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

by Beth Andrews

  “I don’t know about that.” Sam swirled spaghetti onto her fork. “I think indoor plumbing is the most important invention, especially for women. Plumbing isn’t just toilets. It’s running water.” She pointed to her plate. “This dinner would take three or four trips to a well, if you include washing the dishes.”

  It was refreshing to hear how teens saw the world. She hadn’t spent time around them since she’d been one herself, and found their incomplete perspectives fascinating, and was surprised by the subjects they discussed.

  She snapped her fingers. “Back off, dog.”

  Bugs walked across the porch to sit at Pete’s feet and practice his starving-dog routine.

  “How many baths a week would you take if you had to pump and heat every bucket? Plumbing is civilization.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” Sunny took a sip of iced tea.

  “I think it’s kinda cool,” Pete said. “Like a puzzle. How do you get the water where you want it to go without losing any? Like you’re controlling nature or something.”

  Sam said, “I’m glad you feel that way, because plumbers have to be strong. I was going to suggest that you help Mr. Raven.”

  “Tim Raven?” Beau broke in. “You mean the old guy with those dumpy cabins at the edge of town?” He set his empty plate on the porch rail, ignoring Bugs’s pleading whine. “You’ve got to be kidding me. He’s one step above a homeless person.” He lounged, uniform intact: scuffed boots, a faded black T-shirt and artfully holey jeans. He was in full body armor as well, with studs in his eyebrow and plugs in his earlobes. Lank hair hung in his eyes.

  The spaghetti she’d eaten churned in Sam’s gut. Having been on the wrong side of people’s prejudices most of her life, she wasn’t listening to more. Especially about her friends. “You’ve got room to talk.” She stabbed a fork in Beau’s direction. “Look at you. You’re a hot mess. But that’s okay, because you’re cool, right? You’re the first one to jump on adults who judge you.”

  Ignoring them all, she stood, sniffed and walked to the door. “Sometimes you all irritate the crap out of me.” Bugs scooted in when she opened the door. She let the screen door slap closed behind her.

  She walked a few steps, but stopped when she heard Beau’s voice behind her. “Don’t look at me—what did I do?”

  “Aside from being a dick, you mean?” Sunny said.

  “You got no manners,” Pete added.

  Walking to the kitchen, Sam realized that mentoring may involve more than just teaching kids a trade. How did they feel comfortable being so frankly judgmental? Surely she hadn’t been like that at their age? Sure she had. But somehow that didn’t make it easier to deal with now.

  * * *

  THE WEEKS PASSED, and Sam’s injuries healed. Nick began calling at night, as Sam lay in bed dreading sleep. Something in his deep voice soothed the jitters from her hands and the long muscles alongside her spine. Listening in the dark, she’d relax into the sheets, mind focused only on that disembodied voice.

  “How the heck did you learn to drive at thirteen? Did your dad teach you?”

  “In a way, yes. If it got to be close to my bedtime and he wasn’t home, I’d walk, or hitch a ride to the bar. He’d be sprawled on his usual bar stool, passed out, or close to it. No way to get him home except in the car, and I sure wasn’t letting him drive.”

  “Did you ever get caught?”

  “Thank God, no.” The last thing they had needed was another social worker visit. “How did you learn to drive?”

  There was a hesitation before he answered. “My mom taught me. In the Love Machine. God, I was so embarrassed to be seen in that car. We’d get in, and I’d head out of town, hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew.”

  “So the car grew on you over the years, huh?”

  “How could it not? A piece of artwork like that?”

  Trying to stifle a snort, she swallowed wrong and choked. He chuckled, and she laughed long and hard.

  They got to know each other in those small hours. Sam found it easier to answer questions when she didn’t have to face the asker. She didn’t tell him the bad stuff. But hearing the focused attention on the line made her want to.

  She learned more about Nick in the small hours of night: his internship in L.A., his drinking, his time in jail, his sobriety. But there were gaps—missing years—in his childhood stories, making her wonder if he, too, held back some of the bad times.

