Harlequin Superromance August 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: What Happens Between FriendsStaying at Joe'sHer Road Home

by Beth Andrews

  He’d worried about her. And then he’d come for her. He could have just slid into bed beside her, but instead he’d brought her back here, where she could sleep alone, but not be lonely. He’d wanted her to feel safe.

  He’d wanted to make sure she was safe.

  She rolled over, buried her face in his pillow and drifted back to sleep.

  * * *

  JOE SAT UP, kicked his feet free of the blanket and scrubbed a hand over his face. Did he smell...was that...bacon? He finally registered the couch beneath him, and the details of his late-night errand arrived in a flash. Allison.

  He pushed to his feet and looked around for his pants. That’s when he realized Allison couldn’t be in his kitchen making breakfast because she was still in his bed.

  She lay with her back to him, both arms hugging his pillow, her legs under the covers a long, tempting line. He hadn’t paid much attention to what she’d been wearing when he’d brought her in here last night—he’d been too intent on getting her where he could keep an eye on her. But he did recall a lot of naked leg.

  He forced his gaze upward.

  The dim light stole the luster from her hair but his memory supplied the color. He smiled, remembering how he’d pursued her once he’d finally gotten his head out of his ass and noticed her. He’d teased Allison that her hair was the same color as the butter that wouldn’t melt in her mouth until she finally agreed to go out with him. She’d probably said yes to the date just to shut him up.

  He took a step closer, his fingers itching with the need to touch her. Last night he’d breached the hands-off policy, but he’d had to do it, for his own peace of mind. He couldn’t do it again, though, not if he had any intention of hanging on to that peace.

  Besides, he had breakfast to supervise. He grabbed a shirt and headed for the kitchen.

  Marcus hovered at the stove, spatula in hand, dark hair standing on end. He wore a different shirt, so he must have retrieved his things from wherever he’d been hiding out in the woods. First order of business after breakfast? Acquaint Marcus with the washing machine.

  “Morning.”

  The kid’s entire body jerked. He fumbled the spatula and it landed on the floor with a loud slap. His cheekbones darkened as he scooped it up, making an awkward little motion toward the stove.

  “Thought I’d cook. Didn’t mean to wake you. Sorry.”

  So that was how you got the kid to say more than one word at a time. Scare the hell out of him.

  With a heavy-duty yawn, Joe took the spatula and set it in the sink. “No problem. But we do need to keep it down. Allison’s still asleep.” Marcus gave him a look and Joe bristled. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m thinking you wanted her safe.” His voice cracked, and he practically buried his nose in the skillet.

  Joe stood there feeling like a first class ass, and tried to ignore the shredding in his chest. He yanked out a drawer and found a clean spatula, handing it to Marcus like an apology.

  “No offense, man.”

  “This can wait if you want to—” Marcus motioned with his head at the doorway.

  Joe cast a longing glance in the direction of his bedroom and shrugged. “No, I’m good. Not like I was gonna get any, anyway.” He froze. “Sleep, I mean.” He launched himself at the cupboard, grabbed a glass and poured himself some juice. “By the way, at the risk of being uninvited to this incredible feast, I have to say I distinctly remember locking the—”

  “Won’t happen again.”

  Joe held Marcus’s gaze and nodded, took a swig of OJ and set the glass aside. “What can I do to help?”

  A buzzer sounded. “Take out the biscuits.”

  “You made biscuits?” Joe grabbed a pot holder and Marcus shifted to the right so he could pull the baking sheet from the oven. A dozen fluffy, perfectly browned biscuits crowded the tray. Joe’s mouth watered as he gazed around at Marcus’s handiwork—cheese and mushroom omelets, home fries with fresh parsley, sliced strawberries and homemade biscuits. And of course, bacon.

  “Damn.” Joe looked around for a place to set the tray. “And here I was hoping to impress Allison with a batch of French toast. Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

  Marcus hesitated. He bent his knees and adjusted the flame under the potatoes, then turned. Judging by the “well, it was good while it lasted” look on his face, Joe wasn’t going to like whatever the kid had to say.

  “Jail.”

  Joe scratched his jaw. “Didn’t see that one coming.” He retrieved the spatula and loosened the biscuits, one by one. “Why’d you tell me?”

  “You asked.”

  So the kid was either a smart-ass, or just plain honest. Or maybe both.

  “What got you locked up?”

  “Assault.”

  “The other guy deserve it?”

  “Worse.”

  “Which means you have a temper.”

  “I got counseling. But I get it. I’ll head out now.” Marcus offered his hand. “Thanks—”

  “Go if you want, man. But I’m not asking you to.”

  Marcus frowned. “You were scared for her.”

  “I had a bad dream. I needed her near me. None of that’s your business, if you decide to stay. Anything else you need to tell me?”

  “I made a pledge. I won’t do it again. Hit someone, I mean. Just so you know I’m not that guy anymore.” He turned back to the stove.

  Joe rubbed his neck. I made a pledge. Was that all it took? After his revelation about Allison, about what she deserved and what he deserved and how his life revolved around the next drink, he’d decided to give quitting a try.

  He’d managed two hours.

  “Good morning.”

