Carolina Man

by Virginia Kantra

  She didn’t have to lie.

  The freedom made her almost giddy.

  “I, um, have something that belongs to him,” she confessed. “I need to find a way to give it to him.”

  Alisha made an interested hum in her throat. “Are we talking something small, like boxers? Or something big, like a car?”

  Kate laughed. “Something alive. Like a cat.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s really Taylor’s cat. Or it used to be. It got left behind at her old house when Dawn’s parents took her to live with them.”

  “And you found it?”

  “I trapped it,” Kate said with a little rush of pride. “I’m taking it to the vet now. But then I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Well, that’s easy. You call him.”

  “You think?” Kate worried her lip with her teeth. “He just got his daughter a puppy.”

  “So what? It’s the perfect excuse.”

  “I did not rescue this cat so that I would have an excuse to call Luke Fletcher.” Kate’s flush deepened. At least, that wasn’t the only reason.

  “Maybe not,” Alisha said. “But it sure is convenient.”

  • • •

  “CONVENIENT IS NOT the word I’d use,” Kate muttered two hours later.

  She popped the hatch of the Mini Cooper. The white cat flinched, huddling deeper toward the back of the humane trap she was still using to carry it around.

  It hated her.

  She didn’t blame it. “Sorry about the vet’s.”

  A baleful glare from yellow eyes.

  Kate hauled out the cage and the bag of veterinary supplies. The cat yowled once, piteously, as she lugged it up the walk, malnourished, dehydrated, and covered in parasites. I can sell you some topical medication, the vet had said. But she’ll need a flea bath before you introduce her into a household with other animals.

  Screw it, Kate thought. This wasn’t her cat. She didn’t want fleas in her house. She should call Luke right now. If he didn’t want to talk to her, he could let her call go to voice mail.

  She set the cage in a patch of sunshine, sat on the stoop and dug for her phone.

  Luke answered on the second ring. “Kate?” His deep voice, surprised and glad, plucked a chord inside her.

  Her whole body thrummed.

  “I’ve got your cat,” she announced without preamble.

  “My cat,” he repeated. “Snowball? Are you sure?”

  “I think so. It’s white. Long haired.” Kate regarded the dirty feline on her porch. Well, it had been white. Once upon a time. It would be white again.

  “That’s great,” Luke said.

  Some of her defensiveness melted away at the warmth in his voice. “I trapped it on Dawn’s porch. The vet says cats rarely venture more than half a mile from home, so . . .”

  “Wait. You took it to the vet already?”

  Her gaze dropped to the scratches covering her arms. “I had to make sure it was healthy.” Not rabid.

  “And?”

  The cat settled closer to the wire, its shoulders sticking up sharply through its coarse, dry fur. Pathetic, really.

  “It’s okay,” Kate said. “Mostly scared.”

  She poked a cautious fingertip through the bars of the cage. The cat regarded her with disdain.

  “Great,” Luke said. “I can be there in an hour.”

  He was coming? Here?

  Tonight.

  Her knees turned to butter. She sank onto the front stoop. “You don’t have to do that,” she protested automatically.

  “What? You going to keep it?”

  “No, but—”

  “I want to see you,” Luke said. Not demanding, just putting it out there. Honest. Direct.

  So why didn’t you call? Or text. Something.

  Her heart thumped erratically. Snowball—Are you Snowball? Please, please be Snowball—sniffed at her finger, its whiskers tickling. “And the cat,” Kate said, testing.

  “Sure.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “The cat, too.”

  She swallowed. She had to be practical. She had to . . . She couldn’t think. “What about Taylor?” she managed.

  There. That sounded logical. Adult.

  “It’s Friday night. No school tomorrow. She can stay up and play video games with Josh til I get home. Seven o’clock,” he said. “I’ll bring dinner.”

  Oh. Sudden longing speared her.

  When was the last time she’d had someone to eat with, to talk to at the end of the day? Her friendships were mostly confined to the courthouse. It had been months—seven? eight?—since she’d accepted a date.