  Working late gave her a good excuse to decline when he asked her out, but it didn’t stop her from looking forward to his phone calls.

  Sam found an odd coal of pride burning small in her chest, watching the kids morph into a working team. She taught them how to replace the roof, but she handled the gable solo, judging the pitch too dangerous for beginners.

  They then moved on to installing a lapped-wood ceiling inside. The varnished oak would lend a warm, casual look, at odds with the formal Victorian facade.

  While Tim and Pete replaced every pipe in the house, Sam assigned special projects to the other two. Beau would design a custom parquet inlay in front of the fireplace, and Sunny, a wooden scrollwork railing for the loft. When that was complete, she’d put them to work on the carriage house build out.

  Despite their initial reluctance to work with Tim Raven, the crew eventually accepted the old man. Even Beau. Tim seemed to puff up with the attention, and Pete followed him around the house like a puppy.

  * * *

  IT WAS FULL DARK when Sam stepped out of the car at Pinelli’s garage on Friday night. The blank windows eerily reflected the streetlights on Hollister, but warm yellow lamplight spilled from the second-story picture window.

  You’re having dinner with a friend, and watching a baseball game. That is not a date.

  Crossing the pavement to the stairs, she tightened her stomach muscles, squelching circling butterflies.

  Yeah, but he’s cooking. At his house. That makes it intimate.

  It walked like a duck.

  And, she’d put on makeup.

  It talked like a duck.

  Only blush, mascara and lipstick.

  Yeah, but you didn’t own lipstick. You had to go out to buy it.

  Did that make it a duck?

  Nick’s voice she knew, from their conversations in the dark. But put a man’s body with the voice? That complicated things. She settled the bottle of sparkling cider on her hip and climbed the stairs at the side of the garage, listening to the muted strains of classical music through the wall.

  He must have heard her, because when she reached the landing, he threw open the door.

  Seeing him, she realized—this man was almost a stranger.

  He wore a white chef’s apron over jeans and a short-sleeved denim work shirt. But it was the look on his face: welcoming, anticipating, delighted—that jostled her heartbeat to a dirt-road cart ride. She stood, falling into eyes of dark chocolate, so deep brown they were almost black. They made her want to step close, right up close, to find the man behind them. Time spun out.

  I am so not ready for this.

  His smile turned serious. “Benvenuto alla mia case, amico.”

  As the warm voice of Sam’s nights poured over her, her stomach unclenched and her skewed viewpoint righted. She smiled at her friend. “Ciao.” She handed him the bottle. “You have now exhausted my entire repertoire of Italian.”

  Stepping into the kitchen was like entering an Italian cocoon—warm, close, with a delicious redolence of garlic.

  He put his hands at her neck and she started, but he only wanted her jacket. While he hung it in the closet, she stood, amazed. Sheets of what appeared to be homemade pasta, hung drying from a wood rack on the counter. A pan of white sauce steamed on the stove, a huge boiling pot next to it. She peeked through the small window into the oven. She�
�d bet her leathers those doughy baguettes were from scratch, too.

  Nick returned to the chef’s island.

  She shook her head. “After seeing this, the only meal you’re ever getting at my house is takeout.”

  He just grinned. She colored, realizing she’d just intimated he’d be invited.

  “I’ll bet you’re a good cook.” He pulled a huge knife from a block on the counter.

  She remembered her spaghetti—sauce from a jar, pasta from a box. “You’d be so wrong.”

  “You have choices, here, Sam. You can sit and talk to me—” he waved his knife at the small table with two chairs against the wall “—or you can help, and talk to me.”

  She frowned. “I’ll help, but only if you have something a third grader could do.”

  “How about washing the romaine and cutting it for the salad?”

  She stepped to the opposite side of the island, where fresh lettuce rested next to a large stainless steel bowl. “I think I can manage that.”

