by Cindy Miles
“That’s a load of crap, son, and you know it. Why are you being so damn gruff with Emily?” He pulled on his cigar and puffed out a fragrant cloud. “Why are you so damn mad at her?”
Well, playing dumb hadn’t worked. And he knew Jep better than anyone. He’d never let it go. “I’m not mad at her, Jep. But we aren’t the same little kids anymore. She went her way. I went mine. We’re strangers now.”
“Growing up don’t mean you have to become a stone-cold donkey’s bare ass.”
Matt scowled through the dark. He knew he was an ass. It suited him, he guessed. At the very least it kept people at a safe distance. “Maybe you should mind your own business.”
“Maybe I should come over there and knock you off that step.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. Jep was one person who usually succeeded in coaxing a grin out of him, even if he did hide it. “Yeah, you probably should.” He heaved a sigh. “Just let it go, Jep.”
“You’re gonna work for her all summer with that crappy attitude? With your mad eyebrows and pinched-up face, all bowed up like you’re ready to punch anything that passes by? And that look like you’re suckin’ on lemons? That’s your plan?”
“I don’t have a plan,” Matt answered. And he really didn’t. “Haven’t had a plan since the corps sent me home.” There, he knew his plan. He was a sniper. And he was damn good at it. As a civilian? He had no damn clue.
“Well, you sound like a big damn baby, you know that?” He pointed his cigar at Matt, ember side up. “You were discharged honorably. Four tours, Matthew. You’re home now, boy. Safe and sound, like it or not. And you’ve gotta figure out a new plan.” He sat back, rocked and pulled long on his cigar. “You’re a Malone. You’ll find your way.” He grunted. “But find it without being such a donkey’s ass to Emily or you’ll have me to answer to. I kinda like her.”
Matt pushed himself up. “Yeah, I can see that. Night, Jep.” He took the steps and headed to the shop.
When he stepped inside, he flipped the light switch and headed over to Emly’s Jeep. He ran a hand over the body as he looked over every inch, then squatted and checked the tires.
“Well, she seems to take pretty decent care of her ride,” he muttered to himself.
“Not surprising since she always took such pristine care of her Hot Wheels.”
Matt glanced over his shoulder at Nathan, who laughed. “God, she was such a little tomboy, playing in the low-tide bog, getting covered in that stinky muck.” He whistled low. “Far from that now, huh? I mean, well—” he grinned “—you know what I mean. Just look at her.”
Matt shook his head and hit the switch on the wall, and the jack lifted the Jeep. Yeah, he knew what he meant. He had looked at her. Hadn’t been able to help himself. But he wasn’t going there. “You need something, Nathan?”
“Nope,” his brother said. He moved to stand beside him, crossed his arms over his chest and looked at him. “Just thought I’d see if you wanted some help, squirt.”
“You want to push that toolbox over here?” Matt indicated with a nod.
Nathan rolled the double-stacked Knaack toolbox closer to the Jeep. He opened the top lid. “So what do you think of her?”
Matt shrugged. “Not sure yet. The body looks good. Tires are a little sketchy.” He looked at Nathan. “Won’t know more until I run her on the diagnostics. Might be the alternator.”
Nathan simply stared at Matt. “God almighty, bro.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then stared some more. “Not the Jeep, man. The girl. Emily.”
What was with his family? Why were they all hounding him about her? “Nathan, I don’t even know her,” Matt said. He rubbed his head with his hand. “She’s been here less than twenty-four hours. Jesus. I just went through this with Jep.” He started searching for a socket wrench in the toolbox, but slipped his brother a quick glance. “I got suckered into agreeing to help her fix her place up. I don’t belong here, hanging around doing odd jobs, and I damn sure ain’t a fisherman. So get off my back about her. You gonna help or nag me to death?”
A stupid grin stretched across Nathan’s face. “I prefer a good nagging any day.”
Matt just shook his head.
After running a few tests on Emily’s Jeep, Matt determined it was in fact the alternator and by 2:00 a.m., he and Nathan finished and closed up the shop. As they headed across the darkened yard, Nathan dropped an arm over Matt’s shoulders.
He gave him a shake. “It’s good to have you home, little brother,” Nathan said.
