The walk to Lucia’s took less time than a haircut, more than a glass of wine. The front door, an old solid oak monstrosity of carved wood, stood wide open. Ryhan poked her head inside. “Lucia? I’m here.”
“In the back, dear.” Lucia’s voice echoed through the high-ceilinged hallway. Ryhan followed the sound to the patio where a man bent diligently over a large plant, pushing dirt in around the roots. She stood and kissed each of Ryhan’s cheeks, or more specifically the air beside them, and motioned for her to take a seat.
A tray with lemonade and bite-sized cookies sat in the middle of the table. “I thought you wanted the rugs beaten today.”
Lucia waved a dismissive hand through the air. “In a white shirt? Certainly not. Besides”—she leaned in close and winked—“the view is much better without a cloud of dust blocking it.” She nodded toward the shirtless man.
Ryhan sighed. Another fix-up. She glanced toward him, the shock of black hair, the broad shoulders, that damned Latin tattoo just begging her to trace it with her tongue. Jesse. Her next whoosh of breath came off a smile.
Lucia grinned. “Marybeth called, and she’s having her daughter walk Juju before school. So no need for you to rush away.”
“Right.” Ryhan pursed her lips. Of course, the more Jesse bent and stretched, the less desire she had to rush anywhere. She accepted a glass of over-sugared lemonade and took a hearty swig.
“Oh dear.” Lucia raised the back of her hand to her forehead. “I have a ton of calls to return this morning. Would you mind terribly staying here and supervising? Can’t have my azaleas unevenly spaced.”
“Lucia, I don’t even—” She didn’t know what she’d been about to say, but it didn’t matter. The older woman, with the agility of a tree sprite, walked away, her shoes clacking along the hallway floor.
Ryhan stood, walked across the yard, and stooped next to Jesse. She toyed with a hand rake, digging it into the ground then yanking it back out. “Hey.”
“I’m planting flowers.”
Ryhan nodded. “I can see that.” When he sat back on his heels, rubbing the dirt from his hands on the grass next to him, Ryhan curled her fingers into her palms. She couldn’t risk making a fool of herself here. With Lucia Gilden probably watching out the window. “Why are you planting flowers?”
“I think it’s something between my own guilt and the fact that she’s a crafty old thing.”
Ryhan tilted her head, seeing the bad boy trapped inside the good man before her. “Righting the wrongs of the past?” Her mouth watered as she considered touching the glistening skin over his spine, tracing the fancy font ink, smoothing the curls trailing down his neck.
“Something like that.”
Though he’d been sweating, she shivered—probably from the cold—and pulled her jacket tight around her chest. “Do you always work without a shirt on when it’s fifty-five degrees outside?”
“She took it when I got here.” He nodded and sucked air between his teeth in a quiet hiss. “Ran her finger down my chest, counted my ab muscles, then yanked me forward for a hug by a belt loop. I think you might have competition.”
Ryhan shook her head a few seconds longer than necessary. “Oh, I have—no, I mean, she can—well, shit.”
He touched his finger to the end of her nose. “You’re really cute when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered. I’m-I’m mounting a defense.” She closed her eyes. “In my entire life, I have never used the phrase mounting a defense. I mean, who says that? Not me, I can promise you. I mean, I’ve used the word mounting before.” Heat crawled up her cheeks. How many damned times could she throw the word into the mix? “You know, like mounting a fish on the wall or mounting a horse. No, probably not mounting a horse, but I have used the word, just not to describe a defense.” Her voice squeaked as she popped the cherry on top of her embarrassment pie. “Usually just dirty talk for sex, which I now realize sounds ridiculous. That’s it.” She pushed her hands out from her chest. “I’m striking the word. Never ever will I say mounting again.” She pursed her lips and nodded. Oh Lord. How many more times could she possibly have said the word? “Starting right now.”
The more she went on, the wider his eyes opened. “You okay, sweetheart?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She touched his shoulder, then jerked her hand back as though the tingle shooting up her arm burned. “Maybe you could, um”—she swallowed hard—“put a shirt on.”
He took her fingers in his, brought them to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles. “She took it. We covered that.” He grinned.
“All that skin and muscle and hair that could sell your shampoo to a bald man”—she scooted closer—“it’s a lot to resist.”
“Good. My plan is working then.”
The man had too many smiles, each one more attractive than its predecessor. Even the smug turn of his lips lit a fire in her stomach that warmed from her collarbone to her tiptoes.
“It’s rude to point it out.”
“But you didn’t deny it.”
“No.” She scratched a spot on her head that didn’t itch then stood, walked onto the patio, and whipped the flowered linen cloth off the table. She wasn’t especially proud of this idea, but her survival depended on covering some of his finer assets. “Here.” She held it out. “Put this on.”
He eyed the fabric with squinted lids. “A tablecloth? You want me to wear a tablecloth?” He spoke as though he’d never deign to consider something so ridiculous.
She nodded and shook it toward him. “Take it.”
“And what am I supposed to do with this?” He stood, holding the linen out in front of him, examining it from various angles before wrapping it towel-style around his chest.