  It felt awkward at first, working together. But the music, the mindless repetition of her task and his funny story of the mayor’s wife and the masseuse loosened her clumsy hands. Apparently the woman had walked into a parlor off a back street in Big Sur, and gotten a different massage than she’d bargained for. Soon they were laughing, bumping hips as they vied for room at the sink.

  Her job done, Sam leaned her hands on the counter and watched him work at the stove. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  He carried fresh-cut pasta to the stove. “I’m full-blooded Italian.” His back to her, he added, “My mom taught me. Those are my best memories—she cooked to Verdi and while the pasta boiled, we’d dance in the kitchen.” The soft pain in his voice sounded like a bruise—an old, deep bruise.

  He turned and held out a hand. “Will you dance?”

  She stood like a scared rabbit. You don’t want to give him mixed messages.

  The violin wove through the music, a crying thread of sadness.

  He doesn’t want you, he wants a memory. You could give him that.

  “Sam.”

  She looked up.

  His hand hung outstretched. “It’s only a dance.”

  His soft smile convinced her. She stepped forward and took his hand.

  It was large and warm, the calluses a reminder that this dance partner was also her mechanic. He swept her away, gliding across the kitchen, his steps sure and graceful. He held her classically, giving her space. But his pheromone-loaded working-man smell bridged the gap. She took a long breath of him and held it, feeling no guilt—she was doing him a favor, after all. His strong arms supported her but didn’t push, suggesting movement rather than demanding. Relaxed in his surety, her awkward body shifted—to something petite, fragile, almost graceful. She felt like Cinderella, at the ball. When he spun her, a bubble of joy rose in her chest until it burst from her mouth in a laugh.

  If this man loves like he dances, any woman would be toast.

  Not that she’d ever know. She stiffened, her fairy-tale moment popping like a soap bubble.

  He danced her back to the stove and pulled her into a brief, fierce hug. Lips beside her ear, he whispered, “Grazie, bella signora.” He released her and stepped back.

  She curtsied low. She had no idea why; surely it was the first curtsy of her life. But something in the formal passion of the old world music and his courtly manners made her feel...womanly.

  He turned to the oven, missing her blush. You’re a little old to play princess, Crozier. And a tiara doesn’t fit under a motorcycle helmet.

  * * *

  NICK LED HER to the table, seating her farthest from the door.

  “Now for the best part.” He prepared the plates and delivered them to the table with a flourish. He poured the sparkling cider in wineglasses, lit the two ivory tapers in the center of the table, then sat.

  Her skin glowed in the candlelight, and it caught highlights in her blond hair.

  She looks like an angel.

  But that couldn’t be right, because an angel wouldn’t have this effect on his body. He shifted in an attempt to gain some room in his jeans.

  She closed her eyes, inhaling the steam rising from her plate. “What is this amazing dish?” She opened her eyes and pulled her napkin into her lap.

  “Shrimp linguini alfredo. The Casa Pellini is the Mollusk Mecca tonight.” When he lifted his glass, the candlelight flickered in her eyes. “Per cent’anni.” He touched his glass to hers. “For a hundred years.”

  “That’s beautiful.” She sipped the cider, then set the glass down.

  They dug in. The pasta was rich and textured, the shrimp delicate.

  Not bad.

  Sam closed her eyes and moaned.

  He watched her long throat as she swallowed. Heat shot to his crotch so fast he was almost dizzy from a lack of blood flow to his brain. He felt a rush of his limbs loosening, as if his glass held real wine. He could get drunk on this woman.

  “I’ll take that as a favorable review.” When his voice came out low and rough, he cleared it.

  She must have noticed his stare, because pink tinged her cheeks. She raised her glass, touching his. “You chose the wrong business, Nick. Tourists would pay dearly for this.”

  He took a sip, set down his glass and picked up his fork. “I cook for myself, and for my friends. To turn it into work would ruin it.”

  “I never thought about it that way. I guess I’m lucky to be able to make a living at what I’d be doing for fun, anyway.”

