by Liv Rancourt
The conversation left Danielle floundering. Sister-in-law? “He isn’t too happy with her, either.”
“Oh, and you’re the expert on all things Ryan now, right Princess?” Maeve asked.
“Hello? I left him at my grandmother’s house pulling down the picture-rail molding.” Danielle took another sip of her cocktail, scrambling away from the thin ice they’d slid onto. “I didn’t ask, exactly, but the subject came up.”
Maeve’s eyes fired up with curiosity. “Did he tell you the woman’s name?”
Caught up in a visual of Ryan stripped down to a thin tee shirt and jeans, it took Danielle a moment to respond.
Maeve waved her hand in front of Danielle’s face. “Do you know who she is?”
Danielle blinked and brushed Maeve’s hand away, guilt washing heat through her cheeks. “Who?”
“The woman he slept with last weekend.”
“Um…” Danielle grabbed her cocktail and gulped some down, sending herself into a fit of wheezy coughing. “Don’t know.” She prayed Maeve would fall her for performance. Thank God Cherry never opened the bedroom door.
“I mean,” Maeve said, paying more attention to the liquor in her glass than to Danielle, “a guy’s gonna do what a guy’s gonna do, you know? But he and Cherry are so perfect together.”
“Didn’t he break up with her?”
Maeve downed the rest of her drink and waved at the waiter. “My brother’s a nice guy, but he wouldn’t know a good thing if it bit him in the ass.”
Danielle choked back a laugh at the disconnect between the man she’d been working with and his sister’s description of him. “I’m sure they’ll work it out.”
“Yeah, he just needs to do the wild thing a couple times and then he’ll settle down.” Maeve grinned in a spot-on imitation of the Cheshire Cat. “Anyway, they were supposed to get together to try to work things out last night. I wonder how it went.”
Really? A cell phone’s buzz distracted both of them from the conversation. It was Cherry calling, which gave Danielle another moment to wonder why a guy she’d known for a week had her in such a swivet, when apparently all his talk was just bubbles and wishful thinking.
Braden might have left her with a dead spot, but Ryan was starting to piss her off.
Chapter Four
Ryan parked his big truck in front of 24 Hour Fitness ten minutes earlier than he promised to meet Chubb. He turned the engine off, keeping the key cocked to listen to the stereo. Stevie Ray Vaughn’s guitar cried like the sky, which just about fit his mood.
The parking lot was nearly half full. Pretty good for a Saturday morning. A woman in a pink sweatshirt and grey leggings got out of the Prius next to him. She walked past the front of his truck, talking on her cell phone. Chubb would probably think she was cute. Ryan didn’t like her. Didn’t dislike her, either. He followed her progress as she cut through the parked cars, his truck’s engine ticking as it cooled off. He didn’t shake off his stupor until she disappeared into the gym. He’d put off checking his phone messages as long as possible.
They were all from the same number.
Cherry’s.
If he played back her messages now, he’d have an hour in the weight room to burn off frustration. He swiped the phone, tapping the voicemail button.
Hey, babe, it’s me. I’m headed out with your big sis and her friend. Come find us.
He erased the message.
Ry-an. You’re avoiding me. I totally get that, I do. I just think if we sat down and talked things through, we could work it out. We’re headed for the Pig. Call me.
“We could talk for a week and not work things out, Cherry. Sorry.”
Hey, you know I’m really sorry I got crazy at your house the other day. Call me.
By now her vowels were stretching, her consonants getting softer.
Drunk.
He listened to the rest of the messages, each one more rambling, the words slurring into incoherence. His morning coffee curdled under a surge of disgust, pity, and pain, and he had to work hard to keep the whole thing from building into rage.
Everyone thought he’d broken up with her on a whim. In truth, he’d done his homework. He’d read books about alcoholism, and talked with a guy at Al-Anon. He and Cherry had been together since high school, and he’d been up close and personal for her slide into chaos. Sometimes he wondered how long it had been since they’d been in love, rather than bonded by guilt, desire, and manipulation. In the past he’d tried to just walk away, but she’d always dragged him back. This time he’d been very clear: get help or I’m gone.
