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

by Beth Andrews

  Jesse’s eyes got big. “That’s not—”

  “No, you’re right. It’s worse than that. He broke up with me after we’d just finished incredible, red-butt monkey sex, and I had the first orgasm of my life.”

  Jesse’s mouth opened, and her eyes got bigger.

  “Well, actually, the first and second of my life, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m sure they’ll be the last in my entire existence, and that’s only the least of my problems, because his RSVP came back marked No, and I miss him so bad I can taste it, and I’m sleeping with a drooling dog with a case of bad breath, and am happy to, because then at least I’m not alone in that huge bed—” Her voice broke, so she stopped.

  “Holy shit, girlfriend.” Jesse dropped to her knees beside the chair. “You love him bad, don’t you?”

  At her nod, Jesse put her arms around Sam.

  When the flood ebbed a bit, Jesse asked in a whisper, “You never had the Big O? As in never?”

  Sam grabbed a tissue from the counter and blew her nose. “You caught me in a moment of weakness. We are not discussing that.”

  Jess sat on the edge of the toilet, elbows on her knees, hands dangling. “That’s what girlfriends do, Sam.”

  “Well, this one doesn’t.” She mopped her face. “Jesus, Jesse, you have to admit I’ve come a long way. I’m sitting here with my girlfriend, trying out new hairstyles, crying over a man.” She hiccupped a half laugh. “I’ve turned into a friggin’ country-western song!” She dropped her face in her hands.

  “He told me that you dumped him.” Jesse’s voice was quiet.

  Sam lifted her head. “He probably just did that to be gallant. I’ve never been dumped before, but I’m pretty sure I know the difference between dumper and dumpee. The dumper is the one who walks out.”

  “What happened?”

  It came out. The whole sordid story. After, Sam sat deflated, worrying a damp tissue, but better. Just as Bina had said, talking to someone made it hurt a bit less.

  “All right.” Jesse crossed her arms under her ample chest. “You went down that pretty road with Nick, and now that you see where it leads, you’re scared.” She nodded, as if agreeing with herself. “Poop-your-pants scared.”

  “I thought you, of all people, would understand, Jess.”

  “Oh, I do. I understand that you’ve walked right up to the edge of wonderful, and you’re too damn scared to take that last step.” Jesse speared her with a look. “You’re the biker chick. The toughest woman I know. What the hell are you afraid of?”

  “A zillion things! What if we don’t agree? What if we get bored? What if—”

  “So what? If it happens, you make another decision.” Jesse’s features softened to something like pity. “No one has a crystal ball, Sam. I didn’t when I left school with a duffel bag full of clothes and a huge heartache. For all I knew, Carl wouldn’t want me back. Maybe the café couldn’t support us. Maybe,” she threw up her hands, “a zillion things. You just do the best you can, and trust your gut.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “So the future’s coming at you faster than you’re comfortable with. Welcome to the human race, Sam. If you’ve learned anything since you got here, I’d have thought you’d learned that you can’t run from yourself. Wherever you go, you’re still there.”

  Sam knew that. Really, she did. But the clean, free, song of the road still pulled at her.

  A crease appeared between Jesse’s sculpted eyebrows. “And guess what? You’re not the only one on the planet who’s got a lot to lose. After all, if it goes bad, you get on your bike and leave. Nick stays. He faces his problems. Every day. One day at a time.”

  The reminder that Nick had fears and failings, too, made her feel about two inches tall—about cockroach height. God, was she that self-centered that she’d never considered Nick’s insecurities?

  She must have had a stricken look, because Jess reached out, patted her arm and smiled. “Honey, don’t you see? Life’s a crap shoot, and for once, you rolled eleven. You did the hard part. Now all you need to do is pick up your winnings.”

  Somehow, it didn’t feel that easy. “You make it sound so simple.”

  “Simple? Maybe not. But stop thinking about it, Sam. Shut out all the facts and figures, and just feel. You’ll know what to do.” She dusted her hands on her perfect wool slacks. “Now, let’s go downstairs, and add a little booze to this hot chocolate. I think we’ve earned it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  NICK STOPPED PACING. Enough. Just man up and do it.

