by Helen Lacey
Kayla’s eyes almost popped their sockets. “Really?”
“Yeah,” she replied. “But don’t read any more into it. We’re just friends.”
Kayla chuckled. “Sure you are.”
“It’s true,” she said. “He’s made it abundantly clear that he’s not in the market for a relationship and I—”
“Won’t meet anyone else if you keep hanging out with Brant Parker,” Kayla reminded her.
“I know,” she admitted. “But I like him. I have no idea why, of course. He’s temperamental and indifferent and sometimes downright unfriendly. But...” She paused. “There are other times when he’s such a great listener and he’s really smart and funny and—”
“Oh, no,” Kayla said, cutting her off. “I know that weepy look. You’re actually falling for him. For real. This isn’t high school, Lucy...you could really get your heart broken here.”
“I know,” she said as if they were two of the hardest words she’d ever said.
“Then stay away from him,” Kayla suggested. “I mean it. He’s quicksand for a girl like you.”
“Like me?” she echoed. “You mean the oldest virgin on the planet?”
Kayla, Ash and Brooke were the only people who knew she’d never had an intimate relationship. Her friend smiled gently. “So, all that means is you haven’t met the right man yet.”
But I have.
“Why don’t we talk about your complicated love life instead?” Lucy suggested. “What’s going on with you and Liam?”
“Nothing,” Kayla assured her. “My father would disown me, for one. And I don’t like Liam O’Sullivan in the slightest. He’s arrogant and opinionated and thinks way too much of himself. We’re working on the museum extension plans together because he’s on the committee and putting up most of the funding.”
Lucy grinned. “Yeah, and I wonder why he’s doing that?”
Kayla’s cheeks colored hotly. “Because he knows how important the museum is to the town.”
“Or because he wants to keep you in town,” Lucy suggested. “Which probably wouldn’t happen if the museum was forced to close down. You’d have to leave to get a job in a big city and Liam would be devastated,” she teased.
Kayla waved a hand dismissively. “Enough about me. We’re talking about you...and how you get your mind off Hot Stuff.”
Lucy laughed. “Don’t worry about me,” she assured the other woman. “I’ll be fine. After Friday I probably won’t see him much at all and—”
“Friday?” Kayla asked.
“His uncle is having surgery,” she explained. “I said I’d be there.”
Kayla tut-tutted. “See...quicksand.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
I have no idea what I’m doing.
“I hope so. I’d hate to see you get hurt. And this thing with you and Brant has been going on for a long time and—”
“It’s nothing,” she assured Kayla. “Look, I know I was all starry-eyed about him back in high school, and maybe I have talked way too much about him since I moved back to town. But I’m not pining after Brant Parker,” she said firmly. “I promise.”
Kayla’s eyes widened. “So, if someone else comes along you’ll give him a chance?”
She smiled at her friend. Kayla had been her wannabe matchmaker since they were kids. “Sure. As long as you do the same.”
Kayla grinned. “No question about that. I’m a free agent.”
“Yeah,” Lucy agreed. “Except for being secretly in love with Liam O’Sullivan.”
Kayla rolled her eyes dramatically. “Ha! Good try. I heard that his brother Kieran is coming to Grady and Marissa’s wedding. He’s a doctor like you...now that’s worth thinking about. You guys used to work together in Sioux Falls, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But no doctors,” Lucy implored. “Too many long working hours.”
Lucy stayed for another ten minutes, where they talked about Thanksgiving and the upcoming wedding. Lucy usually worked the holidays and this year was no exception. She would celebrate in a low-key way with her colleagues who’d either volunteered to work the holidays as she had or were unavoidably rostered. She really didn’t mind working the holidays. It certainly beat sitting around her house alone.
For the first few years after her mother’s death she’d tagged along with Kayla’s family and they’d welcomed her wholeheartedly. But as she’d gotten older her need for inclusion waned and she was content to work and free up the time for her colleagues who had families.
But this year she felt more melancholic than usual.
When she got to work Lucy quickly forgot about her lonely life. A double vehicle accident on the highway meant half a dozen people were brought into the ER, two with serious injuries and another four with minor cuts and abrasions. She spent five hours on her feet and didn’t take a break until it was close to five o’clock. She headed home a couple of hours later and pulled into her driveway at seven thirty just as rain began splattering the windshield.
Lucy grabbed her bag and made a quick dash for the house and was soaked to the skin by the time she got inside and shut the door. She shrugged out of her coat and flipped off her shoes, dropped her bag and keys in hall and headed for the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later she was clean, dry, and dressed in flannel pajamas and her favorite sheepskin slippers. She was just heading for the kitchen when she heard her cell pealing in her handbag. Lucy hot-footed it up the hall and rushed to grab her phone without registering the number.
“Hello?”
“You sound breathless,” a deep voice said. “Everything okay?”
Heat rolled through her belly. “Brant, um, hi. Yes, I’m fine. You?”