Matt slapped his brother’s back. “Good to be here,” he answered, although how truthfully, he wasn’t sure. Hell, he didn’t even know how long he’d be home. “You’ve been okay?” His brother had lost his fiancée in a drowning accident. And even as a rescue swimmer for the Coast Guard, Nathan hadn’t been able to save her. He had quit his job and moved back home to shrimp with Dad and Jep. And even Matt could see through Nathan’s mask of lightheartedness. Inside, he knew his older brother still grieved.
Nathan nodded as they hit the circle of light from the yard lamp. “Yeah, things are coming along.” He smacked Matt on the back of the head. “No worries here.”
Matt knew that meant his brother had more worries than he ever cared to share.
Once inside, Matt headed up the stairs to his old room and got ready for bed.
Lying in the dark, he stared up into blankness at the ceiling. The stillness of the room barely shifted with his slow, even breathing; his thoughts turned to his long-legged neighbor. Yeah, it was strange to see Emily after all these years. He recalled how she’d had so many plans for them both. They were going to grow up and stay best friends forever, first of all, and never, ever leave Cassabaw. Then after her parents were killed, she left. Not willingly, but she’d left all the same.
Left him.
He knew she’d had no choice; her grandparents had insisted on it. She was just a kid. But she never answered his letters, and he’d written dozens of them.
He knew it sounded stupid as hell, but his memory of the day she left was crystal clear. The pain had resonated within him for a long time after. He’d never told anyone, but it had.
Maybe that’d been part of the reason he’d joined the marines? To escape? Feel a little self-worth? Who knew.
Outside, crickets chirped beneath his window, and the yard lamp filtered in, casting an arc of light on the far wall. He and Emily had both inadvertently broken their promises and left Cassabaw. Yet both had ended up right back in the same place, at the same time. Home.
Emily Quinn. Em.
How in the hell was he ever going to get used to her being grown-up and living next door again?
Or, Christ. Being his boss?
After what seemed like an endless night of tossing and turning, Matt finally punched his pillow, got up and made his bed. Jesus, it looked as though he’d had a UFC fight in the sheets. He’d made note of the tide times the night before and knew low tide would be at 7:23 a.m.—in an hour. He planned on checking out the damage to Emily’s dock—mainly the pilings—before the river started to rise. Rifling through his chest of drawers he found a ripped pair of shorts he usually used for crabbing, and crept downstairs, where he pushed his feet into a pair of beat-up sneakers. Quietly, he slipped outside.
* * *
EMILY’S EYES POPPED open at the steady purr of a boat motor. The sound, at first distant, grew closer and closer. Quickly she rolled off the sofa she’d slept on and made her way to the kitchen. At the sink she looked out and stared into the early-morning haze, through the marsh and toward the Back River.
Soon a figure emerged, a darkened silhouette of a broad-shouldered man at the back of an aluminum boat navigating Morgan’s Creek at low tide. A smile touched her face when she recognized Matt, and Emily pushed away from the sink and hurried to her backpack, where she pulled out a pair of white shorts and a blue tank.
As fast as she could, she threw them on, brushed her teeth and slipped her feet into her o
ld blue Vans. She was pulling her hair into a ponytail as she made her way down the path that led to the dock. Just as she was walking up, Matt ran the aluminum flat-bottom boat aground.
“Morning,” Emily said. She put her hands on her hips and grinned. “You’re up early.” He was bare from the waist up, and still she couldn’t believe the size of him. Muscles cut across his chest and arms as though air-brushed on. Divots etched into his hips, ridges into his abdomen. She noticed his dog tags, and again wondered what he’d experienced in the marines. Things he’d probably always keep to himself.
Matt gave her a quick glance before he tossed the anchor onto the ground at the bow. “Habit.”
“Want some help?” she asked.
The skeptical look on Matt’s face almost made her laugh. “I got it. Thanks.” He climbed out of the boat, leaned down and grabbed it by the bow and pulled it farther onto land. His biceps, shoulders and back muscles pulled tight with the movement, and Emily noticed something she hadn’t before.