She refused.
He left.
Tough love, for both of them. Taking care of Cherry Kinney was a damned hard habit to break. As a reward for his trouble, she was the one who got to spend the evening with Dani. God had a sick sense of humor.
With a deliberate effort, he found something else to focus on. He pictured Dani – or Danielle, as Maeve called her – lying in his bed, her silky red hair spread across the pillow and his beat-up old quilt not quite covering her breasts. Damn, she was hot. The quick visual sent a different kind of energy surging through him, giving him another helping of frustration to work off in the weight room.
Several sharp taps on his driver’s side window brought him back to reality. Chubb stood outside, his eyes puffed with sleep and his dreads pulled up in a messy topknot. Tony Saunders, nicknamed Chubb for no good reason, had a pretty heavy World of Warcraft addiction, and from the look of him, he’d been up most the night, glued to a computer screen.
Either that or some girl was about to have her heart broken.
Ryan popped the lock and got out. “Dude.”
“Dude.”
“Barnabas missed you.” Ryan only allowed the cat to move in because he and Chubb were already friends before they became roommates.
“Jeremy and I went out for a few beers and got stuck in his play room.”
Ryan hid a snicker behind his fist. “Good thing I know you both or I might get ideas.”
“Fuck you.” Chubb headed into the lobby, with Ryan right behind him. Standing side-by-side at the front counter, Chubb elbowed Ryan. “Heard from Cherry?”
Ryan slapped the pen down on the clipboard, clenching his teeth to keep from saying something rude. “She left messages.”
“Ran into her at the Pig last night. She was pretty wasted.”
Ryan walked away, headed for the locker room. Not his problem. He hadn’t forced her to drink, and he couldn’t make her stop. Some days he had to repeat that to himself many, many times.
Chubb caught up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure some friend of Maeve’s drove her home.”
Awesome. She sucked Dani into her shit. He tossed his leather jacket and shower kit in the locker and flipped the door shut, sorry the gym didn’t have a punching bag. “I’m going to hit the treadmill for a while.”
“Yeah, man, I’ll see you out there.”
It was almost five on Tuesday afternoon and Danielle had reached the Pinterest stage. Despite having oil for the heater, Gram’s living room held a chill from the raw November wind, and the sun had been down for a good half hour. All day long she’d had to balance working on NICU crap with periodic rewards in the form of sandpaper and elbow grease. The living room wainscoting needed the help, and she got to indulge her remodeling urges. Now, curled up in the wing chair with a fleece blanket around her knees, she didn’t feel guilty about fishing for a little inspiration.
Surrounded by salt sea air and the soft slurp of the waves down on the beach, she was deep in an online dream when a pair of headlights swung across her front lawn. Ryan. Her belly quaked from the swift kick of adrenaline.
Danielle wasn’t stupid enough to claim she hadn’t been waiting for him. Her scientific side correctly identified her rapid heartbeat, fluttery stomach, and dry mouth as visceral responses, outside of her control. The only thing she could control was her behavior.
Memo
ries of a Friday night spent listening to Cherry ramble on about a big reunion did little to squash the excitement frothing under Danielle’s ribs. Even though she suspected Cherry was mostly kidding herself, Danielle could almost sympathize. After all, she’d spent a ton of energy convincing herself things with Braden were fine, right up until the moment he left. He’d wiped her so flat she still hadn’t caught up. She looked toward the door for a moment, then back at the laptop. Ryan had the spare key. He could let himself in.
Right about the time she started to wonder what was keeping him, a clattering crash followed by muffled curses broke up the evening peace. She jumped up and popped out the front door. Ryan was on the porch, bent at the waist and clutching his right shoulder. The porch light had burned out, and the only light came through the living room window. A stack of two by six sticks of lumber were fanned out across the front steps like a deck of cards spread for someone to cut.
“Are you okay?” Stupid question, Danielle. “I mean, what happened?”
Ryan tipped his face up, one eyebrow raised. “Missed my step.”