  She wasn’t anti-men, whatever her mother said. She definitely wasn’t anti-sex.

  If she accepted Luke’s offer, tonight there would be no picking through the wilting spring mix in her produce drawer to make a salad. No hunting in her empty freezer for a desiccated chicken breast. No sitting alone with only the flickering families on TV for company.

  And the cat. Don’t forget the cat. She looked down at Snowball. Oh, God, she thought. I’m turning into a cliché.

  “Seven,” she said crisply. “Thanks for picking up dinner.”

  “No problem,” Luke said.

  No problem for him, Kate thought after they disconnected. Mr. Man of Action. He didn’t worry and second-guess every decision the way that she did. He was so sure of himself, so confident of his welcome. He must have been very well loved as a child.

  She thought of her own frightened and confused upbringing. Her mother, who alternately blamed or ignored her. Her father, who could be distant or a monster.

  Every time Kate looked at Luke she was reminded that she was not normal. Her attempts to pretend that her childhood was like everybody else’s had only made her more isolated.

  She’d been in therapy. She knew that the normal response to trauma was to shut down emotionally.

  And the only way to heal was to stop avoiding the things that made you shut down.

  Kate let out a shuddering sigh. No problem.

  Luke would bring burgers or pizza or barbecue—manly food, she decided, he was a manly guy—and they’d talk. Nothing serious. Nothing complicated. Just a casual dinner between two adults who had the evening free and found each other attractive. Surely she could manage that much.

  She lugged the cat and the bag of supplies upstairs to her apartment. It’s not like this was a date. Luke was coming over for Snowball. Kate didn’t need to tidy her apartment or change her sheets or even shave her legs before he got here.

  She set the cage on the floor of her bathroom.

  No, all she had to do was give his wretched cat a flea bath.

  She turned on the water in the tub.

  • • •

  HE BOUGHT CHINESE.

  And flowers.

  Luke stood on Kate’s front porch with his takeout bag and a cellophane-wrapped bouquet, white roses with red berries and sprigs of pine. Standing in the supermarket, he’d thought they looked pretty. Happy. But maybe flowers were too much.

  His soon-to-be brother-in-law Sam brought Meg flowers all the time. The guy was like a fricking magician, constantly pulling bouquets out of a hat or his ass. But it had been a long time since Luke had bought any woman other than his mom flowers. He felt less like a magician and more like a pimply kid at prom trying to impress his date. Hoping to get lucky.

  Maybe he was trying. Hoping, too. But that wasn’t why he’d bought Kate flowers. He’d been caught up these past few days in the aftermath of the social worker’s visit and Taylor’s nightmare. After a ten-month tour, his social skills were rusty. But he wanted to do something to show Kate how much he appreciated all she’d done for him and Taylor. Give her something to tease that fugitive smile out of hiding.

  He frowned up at the porch light. She sure was taking a long time to answer the door. He was about to ring again when it jerked open.

  And there she was. Her bright, wild hair. Her face, pink and anima
ted. Her soft, shadowed eyes. Under her lawyer skirt, her legs and feet were bare. The sight of her punched him in the chest.

  When he could breathe, he said, “Hey. You look nice.”

  The flush deepened. “I was about to change.”

  Once he got past her face and her pale, bare legs, he could see dark water splotches on her blouse, making the fabric cling to her very nice breasts. “More toilet problems?”

  “No.” She stood back to admit him. “I was giving the cat a bath.”

  “Then you earned these.” He offered the flowers.

  There was the smile, he thought, satisfied. He grinned back.

  “Thanks.” She touched a rose with one fingertip. “They’re beautiful. But I don’t need flowers.”

  “I wanted you to have them. They reminded me of you.”

  Her brows arched.

  “Prickly,” he explained. “And they smell good.”

  This time she actually laughed. “I . . . Well, thank you.” She reached for the bouquet. Beneath the rolled-up sleeves of her blouse, angry red scratches marked her inner forearms.

