by Judi Fennell
“I’m not sure that’s such a good thing with teenagers, but I know what you mean.”
He meant that they felt out of control. That, with Mike’s death, their world had been tossed upside down and flattened—just like Mike’s plane.
Beth sucked in a breath as she stumbled up the last step into the foyer, the image searing across her brain. She’d tried not to see what had happened to the plane, but the media had broadcast it for what seemed to be twenty-four-seven, nonstop for days. Weeks even. She hadn’t been able to go anywhere without seeing the inferno that had been her husband’s last moments on earth. The really sad thing was, the kids had seen it, too.
And then there’d been the reporters. There’d been an investigation into the crash. Possible pilot error. Mike’s career had come under intense scrutiny and, while she’d known there was nothing to work against him, it had still scared the hell out of her. She didn’t need his name smeared when she was trying to hold the family together and deal with the fallout. The press had only compounded it to the point where the kids had been frightened to go outside for fear of having microphones stuck in their face. They’d become recluses in their own home with people staying away so that they, too, wouldn’t be barraged by everyone looking for the story.
It’d taken the National Transportation Safety Bureau and the FAA entirely too long to clear his name and by then, the damage had been done. The kids were wary, scared. Withdrawn. Jason hid behind his hair. Kelsey by laughing a little too loud. The twins had had each other, but they’d grown apart, no longer finishing each other’s sentences. And Maggie had sucked her thumb. All coping mechanisms, but how had they coped? It was a question Beth was still working on.
“You okay? You’re awfully quiet.” Bryan held open the door for her.
“Me? I’m fine.” As fine as could be.
“Fine, huh?” He chuckled.
“Yes. What’s wrong with being fine?” It was what the counselor—and she—wanted for them. To be fine.
Beth didn’t think she’d ever be fine again—oh. Now she got his chuckle.
She chuckled, too. “I mean, yes. I’m good. Thank you for teaching all of us. We appreciate it.”
“My pleasure.”
No, really, it was hers. If he kept smiling at her like that, she’d be way more than fine and good.
Chapter Six
THERE was something about a man cleaning a toilet.
Or maybe it was just Bryan Manley cleaning her toilet, but he had the best butt Beth had ever seen. And that was no disrespect to her husband. She and Mike had joked about it because Mike had been butt-challenged, though he’d had other good points to make up for it.
Beth sighed and leaned against the doorframe, crossing a foot over the other. The fact that she was referring to Mike in the past tense was reason enough to not list what those points were. She didn’t need more waterworks after the plumbing incident this morning.
“Is there something you need?” Bryan asked over his shoulder, sitting back on his heels from the on-all-fours stance in front of the toilet that really shouldn’t have been sexy but was.
Beth straightened and tugged the hem of her shirt down. “I was wondering if you would like something to eat.”
Seriously? That’s what she went with?
Though . . . actually . . . it was lunchtime so, it was as good an excuse as any.
“No, I’m good,” Brian said, returning to his toilet-cleaning pose.
She ought to leave. She’d asked the question, he’d turned her down, he had work to do. And she had no business hanging around Bryan Manley.
Of course that didn’t stop her from staying.
“Where did you learn how to clean? I didn’t think movie stars needed to know how to do toilets.”
“My grandmother.” He tossed the used paper towels into the trash can, then pulled a pristine cleaning brush out from his supply kit—and aimed it at her. “I wasn’t always a movie star, you know.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. I guess you had an apartment or something? Had to pull your weight with your roommates?” She didn’t dare ask if any of those roommates were female. It was none of her business.
And if she kept saying that, she might remember it.
“Actually, I didn’t.” He swirled the brush around the bowl with the cleaning solution and flushed it. “I lived at home until I moved to LA. My grandmother made us all clean. Every Saturday morning. We rotated the bathrooms. I got really good at it.”
He peeled the latex gloves off his hands and tossed them into the trash. “Which means I can tell when someone has cleaned before me. You did it last night, didn’t you?”
Beth could feel the blush blaze over her skin. “This place was, well, gross. You didn’t need to see that.”
“But that’s why I’m here. Why hire me if you aren’t going to use me?”
Don’t answer that, don’t answer that, don’t answer that.
“I didn’t hire you. My friends did.” There. That was a safe answer. And it let him know where she stood on the subject. She was perfectly capable of taking care of her own home—or she would be once this initial push was over. Once Bryan left, the house would be in perfect shape and, hopefully, the kids would help her take better care of it than they had for the last two years.
“Your friends?” Bryan took a step toward her and Beth had to look up at him.
“They thought I could use a break. Relax a little.” This was new for her. She was five-ten. Rarely did she have to look up at a guy. Even Mike had only been an inch taller.
She stuck her hands into her back pockets, then yanked them out because that movement stretched her shirt too tightly across her chest and she didn’t want him to think she was coming on to him. It was one thing to fantasize about Bryan in that way; it was another to actually go for it.
Besides, who was she to even imagine she’d have a shot with him? He had movie stars and models at his beck and call; he didn’t need a frumpy mom of five with a manic dog and a deranged cat.
Both of whom careened down the stairs just then.