“Whoa,” she said, and stepped closer. Raising a hand, she grazed his shoulder. A large, intricate compass with a prominent North Star in the middle was inked into his skin, complete with N, S, E and W. When she looked up at him, he was already staring at her, and she smiled. “That is just magnificent, Mattinski.” As kids they’d add inski onto everything—their names, pets, places—whatever crossed their minds, and it was funny, and they did it so much it used to drive Jep completely out of his mind.
A vague movement lifted the corner of his mouth, so Emily knew he remembered. But as fast as she’d noticed the almost smile, it disappeared. “Keeps me grounded,” he answered instead. He inclined his head. “Stay here. Dock’s too shady for two people. It won’t hold my weight and yours.”
“Will do,” she answered. “I’ll stand by with the boat. In case you fall in and need me to rescue you.”
Matt’s brows burrowed into a frown and he didn’t say anything as he turned and sauntered onto the dock, just shaking his head.
Emily kept her eye on him as he slowly inspected the rotted wood slats, the pilings, until he reached the large gap.
Slowly Matt made his way to the end of the dock, then disappeared into the dock house. After a few moments he reappeared once more and stood, hands on hips, inspecting.
Emily admired him. Lord, she couldn’t help it. Even from where she stood Matt Malone cut a sexy figure in the early-morning sun. Broad, thick muscular shoulders and arms tapered to a narrow waist, ripped stomach, slim hips, muscular thighs and calves. All accentuated with that alluring compass tattoo on his shoulder.
It keeps me grounded. She wondered what that’d meant, exactly?
Suddenly, he’d disappeared. One second Emily had her eyes on him, the next—gone. She waited for a moment, and unlike before, he didn’t reappear.
“Matt?” she called out. “Hey, are you okay?”
No response.
Worry propelled Emily onto the dock, even though Matt had instructed her to stay put, and she carefully but quickly picked her way over the sun-bleached slats. What if something had happened? Maybe Matt was hung up on a piling? Her eyes scanned the water and muck below, and at the same time she searched for Matt.
She’d almost made it to the big gap in the dock when the sound of splintering wood reached her ears. With a yelp she plummeted into the murky low-tide river water.
“Oh!” she squawked, just as her head submerged. The second she popped back up and drew in a lung full of air, Matt was there. And he wasn’t happy.
His dark brows slashed angrily over his eyes. “Dammit, Emily. Are you hurt?”
Emily blinked the water from her eyes and she began to tread. She noticed her shin burning. She must’ve scraped it on the fall down. “I think I’m okay. I thought something had happened to you.”
Matt made a noise deep in his throat that sounded like a growl, shook his head and grasped her by the arm. His eyes flashed, and she noticed the water beading in his buzzed hair. “I told you to stay put.”
Emily’s jaw began trembling. “I d-d-don’t listen well, I guess.” She blew out a puff of air. “Oh, my God, this water is f-f-freezing!”
Again, Matt just shook his head. “Come on.” He tugged Emily’s arm and began swimming back to the bank, pulling Emily right along with him. The water was chilly for late May, maybe because of the early-morning hour. Saw grass swiped her wet skin, and she noticed fiddlers popping in and out of their homes, angrily shaking their big claws at them as they swam by. When she licked her lips, she tasted salt. All familiar things. All things she’d missed.
Finally, she felt the muddy bottom of the creek. She sank into the muck, and trudged through it until they reached the bank. Matt grasped her hand and pulled her out behind him, and quickly his eyes scanned her legs.
He frowned harder and kneeled down, just as his fingertips grazed her shin. “Jesus, Emily,” he said.
She looked down, past the breadth of Matt’s bare wet shoulders, to her shin. A gash allowed a steady trickle of blood to stream down her leg. An enormous splinter stuck out of it.
“Oh, shoot,” Emily said. “No wonder it burns.” She reached with her fingers, ready to pluck the old wood out. Matt stopped her with his hand.
In one motion Matt rose and scooped Emily up in his arms. The muscles in his jaw flexed. As he hurried along, carrying Emily’s soggy wet and muddy self toward the house, he mumbled something unintelligible before glaring at her. “Swear to God, Emily. Next time just listen when I tell you something.” He sighed. “Hardhead.”