  They both looked over to see Allison standing just inside the kitchen, the afghan around her shoulders covering a roomy nightgown that stretched to her knees. In her arms she cradled Joe’s kitten.

  “Something smells good.”

  “Thanks to Marcus. Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.”

  She set the kitten down and washed her hands at the sink—not an easy maneuver considering she was trying to keep a grip on the afghan at the same time. Joe settled her at the table with a cup of coffee, then set three places. All the while trying not to think about how having her here in his kitchen seemed natural.

  It seemed the kitten had taken an interest in Marcus. Or maybe it was the bacon he was carrying. Either way she scampered up his pants leg and clung to his hip as he moved to the table. Before he sat he gently disengaged her.

  “What’s her name?”

  Joe winced. “She doesn’t have one yet.”

  “Harsh.”

  Allison gestured at Marcus with her coffee cup. “He’s right. It is harsh. You have to give her a name. How about Ginger?”

  “Right. Because that’s so much better than Pumpkin. I might as well name her Fluffy.”

  “Tigerlily.” Marcus helped himself to a biscuit.

  Joe looked at Allison, Allison looked at Joe, Marcus looked for the butter dish and the cat looked disapprovingly at her empty food bowl.

  “You can preserve your machismo by yelling ‘Tiger’ when you need her, and call her by her full name when she’s naughty.” Allison beamed across the table. “Marcus, it’s perfect.”

  Joe tossed the kitten a pinch of bacon. “Tigerlily it is.” He nodded his thanks at Marcus, whose cheeks were as red as the strawberry jam he was spreading on his biscuit. “Can we eat now?”

  After breakfast Joe and Marcus did the dishes. Allison offered, but Joe sent her to her room to get dressed—they had paneling to yank. As he dried a platter he thanked Marcus again for breakfast.

  “You interested in taking care of meals while you’re here? Breakfast and dinner? Throw
in some help with the reno and I’ll put you on the payroll.”

  “Aren’t you leaving?”

  “In a little over a week. Let’s see how it goes. If you’re still here, maybe we can talk about you playing caretaker while I’m gone.” When Marcus didn’t say anything, Joe shrugged. “Just an idea. No pressure if you’re not up for it.”

  “Payroll sounds good,” said Marcus, but instead of looking at Joe, he stared at the cat.

  “Good.” Joe hesitated then draped the dish towel over the back of a chair. “Now let’s go do some damage.”

  * * *

  MARCUS WAS STANDING in front of the roadside vegetable stand when it hit him. Just how much Meathead had entrusted him with. His meals, his power tools, his money, his truck—how could the guy know Marcus wouldn’t take off with his ride? Or shit, even murder him in his sleep? One call to 9-1-1 about a little fire and suddenly Marcus had the run of the place. Made no sense, especially since the only reason he’d made that call was to save the motel for himself. No one but him had the right to burn that place down.

  Didn’t matter what Meathead or his lady did for him. Ten years ago he’d made himself a promise. And he was finally about to keep it. He couldn’t let any misguided do-gooder make him forget what he’d come back for.

  But until the time was right, he might as well enjoy having the chance to cook. He’d always found it soothing, even in prison. The bonus was, he seemed to have a knack for it. And the praise felt good.

  He gazed down at the plastic bag in his hand and the lone tomato it contained. Don’t be an asshole. He shook his head and scanned the bin for another. He was thinking maple-glazed salmon and salad for dinner—

  “Hello, again.”

  He stiffened. If he hadn’t recognized her cheerful voice he’d have known her by her sweet summer scent. The realization both saddened and annoyed him. He couldn’t afford to “know” anybody. Hadn’t she figured out he wasn’t the friendly type?

  Liz Early shook out her own plastic bag and crowded in beside him under the faded canopy. But instead of studying the produce, she was peering up at him.

  “You’re cute. Quiet, but cute.”

  He moved away from the tomatoes, started toward the cantaloupes, pictured Liz’s curves and went hot. No way he could act disinterested while checking melons for ripeness. He cast a desperate glance around and zeroed in on the broccoli—the least erotic vegetable on the farm. Well, not counting cabbage.

  She followed him, watching closely as he pinched and poked and considered. What the hell was her deal? He wanted to tell her to get the eff away but was afraid his voice would fail him. After a while she turned and leaned back against the rickety table, head tilted, fingers shoved into the front pockets of her jeans.

  “You look like you know what you’re doing.” He didn’t glance at her, didn’t answer, didn’t betray he’d even heard her. She leaned closer, her shoulders hunching, her shirt gaping to reveal a lacy, emerald-colored bra.

  Okay, so maybe he looked. Who would blame him?

  “Do you?” she asked, with a suggestive smile. “Know what you’re doing?”

  He scowled. “Do you?”

  “Depends on what we’re talking about—vegetables or sex?” When he didn’t respond she gave a good-natured shrug. “I’m only teasing. So, how long are you here for?”

  “As long as it takes,” he snapped, and cursed himself as wariness chased the mischief from Liz’s eyes. But that was exactly what he wanted to do. Chase her away. So he let the apology dissolve on his tongue. Grabbed his wallet and headed for the cashier.