She stepped closer and loosened the fabric where he’d tucked it. Her hands brushed his skin, and she lost her ability to think. It took three tries before she could tie the knot at his shoulder. “Did you not celebrate Greek Week at college? Toga, baby.” She smiled as she stood back and admired more than her handiwork. Jesus. Only a man like Jesse could look so damn good in a rose print piece of linen.
He held his arms out to the side and gave a slow spin. “Better?”
“Not much.”
Maybe she hadn’t completely woken from her dream or maybe she found him too attractive to resist after all, but she stepped forward, put her hands on his shoulders and whispered, “You should only ever wear this. Or less.”
He touched his forehead to hers. “You might use a lot of words, but sometimes, they really count.”
His lips grazed her mouth, and for a second she considered throwing caution down into the hole with the azaleas.
An extra beat of her heart reminded her of its presence, and she stepped back. “You’ll shred me.”
“I’ll try not to.”
The weight behind the promise had her swaying toward her usual act-before-she-thought tendencies. After a moment of teetering on the brink of weakness, she stepped another few inches away.
“I’m counting on that.” She looked down, caught a glimpse of his rippling chest muscle, and lifted her gaze back to his. Stop looking at him.
“I know.” He dropped his hands and gave her a gentle push. “Get back in your chair and let me work. I have one green thumb to show off.” He held it up.
“It’s not green.”
“It’s a figure of speech.”
She grinned and flopped in the chair. “I’m just saying, if you’re gonna brag about a green thumb, the least you could do is paint it or something.”
The smile faded from his lips, and his eyes clouded with what she hoped to be honesty. “I would never hurt you on purpose.”
She nodded. “I know.”
As much as she wanted to believe that some sincerity existed behind his words, she’d also fallen victim to empty promises before from men like Rick, who found her more a means to an end than his forever girl. Ryhan shook off the heaviness of her thoughts and smile
d. “Now, get to work.” With a cool flick of her wrist, she checked her watch and calculated how much time she had left. Twenty-minute walk home to change, ten more back to the diner. She could stay one more hour.
An hour and fifteen minutes of concentrated ogling later, she stood. Jesse turned, wiped the sweat accumulating on his forehead and left a streak of mud in its place. “Where you going, Madame Supervisor?”
“I have to work. Afternoon shift at Kelly’s.” She hurried toward the house to keep from throwing herself at him.
“What? No kiss goodbye?” he called.
She shook her head and kept going.
Jesse spent the afternoon shoveling and planting and had the muscle aches to show for it. He walked into his mother’s house in search of nothing more than a sandwich and a hot shower, but as he passed her office, he peeked in.
She sat alone with a snifter and a bottle of brandy. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched a stack of papers against her chest.
“Mom?” He took a tentative step forward, pushing the door wider to get the full view of the room. Her mahogany desk, usually neat and orderly, overflowed with envelopes and bills marked past due. “Mom.”
She looked up, glassy eyed and slack jawed. “Oh, Jesse.”
He took the papers from her hand, then the snifter, and leaned against the corner of the desk facing her. “What’s wrong?”
She sighed. “I’m in trouble, Jesse. I have no money left. They’re going to take the house and my car, and I asked you here to borrow money, but I can’t take from you. You worked so hard.” She reached for her drink, and Jesse intercepted her hand, holding it in his.
“How much do you need?” He couldn’t believe the words had come from him. This was the woman who’d. . .who’d. . .what had she done? Nothing so bad that the little boy inside him could stand to see her this way—makeup running down her cheeks, eyes red, skin blotchy, and enough defeat in her tone to tear down all his anger.
“A lot.”
“What happened to your inheritance from Grandma and Grandpa, and what about the divorce settlement?” She’d had millions, but now that he thought about it, she’d always spent like she’d had an endless supply. To be honest, he hadn’t wanted for much. From cars to clothes, he’d always had the best of everything. Maybe that was her way of showing she loved him. Oh man. The therapy bills were going to drive him into the poorhouse—if his parents didn’t do it first.
“Oh, you know.” She spun her chair toward the window. “A three-hundred thousand dollar renovation, a hundred and ninety thousand dollars’ worth of trips abroad, and shoes.” Her head bent until her chin rested against her chest. “Oh, the shoes.”
“I thought you invested most of it.”
“The investments were bad, Jesse. I lost millions of dollars over the years, and no one thought to tell me. Now, I have nothing. I had to let Marilyn go today.”
“Marilyn?” His eyes widened. “Is that the maid?”
“Of course it’s the maid. She’s the night maid, but what will people say when they find out I have just the one housekeeper?” Her snap preceded a wail that pounded through his head.
He’d seen his mother’s drama queen act countless times growing up, but even at her worst, those tantrums were nothing like this. It weakened his will to punish her for all those years of parental battles with him as their weapon of choice, for standing by and letting the town crucify him, for all the little sins she committed as a parent. “I have money, Mom.” He reached out and laid his hand over hers.
“Jesse, I can’t.” She sniffed into a tissue and blotted at her eyes, leaving streaks of mascara in the heavy bags leading to her cheeks.