  He was sick of arguing with himself. Sick of not acknowledging what he had to do. Sick of his father in his life.

  As long as he let those damn letters lie like land mines waiting to go off, his father would influence him, even if it were only by avoidance. He knew this was the next step to moving past what happened—and maybe it would strengthen him enough to deal, when the real man showed up in Widow’s Grove. He strode to the kitchen, his guts writhing.

  Sam did the work. You can, too.

  He jerked open the drawer. Fifteen years—fifteen letters. He snatched up the oldest first, ripped it open, and began to read.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, Nick sat at his desk in the shop, feeding the letters into the shredder. He enjoyed watching the noxious paper turn to harmless confetti at the bottom of the trash can. With every sheet, he felt lighter—cleaner.

  He’d given those letters a bigger place in his brain than they’d deserved, all these years. They held no surprises. He’d been silly to think they would. How could they? Donatello Pinelli was always the center of his own universe. Everyone he knew orbited him. A handsome, charismatic man, with a massive ego and vicious temper when things didn’t go his way.

  The letters were full of excuses, rationalizations and arguments why Nick should forgive. This year’s went so far as to suggest Nick should visit him. They’d have a good father-son talk.

  Yeah, like that’s going to happen.

  Hatred still burned like battery acid in his blood, but at least the angst was gone. He felt better about himself. Maybe there was hope that Nick Pinelli was man enough to wipe clean the black marks on the Pinelli name.

  * * *

  BECAUSE OF THE crazy-busy days and restless nights, time advanced. The day of the party arrived. Sam ran shaky hands over her clothes, surveying herself in the soft bathroom lights. The claret velvet, full skirt brushed the floor, making her waist look tiny. The tightly fitted ivory blouse had a high collar that elongated her neck. The ecru lace sleeves were full at the top, but tightly fitted cuffs started at the elbow. Dozens of tiny pearl buttons trailed down the front, and from elbow to wrist. Sam turned to catch her profile. The outfit looked classy, in-period, feminine.

  Maybe it was worth the time to button all the damn things after all.

  Despite her misgivings, she’d attempted a period hairstyle. It looked simple when Jess did it. Just curl everything, pull it into a loose, twisted bun on the top of her head, and leave a few tendrils to trail down her neck. It looked good, too. No one would guess it took two hours and three burned fingers to get it that way.

  The red crystal choker and tiered earrings flashed in the light, adding a touch of sexy to the buttoned-up outfit. She leaned in and carefully applied the ruby lipstick she’d bought to match the necklace, then stepped back.

  If Nick could only see me.

  She glared at herself in the mirror. He chose not to be here. Remember?

  She walked downstairs, casting a critical eye to be sure no detail had been missed. The caterer’s voices echoed as they banged around the kitchen. She missed the sound of Bugs’s nails on the hardwood floors, but knew it boded better for the party that he was having a sleepover with Bina’s dogs.

  Breathing in the heavenly scent of fr
esh evergreen, she crossed to the parlor and plugged in the lights on the massive Christmas tree in the front window. Transparent lights reflected in the dark windowpanes, and the frilly Victorian ornaments made the tree look as if it had time-traveled from the past.

  Everything was in place. Perfect. She should be feeling festive. Celebratory. Smug, even.

  “Get a grip, Crozier. You had a life before Nick Pinelli. You’re going to have to pull on your biker-girl panties and make a life without him.”

  The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. She retraced her steps to the foyer and opened the door. Tim and Ana stood in the porch light, resplendent in holiday finery. Ana sported sprigs of holly pinned to the collar of her green dress, and twined in her silver braided coronet.

  Tim wore a suit with a bright red vest and green-and-red plaid bow tie. He looked more like one of Santa’s elves than the troll she’d met all those months ago.

  “Oh, you two look wonderful!” She stepped back. “I’m honored to welcome you to my home.”

