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

by Beth Andrews

  “Let me see.” Joe took her hand and gently rubbed a thumb over the palm. His nearness, the smell of wood shavings and sweat and the deliberate stroke of skin on skin kindled a fervent need, deep down in her belly. It took every last bit of bravado she possessed to resist yanking her hand away. “We’ll need tweezers,” he said. “Come on up to the kitchen, where there’s more light.”

  He kept her wrist in his grip as he led her to the office, much like he’d led her to his bed in the middle of the night. Where he’d lifted the covers for her, leaned over her, wanted her. Then turned away because of that ridiculous hands-off policy.

  Hands-on, she wanted to shout. Please put your hands on me. Around me, over me, in me.

  But Marcus could be back at any moment. And did she really want to seduce Joe when she was wet with sweat and smelled like carpet crud?

  Tonight, her body whispered....

  Cold shower, her brain cried.

  Joe fetched the first aid kit, joined Allison at the sink and rinsed the tweezers in hot water. When he bent over her hand a small hank of dark blond hair fell forward, and dangled over his eyebrow. Allison grimaced. As antsy as she was, she had no patience for temptation. Screw that cliché about fingers aching to brush the stray lock of hair back into place. What she really wanted to do was grab the scissors and snip the damned thing off. It was just too tempting to reach out and touch it.

  She looked for somewhere else to focus, anywhere else to focus, and noticed the recycle bin in the corner by the back door. It was full of empty liquor bottles.

  “That’s quite a collection you have there,” she said lightly.

  Joe looked up at her, then over at the corner. His fingers tightened on her hand. “I’m trying to cut back.”

  “Cut back?” Her chest went suddenly light and she found it hard to swallow, almost as if her heart had floated up into her throat. Her leg started to bounce, her boot heel tapping on the kitchen floor. “Or quit?”

  “Keep still.” His brow furrowed and he probed carefully for the tail of the splinter. Seconds passed. “I thought I’d take it one day at a time,” he finally said. He lifted his head, and the combination of resolution and panic in his eyes made her hope like she’d never hoped before.

  “You can do it, Joe,” she breathed.

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence.” Irony tinged his words. Slowly she pulled her hand free of his.

  “I let you down last year.”

  “I let myself down. You told me I had a problem, I just wasn’t ready to hear it. Still not sure I am. Now let’s get this over with so we can get back to work.”

  His sudden brusqueness confused her. But before she could question him on it, Marcus walked into the kitchen. He looked wary, as if he’d sensed the tension the moment he’d entered the lobby. Why hadn’t she heard the buzzer? While Marcus unpacked the groceries, Joe wordlessly reclaimed her hand, caught the tail of the splinter and eased it out. A splash of isopropyl alcohol, an adhesive bandage and she was ready to get out of Joe’s way.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. He nodded, and turned away to help Marcus.

  * * *

  FOR THE REST of the day, Allison concentrated on yanking up carpet. Ironic, since two doors down in #4, Joe, Marcus and Noble were laying carpet—a pretty blue-and-gray pattern that blended well with the freshly painted pale blue walls. Noble had beamed when she’d applauded the choice—apparently Ivy hadn’t been the only one giving Joe decorating advice. The next opportunity Allison had, she planned on asking Noble if there was anything he couldn’t do.

  As the afternoon light waned, Allison finished uncovering the subfloor and had the carpet rolled up against the wall, ready for the short trip to the huge garbage bin outside. She’d let the guys handle that task.

  After chugging the rest of her water, she grabbed the hammer, muttered a quick prayer and went on to the next job—stripping the paneling.

  Not because she wanted to prove she could do it. Screw getting back on the horse and all that. What she really wanted was to wear herself out. Sweat every last ounce of moisture out of her body and make her muscles cry for mercy, so that at the end of the day she’d be too tired and sore to do anything but sleep.

  Let alone plan a seduction.

  Of course, she’d have more confidence in her plan if her blood weren’t fizzing with a hot, urgent need to rediscover Joe Gallahan, inch by tempting inch. Especially after seeing for herself what she hoped was his resolve to quit drinking. Hope was heady stuff.