Beth winced, waiting for the crash or screech, or the “Stop it, Sherman!” that inevitably followed Sherman’s chases after Mrs. Beecham. She was listening for it so much that she almost missed Bryan’s comment.
“It’s got to be tough without your husband around.”
She wouldn’t have minded missing that one.
Beth forced a laugh. It was either that or cry and she was not going to do that. Not anymore. She’d cried enough and not a single tear had brought Mike back. “We’re coping.”
Bryan looked at the top of her head. His gaze traveled over her face slowly. Beth’s breath hitched for the moment or two that he raised his hand hesitantly to brush a piece of hair off her face.
When his fingers grazed her cheek, she stopped breathing altogether.
This hadn’t happened in, well . . . Not since she’d met Mike. In college.
“I’m glad I can lend a hand,” he said softly, his green eyes searching for something in hers.
She didn’t know what he was looking for, wasn’t sure she wanted to know, and definitely knew she didn’t have to breathe ever again if he’d stay right where he was.
What was she thinking?
That was the thing; she wasn’t thinking. Her body was on autopilot here. It remembered what to do around a hot guy even if her brain didn’t. And it didn’t. She’d never even looked at another man. Mike had been everything to her.
So who was this Bryan Manley to have crept under her defenses so much and so quickly that she was imagining him creeping under other things—namely the covers of her bed?
Now she felt the blush blaze through her entire body. She hoped to God he didn’t know it.
His eyes flared—just a second, but it was enough.
He knew.
And he wasn’t stepping back.
Beth needed to breathe. Desperately. Metaphorically and physically, and she didn’t car
e in what order. He needed to move away. Take even one step back. Give her some space.
Except . . . she could back away, too. She was the one in the doorway. All it’d take would be two simple steps and she’d be beyond his reach in the hallway. Away from these crazy thoughts and feelings.
He was, after all, the Bryan Manley. Heartthrob and ladies’ man. She was just Beth from the suburbs. Soccer mom, helper with the school play, PTA rep. Teacher. Not movie star material and definitely not model material. Merely someone who was tied to this house and this town with five pairs of very visible roots.
She took a step back. Away from temptation. From madness. From what-in-the-hell-was-she-thinking?
From what if . . .
• • •
BRYAN let her go.
He didn’t want to, but, seriously, what right did he have to do what he’d done? She ought to smack him across the face. He’d gotten too close too fast. Too familiar. And he wasn’t even sure he wanted to get familiar with Mrs. Beth Hamilton.
The widow.
With five kids.
Bryan took a deep breath. “Well, I’m glad I can help out.”
Not quite the way he’d like to if he had the choice, but then, he didn’t. And shouldn’t. And couldn’t. And . . . Thank God she’d stepped back.
“It, um . . .” She absently re-tucked the hair that he’d tucked. “It’s gotten, well, not easier, but more normal. Time helps. Some. I’m just sorry you have to clean up after them. I’m sure your sister has other jobs that would’ve been easier. Did you lose a bet or something?”
Bryan forced a laugh to cover up how close she’d gotten to the truth. “Hey, well, you know, this is what they pay me the big bucks for.” He grabbed the toolkit of cleaning supplies. Mac ought to get those logo-ed. And the toilet brush handle, too. It’d come in handy if he accidentally left one behind.
And he was babbling in his head, trying to cover the very visceral reaction he had to Mrs. Beth Hamilton.
He wanted to buy out her perfume manufacturer’s entire supply. Or, better yet, invest in the company, because that scent—just one little whiff—turned him on faster than he’d been turned on in a long while.
And if she wasn’t wearing perfume . . . well then, his trouble level had just gotten a whole lot higher.
“Mommy, can Bryan clean my room next?” Maggie, thank God, poked her curly little head out from the room next door, pulling the thumb from her mouth with a loud pop! She sucked that thumb a lot, he’d noticed yesterday. When she was thinking about something or considering him or watching TV or taking a nap, her thumb was never far away. He would’ve thought that, by her age, she’d have outgrown it. Perhaps most kids whose father hadn’t died would have. He couldn’t begrudge Maggie that small comfort.
What did Beth do for comfort?
Bryan gripped the toolbox harder and turned away, looking for something to occupy his other hand. And his mind. Because he didn’t need to be worrying about Beth’s comfort. He had to worry about her toilets. Yes, that was it. Toilets. Nothing sexy about a toilet. Or dust. Or baseboards. Or return registers. Or stovetops. All items guaranteed to require his full attention.
“Sure, Mags. Bryan can do your room next.” Beth raised perfectly arched eyebrows that he’d bet had never seen a makeup artist in their life.
Since when had he noticed a woman’s eyebrows?
“Sure, Maggie. I’ll be right there.” No way was he going to brush by Beth. She had to leave first.
Thankfully, she figured that out and moved out of his way.
Bryan took a deep breath, hiked the toolbox, and tried to burn the image from his brain of Beth’s perfectly shaped backside as she walked down the hall.
Chapter Seven
BRYAN groaned as his alarm went off the next morning. It was only day three of the twenty he was slated to spend at Beth’s house and already it was too much. He’d cleaned Maggie’s room from the top of the princess canopy draping over her bed, to the fluffy pink chair that had more cat hair than fabric on it, to the dozens of costumes spilling from her closet. She’d assured him that her room had been clean the day before, but she’d had a “wardrobe malfunction” last night and had to find something else to wear to bed.