  Tim bustled his date across the threshold like a hen with her chick.

  “The bar is set up in the great room, Tim. Why don’t you get Ana a drink?” She turned to close the door, but saw Carl and Jesse climbing the porch steps. Several cars were pulling up out front.

  It’s showtime.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, Sam added two more coats to the mound covering her bed. She walked to the railing of the loft, toed off her shoes and leaned her forearms on the evergreen-festooned banister, taking a quiet moment to watch the party, unobserved.

  The scene looked like a modern-day Norman Rockwell painting. The great room was filled with brightly clad people, standing in scattered groups, drinking and talking. A fire burned in the massive fireplace, the mantel above dripped evergreen boughs and artfully arranged Christmas ornaments. The aromas of pine, cinnamon and turkey drifted to her, along with snatches of conversations and the carolers’ harmony.

  Jesse’s cornflower-blue satin dress seemed to collect the light, perfectly suiting her blue eyes and porcelain complexion. The bodice was tightly fitted, but the skirt fell in lustrous folds, looking Hollywood-runway perfect. She and Carl were talking to Dan Porter, who had shed his suit coat to display a wide set of suspenders with surfing reindeer.

  The mayor and his wife admired the mariner’s compass in front of the blazing fireplace. Beau glowed, most likely more from praise than the heat of the fire. He looked very grown up in a suit and tie. She smiled, knowing that Tim had advised Beau what to wear. Beau’s parents had been invited, but Sam felt relief when they declined. The thought of Mrs. Tripp celebrating around an open bar made her cringe.

  Pete and his mother stood talking to Sunny and her parents. Several regulars from the diner had arrived, as well as quite a few couples she’d gotten acquainted with at the Jurgens’.

  She’d invited everyone she knew in town, with the exception of Brad Sexton. Perverts weren’t her idea of fun party guests.

  Bina’s saloon-girl laugh overrode the din. She stood out in black silk lounge pants and an electric blue sequined halter, her hair shining like molten onyx. Her husband, Shiv, sat in a chair nearby, balancing a plate of hors d’oeuvre on his knee.

  Sam could just glimpse the edge of the snowy linen-covered buffet tables crowded with chafing dishes and platters of food.

  Jesse was right. She’d gotten lucky, that rainy day she’d wrecked, outside of Widow’s Grove. Her perfect career had led her to where she stood today, looking down on her beautiful Victorian filled with friends. It was so much more than she’d ever had—ever thought she could have.

  And, for a few perfect moments last week, in the bed behind her, she’d had it all.

  Too bad you realized that too late.

  But Nick’s news that day had come as a shock, and she’d blurted out the first answer that came to her brain. After that, it was too late. She’d ruined everything.

  Sam fingered the garland on the rail under her hand. The dumb part was that she knew running wouldn’t help. She’d learned the hard way that fear always caught up, even if she leaned over the Vulcan’s tank and buried the throttle.

  She snorted at the irony. Everyone thought Sam Crozier was so brave. Yet fear had ruled every decision she’d made. She’d wasted so much time looking back over her shoulder.

  Maybe it was time she faced front, looking ahead to whatever came next.

  Maybe bravery grew from living your life as if you weren’t afraid.

  No maybe about it. It was time.

  It had taken losing Nick to jolt her from the past. For the first time in her life, she’d stumbled onto somewhere she actually fit. Damned if she’d squander any more time, focusing on what she didn’t have, instead of all the wonderful things she did: devoted friends, a great group of teens to work with, a dog. And she actually owned the gorgeous house spread below her.

  Joy rose, flooding her with well-being. Could this be contentment?

  Decided, she marched downstairs. In the hall, she snatched a flute of champagne from a passing server’s tray. She walked to stand in front of the fireplace, borrowed a fork from Shiv, and tapped her glass to get everyone’s attention.

  “Welcome, everyone, and thank you for coming tonight to help me celebrate the season, and the renovation of this beautiful house.”

  Pete’s voice yelled from the back of the room, “Way to go, Sam!”