  Little Miss Perky was right behind him. “How long have you known Joe?”

  “Not long.” He paid for his items and swung toward the pickup. He was starting to feel like Peter Pan must have felt when Tinker Bell was bouncing around him all the time. What he needed was a flyswatter.

  “Why don’t you come back by the bar sometime? You might not be old enough to drink but I’m guessing you’re close. Got anything against older women?”

  “Not interested,” he growled, and dug the keys out of his pocket.

  “How about the diner, then? You can buy me a cinnamon roll.”

  The diner that Calvin Ames owned? Marcus’s fingers fisted around the keys. “Not gonna happen.”

  She moved in, real close. “That’s too bad,” she murmured. “Because you seem lonely.”

  “Yeah?” He yanked open the door. “You seem desperate.”

  That did it. She fell back a step. “Well. I guess we’re not both consenting adults after all.” Her tone made it clear it wasn’t the “consenting” part he no longer qualified for. She spun around and marched back over to the tomatoes.

  Despite himself Marcus watched her go, all the while feeling the pull of something unexpected. Something visceral. Something he’d have to work even harder to ignore than Liz Early herself.

  * * *

  ALLISON WAS BACK on her hands and knees, slicing at decades-old carpet, while Joe had returned his attention to removing the paneling next door, in the room they’d found Mitzi. Marcus had gone out to run some errands. In addition to ripping up carpet, Allison was also trying desperately not to dwell on the comment Joe had made after confiding the heartbreaking story of his brother’s death.

  Sometimes waiting is the wrong thing to do.

  She knew that sleeping with Joe would only complicate an already difficult situation. But even more than the physical craving that Allison was finding harder and harder to ignore, the truths they’d shared, the hurts they’d confessed—she felt a connection with Joe she’d never imagined she could, even in their early days. And despite his mocking threats upon her arrival in town, he’d taken care of her like no one else ever had.

  So what was she waiting for? They had only a few short weeks together. Once he handled Mahoney’s account in D.C. he’d return to Castle Creek and she’d have lost her chance to fall asleep and wake up in Joe’s arms.

  To let a strong, sexy, caring man make her come.

  She shuddered, and sat back on her boot heels. Thing was, as long as Joe continued to drink, she couldn’t start down that path with him again.

  “You look like you’re praying over it.”

  She sucked in a breath and looked over her shoulder. He stood behind her, dangling a water bottle straight from the fridge. She peeled off her gloves, accepted the bottle gratefully and pressed it to her throat.

  “My prayers were answered if you’re here to take over for me.”

  He moved into her line of vision and leaned against the wall, took a swig from his own bottle. “You’d rather tackle paneling?”

  “Never mind.” She sat back on her butt and stretched out her legs, sighed with pleasure. “Find anything interesting in the walls?”

  “Nothing moving, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “So.” Abruptly he dropped into a crouch in front of her, between her outspread feet. “I talked to Mahoney.”

  “About the campaign?”

  “About you.”

  She frowned. “What about me?”

  “Mahoney does want me on the campaign. Even after ditching me a year ago.” He locked gazes with Allison, his thumb scraping at the label on his bottle. “Did I really pitch power bars for pets to a roomful of women looking to promote weight loss supplements?”

  “Yep. And you even hired someone in a dog suit to hand out candy.”

  “Damn. Mahoney mentioned a few other...incidents I don’t remember—or at least I don’t remember them the way he does. I’m surprised Tackett didn’t fire me before I had a chance to quit.”

  “I think he wanted to keep his options open.”

  “Now we know why.” Joe paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “I’m sorry I
accused you of being in league with the bastard. I am sorry for everything I put you through.”

  “We both jumped to conclusions. And I wasn’t as supportive as I should have been after your brother died.” It felt good to say it. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed to. “I’m sorry for that.”

  He rose slowly out of his crouch. Allison pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. Joe motioned with his water bottle.

  “And you should know. Mahoney never said he wouldn’t work with you. He’s apparently heard good things.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That you have choices.” His gaze dropped to her fingers, which were drumming a silent, frantic rhythm on her shins. “You can choose to let me pay off your mother’s debt, or not. You can choose to work with me on Mahoney’s account and take it over when I’m gone, or stick with your prior accounts. And by the way, Mahoney paid a signing bonus—you work with me and we’ll split it. Or you can choose not to do any of that, and quit T&P. Start fresh at another firm. Or if you do a good enough job with Mahoney, I bet he’ll hire you freelance. Point is, you have options.”

  “I...that’s...thank you. For talking to Mahoney.”

  “You’ll let me know, then. If you pick any options that involve me?”

  “I’ll let you know,” she agreed solemnly. And realized why the freedom to choose didn’t thrill her like it should have. He hadn’t made it personal—there was no option to stay in Castle Creek with him. And why should there be? She’d made it more than clear she’d never consider such a thing. He had no reason to put himself out there again like that.

  And she shouldn’t want him to.

  She got to her feet and brushed at her butt. “Better get back to work before my boss—ouch.”

  She jerked her left hand forward and cradled it in her right, peered down at the splinter lodged in her palm. Damn it. If only she hadn’t taken off her gloves.