“Come in the house.” She went to his good side and helped him straighten up. He shook her off and strode through the door, holding his right arm close to his body.
“I just wrenched it good. It’ll be okay,” he said, flexing and extending the fingers on his right hand.
“Let me help you take your jacket off.” Danielle kept her voice low and calm, without leaving room for argument. If he could move his arm, nothing was broken, though the tension in his brow and the set of his jaw suggested he was in a fair amount of pain. She flipped the fleece blanket off the wing chair. “Sit.” She eased him out of his coat. “Let’s put some ice on it.”
He tried to lift his arm. It reached shoulder height when a muttered “shit” ended the attempt. “There’s a cold pack in the first aid kit in the truck,” he said. “Here are the keys.”
By the time she got back with the ice pack, Ryan had pulled off his sweatshirt and was down to a faded blue tee with a Mariner’s logo on the back. He stood facing the fireplace, tugging the neckline down and turning his head as far as possible so he could look over his shoulder at the injury.
“Take your shirt off,” she said. “I want to make sure you’re not bleeding.” And that’s the only reason. She gestured at him to return to the chair and helped him ease the tee over his head, rolling her eyes to the ceiling when she couldn’t keep from staring at the definition in his deltoids. A deep pink, fist-sized scuff marked the downhill side of his shoulder, with tiny beads of blood forming along the far edge and a deep purple blotch at the center.
He tried to lift his arm again and cursed, though this time he raised it above his ear. “Give me the cold pack.”
She passed it to him and he slapped it over the bruise, hissing when it hit his skin. His combination of physical beauty and vulnerability tagged her like a punch to the gut. She popped her palm against her thigh, as if the gesture could absorb his pain or shake loose her guilt for letting the stupid porch light burn out, or diffuse her regret for not getting up off her ass to open the door.
“You didn’t have to set a trap to get me to take my shirt off,” he said, with the hint of a chuckle in his voice.
“What?”
“Don’t deny it.” He shifted the cold pack a little, his grin turning sly.
Must be feeling better if he’s teasing me. She crossed her arms, covering her internal kerfuffle with an apologetic smile, doing her best to conceal how the naughty tone of his voice made her mouth water. “I need to get that porch light fixed.”
“Tell your contractor.”
“Um…” She accidently let her eyes drift across his chest. Trouble. She half-lifted her hand to run her fingertips through his scattering of dark chest hair, nearly giving in to an impulse that hit her quicker than thought. Broad and buffed, his abdominal muscles formed perfect bricks, and his biceps swelled dangerously. A quick glance at his eyes showed her he knew exactly what was going on in her head. That quick glance lengthened.
Don’t do this.
Every thought in her head had to be running across her face, and there was no way she could afford to let him see. She ducked, covered her mouth with a palm, and cleared her throat. “You should put your shirt back on. It’s cold in here.”
His gaze traveled over her slow and easy, like he could have stood there all night. “That’s right, Princess. Show’s over.”
She should have been annoyed that he’d aimed his words in the direction of her breasts, but she really wanted to help him. Don’t lie. Really, she wanted to rub up on him until she coated his body like a sugar glaze. She didn’t trust herself to get close, so she planted her feet and gazed at the ratty upholstery covering the wing chair.
“Gimme a hand here?” He pinned the corner of the ice pack in place with his chin and tried to shake out his shirt.
“Oh. Yeah.” Her mouth spasmed into a hyper-wide grin. She crossed the room, and he rocked his head in the direction of the icepack, wordlessly asking her to hold it in place. He worked his injured arm through the sleeve and when he reached up to claim the pack, his hand covered hers.
For a moment she couldn’t move, held in place by the buzz of electricity where they touched. Instead of snatching her hand back to safety, she slowly slid farther up, resting her fingertips along his hairline. He smelled a little like sawdust, a little like smoke, a little like a guy who’d been working hard, and a lot like raw masculinity.
Tension buzzed, hummed, and sizzled around them. Her mouth opened, as if she’d be able to taste him despite the distance from her tongue to his skin. The tendons running up the back of his neck were tough as rawhide. This was where her rational mind should evaluate the facts and say, “Don’t, Danielle. Don’t.”