“Yes, you can. I want to help you.” Of course, if he bailed his mother out of whatever hole she’d crawled into, he likely wouldn’t have the money for the quantity of therapy he’d need to resolve his familial issues. Or to buy the land rights in Rangers End. Shit.
He glanced around the room to keep from looking at her. Was that a Van Gogh? He might not have been quite a curator, but even his uneducated eye identified the high-end price fetchers hanging on walls where none had been when he’d lived there. “How much do you need?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded and helped his mother stand. “Why don’t you go lie down, and I’ll do some quick figuring. When you’re up to it, we can sit down and talk this out, okay?”
“I don’t want to live under an overpass, Jesse.”
“You’re not going to live under an overpass, Mom.” If it came down to it and she needed more money than he had to give, he could sell her paintings and some of the antique furniture. Hell, if need be, she could come to Boston and live with him. He would save his mother. He had to. No matter what else she was or what she’d done in her life, she was his mom.
She leaned heavily into his side as they made their way up the steps. The woman who’d reduced him to shame with a glare had transformed into a frail, shaking mess.
“It’s so dirty and unkempt.” Now this drama, he remembered. She’d spoken the exact line when his father left them and she’d gone on her last bender.
“I know, Mom. I won’t let that happen.” Everywhere he looked, he saw salable items. She would be fine with or without his money, but before he forced her to swallow her pride and auction her belongings, he would give her his last dollar if only to be awarded one of her few genuine smiles.
“And I’m so sorry I sent you away.”
“It’s okay.” He cocked his head to the side. For once, the anger at her subsided and nothing she’d done mattered. She needed him, loved him in her own way, and all the sins of the past disappeared.
“No. I was a horrible mother. I still am. I missed you so much.”
“I’m here now, and you’re doing fine. Let’s get you upstairs, and you can rest while I see how we can work this out.” Only thirty more steps to go, he thought as she stopped again to look at him.
“You’re a good boy, and I love you.”
“I love you too.” She stumbled on another sob, and he lifted her into his arms and carried her to her room. He deposited her on the bed, covered her, and shut the door.
After a quick shower, he scanned the fridge and kitchen cabinets then made a mental note to re-explore the market in town. It was a good thing Ryhan declined his invitation to dinner. Fully stocked pantry was an oversell of the empty shelves and cupboards.
It took long into the evening; the sunset, and the growling in his stomach alerted him to the time, but he finally had a number to work with. A staggering number with more zeros than he had in his personal account.
He closed his checkbook with a sigh, having paid the last of the bills she had to pay to avoid collection. “Shit.” His mother hadn’t lied. She was one bounced check away from the poorhouse and, possibly, a jail sentence.
Online, he canceled her credit cards then switched to a different site to list some rare first-edition books collecting dust on a shelf in his apartment in Boston. He’d discovered them during his first renovation, and at the time, taken it as a good omen. He’d never even opened them more than to have them appraised or to impress some scholarly chick he’d brought home. The books meant little more to him than a nest egg for his golden years. To his mother, they would mean the difference between keeping her car and taking public transportation.
He leaned back in the chair to stare up at a painted family portrait. When he’d first driven into town, hell-bent on revenge against anyone who’d spurned him, he never dreamed he would be using his money to help his mother. He would have laughed in the face of anyone who dared suggest it, but then he would never have bet that the ache in his heart would stem straight from her sadness, either.
He pushed away from the desk as his stomach demanded attention. He did some quick man math—hunger, nothing in the house, his mother would need something to eat when she woke, and a diner with a pretty little waitress he hadn’t seen since the morning. The sum computed to a drive
into town that would satisfy all the aforementioned needs. Ten minutes later, he sat at a table in the middle of Kelly’s Diner, perusing a menu he’d known by heart as a teenager.
Of course, in those days, Betty Couligan—everyone’s second mom—had been the waitress. Now, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the shapely legs walking toward him, the sway in her hips, hint of frustration in her rosy cheeks. As she came closer, he jerked the menu to attention in front of him. She didn’t need to know he’d been staring.
“What can I get you?”
Her all-business voice teased him, heightened his need to explore what the breathiness of desire, the tremors of passion, or the sparkle of unrestrained lust would do to her tone. He looked over the top of the printed plastic. “You.”
“And we’re back to that.” Ryhan grinned. “Are you auditioning to be my stalker? Because there’s some stiff competition out there these days, and I’d need to see your credentials to make sure you measure up.”
“No. I’m a paying customer. I need food.” He ignored the strain on his zipper and focused on the printed words in front of him. After a minute, he ordered one of every entrée, not sure what his mother actually ate. In his life, he’d seen her cook and clean up after, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing a bite pass her lips.
“Wow. Quite the appetite you have there.”
“I’m a growing boy.”
She narrowed her eyes, and he laughed.
As he closed the menu and took in her outfit, his mouth went dry. Her skirt landed a few too many inches above her knee and revealed a lot more leg than anyone but him needed to see. Her shirt gaped open, showing off creamy white skin and cleavage he couldn’t tear his eyes away from. She would be burned into his memory for the rest of his life.
“You’re staring at me.”
He’d have to be blind not to. “Nice—um—nice dress.”
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