  Luke caught her wrist, holding her arm in the light of the hall. “Did the cat do this?”

  Kate tugged away and slid down her sleeve, casually hiding her wounds from view. “She doesn’t like the vet’s. Or baths, apparently.”

  He felt terrible. “Can I do anything?”

  “Nope. She’s flea free and all wrapped in a towel.”

  “I meant for you.”

  “Oh.” She blinked those big eyes, like nobody had ever offered to do anything for her before. Hazel, he thought suddenly. That was the word for that changing color. “No, I’m fine. Let me just get these flowers in water and we can eat.”

  “Let’s take care of this first,” he said and closed the gap between them, catching her mouth with his.

  She made this little sound, surprise or protest, but she didn’t move away. So he kissed her again, brushing his lips over hers, coaxing, urging her to open. He couldn’t take her in his arms. He had the bag of Chinese food in one hand, and she held the flowers between them. But he cupped her jaw with his free hand, running his thumb over her cheek. Her skin was so smooth. She opened her mouth, her lips soft, her tongue sliding against his. Her kiss sucked the air from his lungs, the thoughts from his brain.

  Cellophane crinkled. The scent of pine and roses swam in his head as he kissed her, deeper, slower. As she kissed him back.

  He felt . . . connected. Accepted. Alive. And so damn relieved that he could do this, feel this, now, with her, his body responding, his mind fully in the moment, his emotions engaged. Not every guy who came back was so lucky.

  She drew back, her eyes dark. “We should go upstairs.”

  Yes. He stared at her, his blood a hot, primitive beat, unable to believe his ears or his luck. Thank you, God.

  She cleared her throat. “The downstairs is all office and conference rooms. And storage. I actually live upstairs.”

  Some of the blood returned to his head. She was not inviting him into her bed. Just to her apartment.

  “Whatever you want,” he said. Dinner. Sex. Anything.

  He followed her up, noticing again her pretty bare feet and the round, smooth shape of her ass and that whole no-visible-panty-line thing she had going on under her skirt. His brain still wasn’t working properly, but his legs functioned fine, climbing the stairs.

  Her living quarters were designed on a modified open floor plan—a couple of doors he figured must lead to bedrooms, bathroom, closets, and the rest all one big room. He set the bag with the food on the heart pine table and looked around. Cream walls, white woodwork, beige carpet. Except for one fat red candle on top of the TV, practically everything was beige and impersonal. Like her office. Like the desert. Hell, he’d seen military tents with more personality.

  But Kate was standing in the middle of the room, her pink cheeks and coppery hair all the color he needed.

  She crossed one naked foot over the other, as if she was cold. Or uncertain. Or nervous about having him invade her space. Like he was conducting a house-to-house search for bomb-making materials.

  “Nice. How long have you lived here?” he asked, to put her at ease.

  “Five years.”

  More than enough time to decorate, if she’d wanted to. He didn’t say anything.

  But she must have picked up on some vibe, because her chin rose defensively. “It’s practical. Of course, not everybody wants to live where they work.”

  “I always have. So I’m okay with it.”

  “You have.” Her tone made it not quite a question.

  “Sure. Especially on patrol.” Sleeping in a tent surrounded by four sand berms topped with concertina wire. “At least when you step outside to take a leak, nobody’s going to shoot at you.”

  “No.” She blinked. “I’m sorry.”

  He hadn’t told her that to upset her. He tried to find a better memory to share. “Before that, too. My parents run a bed-and-breakfast, remember.”

  “Was that difficult?” she asked. “Having outsiders in your house all the time?”

  “No,” he said, surprised. He’d never really thought about it before. Which meant his parents had done a better job than he’d ever realized. “We had our own rooms. Our own space in the back. Family dinners and a basketball hoop in the driveway. They gave us chores around the inn—Meg swore she’d never make another bed or clean another toilet—but it always felt like home to me.”

  “You were lucky.” Her voice was wistful.

  “Yeah, I guess I was. Am.”