The rest of her wasn’t much listening to rationality.
She dropped into work mode because it was safer than relationship mode. Like a good nurse, she pressed her thumbs along the bands of stress, careful to avoid the injured shoulder. He slouched forward with a soft sigh, giving her better access. “Tight,” she muttered.
“Been a long couple days.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“The usual.”
She bent her elbows to get more force behind her knuckles as she ran them up and into his dark curls. He felt so good it brought a flash of tears to her eyes. “I hope this job isn’t adding to it.”
“This job,” he said, letting his head hang propped against the palms of his hands, his voice a sexy rumble, “is the only thing keeping me sane right now.”
All kinds of responses skittered through her mind, but instead of choosing one, she scooped up a handful of curls at the nape of his neck, intending to focus on the cords of muscle running along the tops of his shoulders. He had a tattoo right under his hairline, behind his ear.
A bunch of cherries tied with a black ribbon.
Danielle touched it, running her fingertip along the ribbon. Ryan rocked forward, hard, and shook his head, covering the mark. What the hell? She stifled a burst of semi-hysterical giggles, rubbing her cheeks and pressing her mouth shut. At least he didn’t have Cherry’s name on his ass. She hoped.
Before either of them found the right words to break through the awkwardness, they heard someone stumble on the front porch. She backed away, mumbling about the door.
She opened it to find Uncle Jonathan standing with his feet placed carefully between the two-by-six boards still spread across the steps. He was about sixty and nearly as tall as Ryan, with a broad-boned face and a fringe of graying ginger hair. An unbuttoned black wool overcoat covered his pin-striped business suit. “You need to replace your porch lightbulb, Dani, especially if you’re going to leave booby-traps like this.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” She held out her hand to help her uncle step over the lumber. “Ryan hurt himself carrying the boards in, and I forgot the mess out here.”
Ryan was up and stretching out his injured s
houlder when she turned back to him. He had pretty good range of motion, but would likely have a fabulous bruise very soon. Crisis averted … or at least deferred.
Uncle Jonathan came in farther, his heavy coat draped casually over his forearm. “Looks like you dove right in,” he said, nodding his approval as he looked around. “This is tremendous.”
“Well, you gave me the key.” Danielle laughed. Uncle Jonathan was the good uncle, the only one from her mother’s family who smiled as if he liked her. Uncle Eric had last been seen in Vegas dropping bills on a blackjack table. In Danielle’s childish memory, he was loud and rude and made her cry.
Her mother was the easiest to get along with. They just didn’t speak. Danielle had always wanted a warm, tough, loving presence like Maeve’s mom. In contrast, her mother had eased the crushing burden of childrearing by traveling to Europe.
Alone.
Not that Danielle was bitter or anything.
If not for her grandmother, her rock of stability, Danielle would have been a very lonely girl.
“Did you want something to drink?” Danielle asked. “I’ve got a bottle of lemon-lime seltzer.”
“And beer,” Ryan said, making her uncle laugh.
“You are definitely Patricia’s daughter.” Uncle Jonathan put his free arm around Danielle’s shoulders, drawing her in with his unusual cologne. “I’m good. Just here for the tour.”
“Ryan’s been doing most of the heavy lifting.” Danielle slipped away from him and clasped her hands behind her back, holding onto a tactile sense of Ryan’s skin.
“Literally,” Ryan said, still gently shaking out his right arm.
“Well, show me around,” Uncle Jonathan said, his coat folded over his arm. “I want to hear all about your plans for Mother’s house.”
The tour didn’t take long. Her uncle inspected the patch on the kitchen floor. He liked Danielle’s dream appliances and her idea to redo the bathroom using white subway tile. He thoroughly approved of the plan to refinish all the wood trim so it matched. The combination of speaking her dreams aloud and her uncle’s enthusiastic support hit Danielle like champagne on an empty stomach — light, bubbly, and a bit giddy. Despite her effervescent state, she caught a deeper hum. Her emotional connection to the house was stronger than she’d ever realized.