  Shake it off, Allie. She wedged the hammer’s claw into place, and pushed.

  Half an hour later she’d ripped out two sections without finding anything scarier than a collection of mangled nails and bits of insulation. Then someone called her name, and she turned to see Marcus standing just outside the doorway, trying not to crowd her. She was touched, but also slightly frustrated. She knew evil, and Marcus didn’t have it in him.

  She tugged off her mask. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said gently.

  Silence, then, “Because you have a hammer?”

  She smiled, leaned over and hooked the hammer on the rim of the bucket. Pulled off her goggles and moved toward the door. “Because you have kind eyes.”

  His expression blanked and he backed up a step. “You need glasses.”

  Her stomach growled. “I need food.”

  “We’re cooking with the phone.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  He walked with Allison to #4, letting her have the sidewalk. “Noble doesn’t like salmon, so we’re getting take-out.”

  “Damn,” she muttered. “I was really looking forward to that maple glaze.”

  “Tomorrow,” he promised. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and for the first time she noticed the blue and gray fibers clinging to his jeans. “We’re ordering subs and salads. Joe’s calling it in. I’m picking it up.”

  The timbre of his voice made it clear that wasn’t something he was looking forward to doing.

  “I’ll go. It’ll be good to get out,” she said, and when relief practically oozed out of his pores, she knew she’d made the right decision. “Tell Joe I want the usual. I’ll just grab a quick shower and be on my way.”

  When Allison returned with the food, they ate in the motel parking lot in the gathering dusk. Allison and Noble perched themselves on the tailgate of the truck Noble had borrowed to transport the library’s newly acquired salon chair, while Marcus and Joe settled on the tailgate of Joe’s pickup. As the light faded the crickets started to sing their scratchy song, and the safety lights began to buzz, hum and glow.

  While Noble provided Allison with a mini-seminar on Oliver Hazard Perry and the Battle of Lake Erie—apparently one of the biggest naval battles of the War of 1812—Allison found herself distracted by the interactions between Marcus and Joe. Marcus sat as close as he could to the edge of the tailgate without falling off. Joe maintained a relaxed pose, careful not to make any sudden movements, or even physical contact. He knew as well as Allison did that Marcus was skittish. And it wasn’t because he was shy.

  Somewhere along the way, he’d suffered, and Joe was looking out for him. Like Braden had looked out for Joe.

  She blinked back a hot rush of tears, and when Noble frowned in concern she distracted him by offering the uneaten half of her sandwich.

  * * *

  AFTER WORKING HER ass off all day, Allison’s body was one big, aching, overworked muscle. Her stomach was full. She’d indulged in a long, hot, relaxing shower. She hadn’t had coffee since breakfast. And she’d even tried to calm her mind with the yoga corpse pose.

  Twice.

  Still, she couldn’t sleep.

  She wished she could blame the loudmouthed cricket that had somehow found its way into her room. But the noisy little insect had nothing to do with th
e memories that played over and over in Allison’s head. The ardent strength of Joe’s embrace, when he’d held her in the storeroom. The husky ripple of his laugh. The heady man-smell of his sheets.

  So many close calls since she’d arrived in Castle Creek, yet they hadn’t managed so much as a kiss. And probably wouldn’t, unless she made the first move. Because she’d insisted he not touch her.

  What an idiot.

  With a frustrated grunt she threw back the covers. If she didn’t find that cricket and get him out of her room, she really would be up all night.

  She fetched a cup from the bathroom and went on the hunt. She finally tracked the little guy to the alcove where she hung her coveralls. It took several tries, but trap him she did, and then hurried him over to the door. She turned off the light—no sense in giving any cars on the road a free peep at her nightwear—opened the door and lobbed the cricket outside. When she started to scuttle back inside, something, a noise maybe, made her hesitate.