Even though her shin stung like crazy, it didn’t stop the smile from stretching across her face as she floated through the air in Matt’s steel-like arms.
Maybe her old friend wasn’t as big of a grump as he pretended to be? And maybe, just maybe, his lighthearted self was still in there, buried, somewhere.
CHAPTER SIX
“DO YOU HAVE an emergency kit?” Matt asked. He sat her down at the kitchen table on one of the small wooden chairs, then rocked back on his heels and inspected her shin. The movement made his dog tags swing and bounce against his chest. A gentle grasp around Emily’s leg belied the true strength in his big hands. He lifted her leg, stared and set it back down, waiting on an answer.
“Er, no, I don’t,” Emily said. She looked at her shin. “It’s really okay, just let me pull that out—”
“No. Just wait here,” Matt instructed gruffly. At the kitchen archway, he looked over his shoulder and glared. “Don’t move. Don’t pull it out. Just sit.” He turned and ran out of the house.
Emily rested her head against the back of the chair. “Fine,” she said out loud. Again she examined her wound. It wasn’t that bad. Just a scrape, really, maybe a little deep in one area close to her bony shin. And that splinter. She cocked her head and looked closer. Maybe more than a splinter, actually. Possibly the size of a toothpick. The wood was almost black with age and elements. What would it hurt to just pull it on out?
Just as that thought settled in her mind, the front door slammed and Matt reappeared in the kitchen. He was still shirtless and beads of sweat clung to the rigid lines of his muscles and along his jaw and forehead. But he wasn’t breathless. His eyes went to her shin, and he grunted with what she figured was surprise that she’d done what he’d asked. In his hand was a traditional emergency kit in a white plastic box with a red cross on it.
Silently, he washed his hands at the sink then kneeled in front of her and withdrew several items. Gauze. Peroxide. Rubbing alcohol. Ointment. Tape.
“Were you a medic in the marines?” Emily asked.
Matt didn’t look up as he opened the bottle of alcohol. “Nope.”
“Man of few words now, huh?” she asked.
“I say what needs to be said.” He soaked a square of gauze with alcohol. “Be still.”
Emily did as he asked and watched as he cleaned the skin around the gashy scrape. He did it several times until the area was cleaned of creek muck and salt wat
er. Then he withdrew a pair of tweezers from the kit and gave her a stern glare.
“Don’t move.”
“Why?” Emily asked. “It’s just a splinter.”
Matt let out a frustrated sigh. “You don’t want a piece of rotted dock wood to break off deep into your skin.”
“Oh,” she replied. “Gotcha. Carry on, my wayward son.”
Matt narrowed his eyes and just shook his head. The Kansas song had once been a favorite of theirs. She supposed he’d either forgotten about the song, or had buried it with all the rest of their childhood memories.
He bent to the task of removing the jagged splinter. Carefully, he tweezed close to the skin, grasped the wood and slowly pulled it out. The gash began to bleed more, and he set the tweezers and splinter on the table, picked her up and carried her to the sink.
He turned the water on. “Hold your leg under there for a few,” he said. “Let the blood clean the wound out.”
As she sat on the counter beside the kitchen sink, a steady stream of cold water blending with the blood draining from her shin, she inspected Matt as carefully as he’d examined her wound. A statue-like profile, with a stern jaw and muscular neck, he looked like something Michelangelo himself carved right out of a fresh slab of marble. She could tell he was concentrating because the muscles in his cheeks and jaw flexed.
He looked up. “I’m going to pour peroxide over it. Then you need to shower off the river muck and water before we cover it with a bandage.”
Emily gave him a fake-fierce look. “We used to get cut by oyster shells and you didn’t make such a big fuss about it then.”
“That was before I saw big healthy men lose limbs over a little infection. Go.”
“Yes, sir. Keep an eye out for the movers, will ya? They’re due anytime now.”
Matt gave a slight nod and turned to gather the contents of the kit.
It didn’t take her long to clean up, and when she finished she changed into a clean pair of cutoff jean shorts and a white tank. Pulling her hair into a wet ponytail, she ambled into the kitchen where Matt waited. He sat at the table, still shirtless, still muddy. When she walked in, he lifted his gaze to her.