  Not everybody joined the Marines from a sense of duty or tradition or the desire to serve. Some were desperately seeking a place to belong. And some were looking to escape—a dead-end job, a dead-end relationship, a shitty home life.

  For no reason at all, he thought of Kevin, Dawn’s brother, always seeking an escape or an excuse for the disappointment his life had become.

  Way to kill the mood, dumbass. He hadn’t come over tonight to talk about his childhood. Or to make her sad.

  “Go get something on those scratches,” he said. “I’ll dish up.”

  She looked down at the flowers in her arms, slightly the worse for wear. “I should put these in water.”

  Colonel’s daughter, he thought. She had trouble taking orders.

  But no hesitation stepping up. She had the drive, the education, the smarts to be practicing law in some big-city firm, overbilling clients and overworking her staff. Instead she’d spent the afternoon on a vet visit and flea bath for a stray cat. For Taylor.

  The least he could do was relieve her of some of that responsibility she assumed so readily.

  “I’ll take care of it.” He took the bouquet from her. Gave her a little push in the direction of the row of doors.

  “Plates are in the—”

  He shook his head. “I told you, I’ve got this.”

  Still, she hesitated.

  “Afraid of what I’ll find in your junk drawer?” he teased.

  That won him another smile. “Maybe.”

  “Go,” he said. “I promise not to rearrange the cabinets while you’re gone.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you wouldn’t respect my space.”

  He grinned. “Babe, I’m all over your space. I just don’t give a damn how you organize your cabinets.”

  Instant humor leaped to her eyes. “I’ll go change now.”

  “You do that.”

  He waited until the door had closed behind her before he put a kettle on to boil for tea.

  And tried not to think of her peeling her damp blouse from all that pale, smooth skin on the other side of the door.

  Eleven

  KATE STRIPPED OFF her blouse with quick, jerky movements. This wasn’t a date, she cautioned herself. But he’d brought her dinner. And flowers. They reminded me of you. The sentiment should have been cheesy. Instead, he’d made her laugh.

  And yearn.


  Still . . . Not a date. Maybe a booty call? Simple, basic. Oh, God, she should have shaved after all.

  She could hear him through her bedroom door, opening cabinets, rattling flatware. It made her edgy, having a man in her space, moving among her possessions, touching her things when she wasn’t there.

  Afraid of what I’ll find in your junk drawer?

  Maybe.

  She had too much clutter in her past, too many ugly memories stashed away. It was hard to overcome the habits of a lifetime, the fear of inviting someone in, physically or emotionally.

  No one came over when Kate was a child. No friends from school, not even Aunt Sharon, her mother’s sister. Kate had understood without ever being told that nobody could know about Daddy’s drinking.

  The secret was her father’s.

  But the scars and the shame were Kate’s.

  She took a sweater from a drawer. She wasn’t a child anymore. She knew what it meant when a guy showed up with takeout and flowers, when you met him with a tongue-tangling, breath-stealing kiss at the door. He wanted sex. And she wanted . . . Oh, God, she wanted him.

  And that was the danger. Because as soon as you wanted something, it could be taken away. Especially if you let yourself want someone like Luke, with a family who loved him, a little girl who needed him, and a job that guaranteed he wouldn’t stick around. She could not possibly be anything more than an adjunct to his life.

  But did that mean he couldn’t be part of hers?

  She clutched her sweater to her breasts, grasping at the possibility. Maybe Luke could be a special treat she allowed herself. Like a candy bar. You couldn’t live on a constant diet of candy bars. Eventually you’d either starve from lack of real nutrition or get sick from a surfeit of sweetness.

  But Luke was decent. He made her laugh. She craved his company, was so hungry for his attention. Surely she could have . . . a taste?

  She cracked open the door to the bathroom where she’d left the cat. Snowball was in the corner on a pile of towels. At Kate’s entrance, the cat froze with one leg in the air.

  “It’s okay. It’s just us girls. I need to do a little grooming myself.”