about Stevie.
Idiot.
“All men are idiots,” Carla announced.
“Amen.”
“Including my brothers. Well, except for Pocket Protector.”
Stevie chuckled. “How is Paul? Haven’t seen him in a while.”
Carla shook her head and was appalled when the room tilted. “Whoa.” She took a deep breath. “We hardly shee him, see him, either. ’Cept on Sundays. He’s workin’ on somethin’, I guess.”
“Uh-huh, back to your stud.”
She laughed. “Stud.” Her eyes closed and instantly an image of Jackson rose up in her woozy mind and smiled at her. Her voice went wistful. “Wonder if he is.”
“Want me to find out and report to you?”
Carla gave her a good-natured shove. “Hell, no.”
Stevie shoved right back. “Thass what I thought. So all you hafta do is pretend you’re a guy. Use him and discard him.”
That was certainly an idea, Carla told herself. The problem was, if she used him, she had the distinct feeling she wouldn’t want to discard him. And then where would she be?
“Could always go for Mama’s pick,” she muttered, more to herself than to Stevie.
“Who?”
“Frank.”
“Good Christ!” Appalled, Stevie stared at her. “Honey, nobody’s that drunk.”
Carla laughed again. Damn, things were funnier when looked at through the bottom of a rum bottle. And God, had she missed having Stevie around to talk to. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Damn straight I am and—hey!” Stevie yelled suddenly and jumped to her feet, where she swayed unsteadily for a long moment before reaching out a hand to Carla.
“What?”
Abbey shot to her feet, too, poised to protect.
“Dancin’ time!” Stevie shouted, and pointed at the television.
On-screen was the best part of the whole damn movie. All of the female stars were drinking midnight margaritas and dancing through the house. With Carla and Stevie it was tradition to join right in.
“Back it up!” Carla called as she pushed herself off the couch.
Abbey barked and ran around the room.
Stevie grabbed the remote, pushed REWIND, and held it until she hit the scene right at the beginning. Then the two of them, grinning like idiots and singing at the top of their lungs, forgot all about men and sex and the hangovers that were sure to follow tonight’s revelries. Instead, they put their problems on hold and danced along to “Put de Lime in de Coconut.”
* * *
Across the road, Jackson stood in the open doorway of his house and stared at Carla’s place. The hours he’d spent with her earlier that day hummed through his mind with a sweet insistence. He couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her. Hearing her laugh. Seeing her smile. Watching her patient tenderness with Reese.
He leaned one shoulder against the door frame and remembered how it had felt to see Reese turning to Carla. To see the little girl smile up at someone other than him and be welcomed with open arms. A few weeks ago, he might have been threatened by his daughter’s growing affection for Carla.
Sure, that sounded petty and small, but it was true. Over the last year, it had been just him and Reese, clinging together on a flimsy life raft being slapped around on a choppy sea. Coming here had been a last-ditch attempt and he knew that. He’d hoped to find his daughter again, and instead, they’d both found Carla.
What that meant—to either of them—he wasn’t sure. All Jackson knew for certain was, he liked being around her. Liked knowing she was right across the street and that he’d see her again tomorrow.
And he wanted her.
With every breath.
His gaze narrowed at the thought. What kind of selfish bastard did that make him? His daughter was locked in a world of silence and he was thinking about getting Carla between the sheets. Real Father of the Year material.
He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, then stared at the house across the way. Her drapes were open. Light beamed from every window in the place, but it was the front window that claimed his attention.
Through the glass, he watched Carla and a blond woman dance. And though there were two of them, he saw only Carla. Arms high, hips swinging, head thrown back, she moved with a wild abandon that made him hot and hard—and he wished to hell that blonde wasn’t there.
* * *
“You bitch.”
“Quiet,” Stevie whispered. “I’m dying.”
Carla sat in her usual post, feet propped up on the porch rail in front of her. Alongside her sat Stevie, wearing sunglasses in a futile effort to block out the brightness of the morning. When you had the hangover to end all hangovers, sunshine was an evil thing.
Easing her head down, Carla rested it along the top of the chair back and hoped that, if she was very careful, the pounding might ease off sometime next week. “You had to bring two bottles of rum?”
“Have you no respect for the dead?”
“You’re talking. You can’t be dead.”
“Damn.” Stevie took a tentative sip of coffee, whimpered as it went down, then said, “You don’t mind if I just stay here, do you?”
“At the house?”
“On the porch.”
“How long?”
“Forever work for you?”
“In a big way. I’ll stay with you.”
“A true friend.” Stevie sighed. “Man, it’s been a long time since we drank that much.”
“I know,” Carla agreed, thinking back. God, it was hard to make the brain work. She could almost feel her brain cells dying. “The last time was…” Oops.
A smile twitched at one corner of her friend’s mouth. “Relax. I remember. It was the night I found Nick in bed with that Chargers cheerleader.”
“Yeah, it was.” And Stevie had come running to Carla, sobbing, her heart broken—and that was
the first time Carla had wished she was seriously big enough and strong enough to beat the crap out of one of her brothers.
“Her pom-poms weren’t real,” Stevie muttered.
“Huh?”
“The cheerleader. Double D pom-poms jiggle. Hers didn’t. And the way she was riding Nick, if they’d been able to, they would have.”
“Gee, thanks for the image.”
“What’re friends for? Do we have aspirin?”
Carla reached for the bottle. “How many? Three? Four?”
“Would a dozen be too many?”
“Too many and yet not nearly enough.”
“Oh well, four then, I guess, and—” Stevie sat up a little straighter. “Well, hel-lo, Hot and Tasty!”
Carla shook out the aspirin before looking up. “Hello, wh—” She shut up as she followed Stevie’s open-mouthed stare.
Jackson walked down the slope of lawn from his house, carrying a white trash bag. Carla’s gaze locked on the wide expanse of his chest. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, God help her, and watching the play of his muscles as he walked was enough to make her mouth water. He wore a pair of jean shorts that dipped low around his narrow hips, displaying a flat abdomen, and made her daydream about what was hidden beneath the denim material. He lifted the lid of the trash can, tossed the bag inside it, then paused and looked across the street. His gaze went directly to hers, and Carla’s breath hitched in her chest. Even from a distance, the power of that gaze hit her with a strength that would have knocked her on her ass, if she hadn’t already been sitting on it.
Then he lifted one arm and waved before turning around and walking back up the slight hill to his house.
And Carla had to admit, the view of him leaving was just as good as the view of him coming.
“Wow.”
When she could breathe again, Carla shifted a glance to her friend. “Tell me about it.”
“How is he close up?”
“Way better.”
“What’s he do?”
“Lawyer.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
Carla laughed and let her gaze slide back to the house across the street. God, this was pitiful. If she wasn’t careful, she’d become twelve years old again and start walking back and forth in front of his house waiting for him to come outside and notice her.
Finding You Page 12