  Laughing, several people applauded.

  She smiled. “I told Jesse that I wanted to throw this party to thank you all for welcoming me to Widow’s Grove. That was true, but I had other motives as well.” She waved her glass at the room. “I thought dressing the old girl up in Christmas finery would tempt one of you to buy her.” She lowered her glass, and her voice. “I also thought I’d drum up some interest in a new home for a bulldog I know.”

  She couldn’t repress a huge smile. “But I want you to know. As of right now, both are off the market. I’ve decided to stay here, in Widow’s Grove.”

  Jesse squealed. Everyone clapped.

  Sam held up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong. If anyone notices the superior workmanship of my team and has a project in mind, I’d be happy to give you my card.”

  Several people laughed, and everyone seemed to talk at once.

  Ting, ting, ting. She had to tap her glass for attention.

  “I’d like to propose a toast.” She raised her glass, and waited for her friends to do the same.

  “To the road. To Widow’s Grove. To all my friends.

  “And, as a friend of mine once said, ‘Per cent’anni’—for a hundred years.”

  * * *

  WHEN JESSE FINALLY stopped hugging her, and after being congratulated by every guest, Sam retreated to the kitchen to regroup. She liked these people. Really. But large groups still overwhelmed her.

  The kitchen wasn’t any calmer. Caterers bustled, prepping trays for the buffet, and servers flitted in and out like nesting birds. Sam abandoned her barely touched champagne on the counter and headed for the back door.

  She stepped onto the porch and released a held breath that came out in an icy cloud. The air was still, and as crisp as a fall apple. Her velvet skirt was warm but the cotton-and-lace blouse wasn’t. She crossed her arms, tucking her hands in her armpits to preserve heat. The yard lay before her, wrapped in shadows cast by a flashlight moon. The stars glinted like hammered chips of silver on a black velvet sky.

  For once, peace wasn’t only external. Under her skin, anxiety lay down before a burgeoning rightness. She stood, relishing it. The thrum of disquiet had been a part of her for so long, she wasn’t sure how to feel without it.

  But I could get used to this pretty quickly. Smiling, she hugged herself tighter.

  It was time to replace nightmares with good dreams; and for once
, dreaming felt safe. She didn’t need Bina to tell her that she’d turned a corner tonight. This time, she was staying.

  “Staying.” It even sounded right, said out loud.

  “Born to be Wild,” the road song that was every biker’s anthem, drifted through her mind.

  With an echoed ache of longing, guilt nipped her conscience.

  But staying didn’t mean she had to give up riding. After all, some of the most beautiful roads she’d ever ridden began at the bottom of her driveway. There would be weekends and vacations enough to slake her thirst for the road. And how much more fun would riding be looking forward, knowing she had the comfort of her own house waiting? Her sudden shiver was only partially due to the chill.

  She became aware of a sound—a throbbing undertone that she now realized she’d been hearing awhile.

  That’s a diesel engine.

  She stepped off the porch and walked around the side of the house.

  The windows threw rectangles of yellow light on the concrete as she navigated a way between parked cars.

  A flatbed idled on the road in front of the house. Her heart skipped at the sign: Pinelli’s Repair and Tow.

  She stumbled to a stop, afraid to move forward. But on the truck bed, chrome gleamed in the moonlight.

  The Vulcan!

  She stood, feelings roaring through her. The wind, singing its one-note song in her ears. The sun, warm through her leathers. Feeling the throttle, power, under her hand.

  A shadow of a man reached for the handlebars, and she heard the kickstand snap up.

  Nick. Her heart stumbled as her feet had seconds before. Her hopes and the confidence she’d felt, surrounded by her friends, went into free fall—ending in a splatter on the driveway at her feet.

  He’s only here to deliver the bike.

  How could she face Nick with their breakup, reeking and bloated, between them? Her heart galloped, battering her ribs. She threw her shoulders back and sucked in her stomach. But that didn’t matter, because she was staying. She’d have to get used to seeing him only as her mechanic.