  She poked her head out and spotted Joe standing halfway down the sidewalk, in front of #5, still dressed in his work clothes. He had his back to her as he coiled up an extension cord. Wait, he was uncoiling it. So he could finish with the paneling? She glanced over her shoulder at the clock. At midnight?

  Maybe he was having trouble sleeping, too.

  She eased back into her room and stood in the dark, teeth pinching the inside of her lower lip, breathing suddenly ragged. What was she afraid of? Rejection? Mockery? Nothing could be worse than this desperate restlessness she was feeling.

  According to Noble, after vanquishing that British squadron during the Battle of Lake Erie, Oliver Hazard Perry had announced, “We have met the enemy and they are ours.”

  Allison knew very well who her enemy was. Fear.

  And it was time to take that bad boy down.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ALLISON HIT THE light switch and hurried into the bathroom to brush her teeth. The cool tile beneath her feet finally registered and she looked down.

  She couldn’t go over there barefoot. With her luck she’d step on a nail—a ring shank, not some piddling two-penny job. And how cool was it, by the way, that she knew the difference? Concentrate, Allie. Nothing like a trip to the emergency room to kill the mood. Which meant she needed shoes.

  She eyed her flip-flops. Definitely not nail-resistant. High heels? Match those with her pale blue baby doll pajamas and sleep-tousled hair and she’d look like a centerfold from the fifties. Maybe Joe wouldn’t mind, but she didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard. Just in case.

  With a resigned sigh, she slipped her feet into her boots, and decided not to bother lacing them up.

  On her way to #5 she thought of Marcus, and stumbled. If he wasn’t tucked in bed where he was supposed to be, she was in for one serious dose of humiliation. Triple that if Joe turned her away. And he might, after she’d ticked him off that afternoon.

  She clomped down the sidewalk, feeling like a bumpkin headed for the outhouse, wishing she’d opted for the flip-flops after all. But if she went back to her room she wouldn’t come out again until morning. Second thoughts would drive her right back under the covers.

  With any luck, it wouldn’t be her feet he’d be paying attention to, anyway.

  A car whizzed by and Allison barely resisted the urge to drop to the ground. Maybe they hadn’t seen her. Maybe it wouldn’t be all over Castle Creek by tomorrow afternoon that Joe’s guest liked to DIY in her jammies.

  Maybe she should stop stalling.

  The smell of lake air and pine trees mingled with the scent she’d dabbed behind her ears, in the hollow of her neck and between her breasts. She thought of Joe’s mouth connecting the dots and her bones shook. A wet, heavy anticipation settled between her thighs. She ran her palms down the silky front of her pajamas, and her skin tingled.

  But the impersonal glare of the streetlights and the brisk chill in the air did their best to make her feel more tragic than tempting. And what could be more tragic than begging for sex? Still, she’d set the rules. It was up to her to break them. And if she didn’t break them soon she’d explode.

  Light from the window of #5 splashed onto the sidewalk, and she could hear muffled pounding—both the hammer-in-hand kind, and the rock band kind. She peered through the glass, which trembled with every swing of Joe’s hammer. He faced away from her. She could return to her room and he’d never know. She glanced at the door. Closed. She probably wouldn’t be able to get in, anyway. And who had the strength to knock?

  But a gentle push was all the door needed to swing wide. She moved slowly into the room and into the light, everything inside her, everything contained by her skin, vibrating like storm-charged air between rages of thunder.

  She had no idea what she was doing. No clue what he’d think of her for doing it. Still, she needed to show him—everything she couldn’t say now, everything she wished she’d said then.

  And she was desperate to feel him inside her again.

  Despite her heavy boots clunking across the floor, he didn’t seem to hear her behind him. He was working on the wall opposite the door, ripping a panel free of the studs, the low-pitched screech of uprooted nails competing with an old clock radio blaring Van Halen’s “Jump.”

  A nervous giggle rose in her throat and she pressed both palms to her mouth. How appropriate.