  I could make a living, looking at you. He’d love to cook for her, every day. To have their nightly conversations take place with her wrapped secure in his arms. To watch the morning light come in, to touch her sleeping face.

  He sensed her interest in him, too. But he also knew when she hit one of those walls. The light in her eyes clicked off, and she backed away, wary. He understood enough to know that at those times, her focus was inward; it had nothing to do with him, but still, it stung.

  The Cleveland Indians were playing the L.A. Dodgers tonight, so in stark contrast to the romantic beginning, they trash-talked at the end, finishing dinner as the game was about to start. They piled dishes in the sink and adjourned to the living room.

  * * *

  SAM SANK INTO the leather couch, her stomach humming with happiness. Nick was a great cook, and a great dancer. She glanced at his full lips, wondering...

  Distraction. She needed distraction. “One-season wonders. The Dodgers won’t make the playoffs. Never gonna happen, grasshopper.”

  Nick dropped onto the cushion next to her. “Are you kidding? We’re gonna beat you like a jungle drum.”

  From the first pitch they ranted, yelled and cajoled their teams through nine innings. Baseball hadn’t been so much fun since she watched with her dad. When the Tribe’s closer threw his last strike, she jumped up, pumping her fists and doing a war dance in front of the TV. Looking over her shoulder, she cocked a hip and patted her butt. “Next time, try not to brag until the fight is over, bubba.”

  Nick snatched her hand and jerked. Laughing, she tumbled back onto the couch. Into his arms. She stopped laughing.

  His gaze seized hers as his fingertips brushed up her neck, along her jaw, to tip her head back. Out of breath from the victory dance, her panting was the only sound in the room. Well, maybe not the only sound—her heartbeat slammed out a frantic SOS.

  His eyes, full of questions, never left hers. “This okay?”

  Hearing the deep, soothing voice from her nights, Sam closed her eyes.

  She’d been able to ignore the times his knee touched hers during the game. She’d hardly noticed when their hands brushed, reaching for their sodas at the same time. But ignore his lips, inches from hers? That would take a stronger woman
. “Might as well find ou—”

  His lips met hers. Strong, but soft. Asking, not demanding. Sweet.

  So sweet. She tilted her face to get closer, the smell of him swirling in her head, making her dizzy. When his tongue met hers, she ached to open. And not only her mouth. Her treasonous body relaxed, flowing to his. Her nerves shot bolts of awareness to her brain; his lips, her nipples, his breath, on her cheek. A warm ball of heat formed in her chest.

  Desire.

  Awareness slammed into her brain and she jerked, breaking the kiss.

  He backed away. His eyes still held questions, but his gentle smile promised not to ask them. “Well, I guess that answers the question about chemistry.”

  Scooting to her own cushion, she tucked her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, well.”

  She turned to the TV to collect the thoughts that had blown away like leaves in a gale.

  Desire? Me? She couldn’t deny the visceral craving pooling in her chest.

  Oh, sure, she’d dated. Perfectly adequate men. Middle-of-the-road men: middle-management, middle-aged, middle-class men, carefully chosen. She snuck a glance to the end of the couch. No part of Nick Pinelli was remotely near the middle.

  Or safe.

  What were you thinking? When had she dropped her carefully executed social plan? She dated for company, and for human contact. Nothing more.

  Nick was more. More than a pleasant diversion to stave off isolation. And after that kiss, more than a friend. She touched her temples; her head ached. Her nerves echoed the ache, as if the cumulative tension of the past months were an acid, frying the ends.

  “You okay?”

  She turned to Nick’s frown. “I’m fine, thanks. Just a little headache.” Recognizing her thoughts were better left scattered, she focused on the television screen.

  Nick stood. “Would you like some tea? I’m sure I have some from Jesse’s last care package.”

  “Sure.” Anything to give her a bit of space.

  The game had segued into an investigative news program. The host sat in a darkened room, interviewing a shadowy figure, his inhuman voice a product of electronic distortion. He explained how he paid “scouts” from all over the United States to bring him young girls. Runaways, mostly.