Given the new sheets on her bed, Bryan had an idea of what she was talking about, but didn’t let on that he did. She might only be five, but she knew enough to be embarrassed by bed-wetting.
Was that a residual from the trauma she must have gone through when she’d lost her father?
Then the twins had come in just as he’d finished up, arguing yet again who was the best lightsaber fighter, and he’d been roped into refereeing. Lunch had been an event, reminding him of when he and his brothers had been kids. He’d laughed at the surreptitious dog-feeding going on under the table, the cat perched on the room divider keeping a wary eye on the dog and any scraps that fell to the floor, the constant banter between the twins with Maggie’s voice chiming in every so often, and Beth wiping bread crumbs off her nose—and smearing peanut butter on it in its place.
He’d jumped up to help her clean up, but she’d shooed him away, telling him to enjoy his lunch.
That was the problem; he’d enjoyed it a little too much. He’d spent last night hard and aching and chastising himself the entire time. Beth was off-limits. He couldn’t care how pretty she was or how amazing she was to take care of those kids and keep her house and work at her teaching job. Granted it was summer vacation and the house was dirty enough that her friends had hired him, so she wasn’t handling it as well as she obviously had been able to do before her husband’s death, but still. Beth was holding it together when he could tell how much she’d loved the guy.
Something twinged inside him. What would it be like to have someone care about him that much? To be there every morning and every night? To share the little things of life with: making coffee, doing the crossword puzzle, watching the dog chase rabbits in the backyard first thing in the morning?
Watching the sun rise from the king-sized bed upstairs in her bedroom . . .
He groaned again and it had nothing to do with the early morning. Sure, he was used to getting up for early calls, but once the film wrapped, he liked to sleep in.
He swung his feet off the bed just as his phone rang.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair. Didn’t recognize the number, but it was local. Hell, he hoped it wasn’t a reporter. “Manley.”
“Bryan?” Beth. Out of breath.
Every cell in his body went on high alert. “Beth? What’s wrong?” All sorts of catastrophes were running through his head. Had one of the twins skewered the other with an impromptu dangerous sword? Had Jason taken the car out? Had Maggie choked on something?
Already he was yanking on a pair of running shorts—fuck the stupid uniform. He didn’t need to spend the day in the ER in that concoction, plus the shorts were easier to pull on one-handed.
“It’s Sherman. I have to take him to the vet.”
Sherman. The dog. Bryan’s adrenaline took a nosedive as the immediate threat to Beth and the kids dissipated. But then the worry in her voice registered. “What happened?”
“I . . .” Her voice broke. “He got himself tangled in the clothesline and I don’t know . . . He’s not . . . I don’t know how long he was without oxygen.”
Oh God. The kids would be devastated. “Did you give him mouth-to-mouth?” Even as he said it, he knew it sounded ridiculous.
Beth didn’t laugh. “Yeah. And he’s breathing again. Coming around, too, but, I don’t know. I think I should take him in just to be sure. The rope marks around his neck are pretty bad.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“You don’t have to hurry. I just wanted to tell you I won’t be here and I’ll leave a key under the mat. I know it’s cliché, but it’s the easiest place and I’ve got to get the kids to their friends’ houses so I can do this. I just wanted you to know why we wouldn’t be there.”
“Which v
et do you see?”
“Dr. Bingham on Harvest.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“That’s not necess—”
“I want to, Beth.” Because if the dog’s prognosis wasn’t good, she was going to need someone with her. He’d seen how much she cared about that dog. And he knew how much the kids did. Beth would hurt for herself and for them if something happened to the mutt.
“Oh, but Bryan, that’s not necessary.”
“Time’s wasting, Beth. Get in the car and head over. I’ll meet you there.”
• • •
AN hour later, Beth was very glad Bryan had insisted on coming.
Maggie, who was the only one of her kids who hadn’t had any friends home this morning and had to come, was a mess. She wasn’t even talking for the furious thumb-sucking she was doing, and she was pacing just like Mike used to—just like she had when the police had shown up that day with the news about Mike’s plane.
And just like then, Beth had tried to pull her daughter into her arms, but Maggie wouldn’t take the comfort—also like Mike. He’d dealt with things in his own time and his own space and Maggie was just like him, right down to the curly black hair.
Sometimes genetics could be a real pain in the ass when she had the spitting image of the man she’d lost staring back at her from across the kitchen table every morning.
Still, Beth’s fingers itched to reach out to Maggie and draw her into the circle of her arms, and she was just about to do that when Bryan returned from the reception desk where he’d asked for an update on Sherman and swung Maggie into his arms. “Hey, Mags. The vet said Sherman’s going to be all right.” He looked over at Beth and nodded.
She exhaled. He was telling the truth. Not sugarcoating it to make it easier to take.
“Can we take him home? I wanna leave this place.”
“Not today. They’re going to keep him overnight for observation just to be sure. But they said he’s up and drinking water, and we can come get him tomorrow.”