  Joe swore, and the crudeness of the word kicked off a raw excitement in her stomach. He swore again—the panel wasn’t cooperating. He let go and stood back, swiped a gloved hand across his forehead. Need warred with common sense as Allison eyed the breadth of his shoulders beneath the sweat-dampened T-shirt, imagined the moist heat of the fabric pressed to her skin.

  Thus endeth the briefest war on record.

  Had it been less than a week since she’d seen him for the first time in over a year? Since she’d quietly watched him work the paint roller while she floundered for the courage to say his name? Now, instead of resenting her yearning for him, she planned to revel in it. Even if only for a short while.

  She pushed her shoulders back.

  “Joe.”

  He turned quickly, anxiety stamped on his features. When he saw the way she was dressed, in her baby doll nightie and unlaced work boots, he fell back a step. But the concern on his face sharpened.

  “What is it?” he asked, his voice a low rasp. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Nothing serious, anyway.”

  The tension in his neck muscles eased. His gaze dropped to her feet and his lips twitched. So much for thinking he’d be too distracted to notice her footwear.

  Disappointment dragged her heart from her throat back down to her chest, where it belonged. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her. So be it.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

  “The noise.” He grimaced. “Sorry. I’ll call it a night.”

  She tipped her head. Was that a quiver she’d heard in his voice?

  He turned his back, leaned down and switched off the radio, started tugging off his gloves. Streaks of sweat dampened his hair, making it cling to his neck. If she had her way she’d soon be doing a lot of her own clinging. She moved closer.

  “I wish you wouldn’t. Call it a night, I mean.”

  He paused, his head bent, the line of his shoulders taut. “You’re not saying you want to help. Not dressed like that.”

  She shook her head then realized he couldn’t see. “No,” she murmured. “I don’t want to help. I want to watch.”

  He swung back around, eyes narrowed and glittering.

  “But first I want you to take off your shirt.”

  “Al.” The pleading growl of his voice sent a thick, buzzing heat tumbling through her veins.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  He hesitated.
Then his T-shirt hit the floor with a muffled slap. Hard chest, taut skin, muscled arms—this time she looked her fill. The harsh rasp of uneven breathing crowded the room. She swallowed, finally lifted her gaze to his and shivered at the smoldering purpose that had turned his navy eyes to black.

  She gestured jerkily at the wall. “Why don’t you finish what you started? I’ll wait.”

  He started to say something, stopped and lifted an eyebrow. Slowly turned and faced the wall again. This time when he pulled, the upper portion of the sheet broke free.

  Which was exactly what she was feeling. Free. As if she’d escaped the doubt and the resentment holding her back from what she really wanted.

  Joe.

  Relaxed Joe. Attentive Joe. Country Joe.

  Sober Joe.

  At T&P she’d always admired his drive and dedication, his intelligence and business savvy, and, of course, his polished good looks—who could resist a handsome man in a tailored suit? Euphoric wasn’t a potent enough word to describe how she’d felt when he’d finally shown an interest in her, and it hadn’t taken long for her to start fantasizing about a future together. Then his brother died and everything unraveled. Joe became a man she didn’t know, someone she couldn’t trust. And though she missed him after he moved away, her grief was more about the loss of possibilities than the loss of Joe.

  In love with love, she’d decided, and did her best to forget him.

  But this time it had taken her less than a week to fall for him. Despite the initial animosity, the distrust and the still-present drinking problem, he was giving, funny, compassionate and so damned sexy. And she’d fallen hard. Which meant it would be that much more difficult to say goodbye.

  The good news? There would be no surprises this time. No hope for a happy-ever-after. Just the here and now.

  “Don’t move,” she whispered, as slow tingles of anticipation traveled up and down her spine. She stepped closer and took her time admiring his back. Sweat streaked an impressive set of muscles that quivered with tension.

  She blew on his skin. He froze, his gloved hands clenched around the edge of the panel. Slowly she raised her palms and settled them on his back, let her fingers press and drift, press and drift, over his shoulders, his delts, on either side of his spine. He let go of the panel, braced his palms against the wall and hung his head. His breathing roughened as her hands skated over him.