“I’m okay. I’m calling to confirm Friday with you,” he said evenly. “My uncle is really grateful that you’ll be there.”
Lucy’s insides lurched. “Yes...well, I’m happy to do it if it reassures him. Only...”
He was silent for a moment when her words trailed. “Only?” he prompted finally.
She took a steadying breath. “I’d like you to do something for me in return.”
The strained silence between them stretched like a brittle elastic. “And what is that?” he asked after a moment, his voice raspier than usual.
Lucy knew she’d probably only get one chance to ask for what she wanted. So she went for it. “I’d like to make an appointment for you to speak with Dr. Allenby.”
* * *
Brant fought the instinct he had to end the call and never dial her number again. But he didn’t. He stayed on the line, grappling with his temper.
A shrink. Great.
And cleverly done, too. No demands, no subtle manipulation...just asking for what she wanted. He’d bet his boots she also had a great poker face. But since having her at the hospital was important to his uncle, he’d do what he had to do.
“Sure,” he said easily, his heart pounding.
“Oh...great. I’ll make an appointment for you.”
“No problem,” he said, ignoring the churning in his gut. “I’ll pick you up Friday.”
“Fine. See you then.”
Brant disconnected the call and leaned back on the workbench. Damn, she wound him up! He shoved the phone into his shirt pocket and took a long breath. Lucy Monero was the most irritating, frustrating, demanding woman he’d ever known. He really needed to stop spending time with her before she got too far under his skin.
Too late.
He shook his tight shoulders, pushed himself off the bench and grabbed the circular saw. He had plenty of work to do before the plumbing contractors arrived on Monday. By his reckoning he had at least eight weeks’ worth of work to do before he could open the tavern. In that time he had to think about hiring staff, including a chef and a barman. He wanted the
place to be family friendly with good food and service at reasonable prices. Not as rustic as Rusty’s nor as highbrow as O’Sullivan’s, but somewhere in between. A place where he would be too busy to dwell on the war, the friends he’d lost or how he was irrevocably changed by all he’d experienced there.
And he longed to be so busy he wouldn’t spend time thinking about Lucy Monero.
He turned around, plugged in the circular saw and picked a timber plank from the floor. All the booth seats needed replacing and he’d been steadily working his way through the task for the best part of three days. Brant measured out the timber he needed, grabbed the saw and began cutting through the plank. Within seconds the safety clip on the circular saw flipped back and the tool vibrated, jerked out of his grasp and bounced against the side of the work table. He quickly turned off the power switch, but not before the blade sliced through the skin on his left forearm.
Brant cursed loudly, dropped the saw and placed a hand over the wound. He was reaching for the small towel on the main bench when his cell rang. He grabbed the towel, quickly wrapped it around his arm, wiped most of the blood off his hand and pulled the phone from his pocket.
“Brant, it’s me,” said a breathless voice.
Lucy.
“Oh...hi.”
“I just realized we didn’t make a time for tomorrow.”
He looked at the blood seeping through the towel. “I can’t really talk at the moment. I’ll call you back in a—”
“Why not? What are you doing?”
He was pretty sure she didn’t realize how nosy she sounded. It made him grin despite the pain in his arm. “Because I’m bleeding and I need to get a bandage on this—”
“You’re bleeding?” The pitch of her voice went up a couple of notches. “What happened? What have you done this—?”
“An accident with a power tool,” he said and then made a frustrated sound. “Look, I’ll call you back when I—”
“Stay still and keep pressure on the injury,” she said quickly. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Then she hung up.
It was actually six minutes before he heard a car pull up outside and about another thirty seconds before she tapped on the front door. Once she’d crossed the threshold he closed the door and looked at her. She carried a bright yellow umbrella, wore a brightly colored knitted beanie on her head and had a brown trench coat tightly belted around her waist. Letting his gaze travel down, he saw the pants she wore had tiny cats on them and she had slippers on her feet.
“Pajamas?”
She shrugged and rested the umbrella against the doorjamb. “I was in a hurry.” She held up a black bag and looked at his arm. “I need to see what you’ve done,” she said and glanced around. “And not here around all this dust. Upstairs. Let’s go.”
Right. Upstairs. He’d lived at the tavern for a couple of months and had not invited a single soul into the three-roomed apartment upstairs. Not even his mother and brother. It was sparsely furnished and other than the new bed, sofa and television he’d bought, about as warm and cosy as an ice-cube tray. Still, it served his purpose for the moment. He hesitated and then saw her frown and realized he wouldn’t win an argument while she was in such a mood.
He nodded and walked toward the stairwell. “Don’t expect too much.”
“You’re an idiot,” she said as she followed. “I don’t care where you live. Besides, you’ve seen my retro abode.”
Retro and shabby maybe. But there was a warmth and peacefulness to her house that had made it very hard for him to leave her company the night before. It was even easier to recall how good she’d felt in his arms.
Once they reached the landing he stood aside to let her pass. She took a few steps into the living area and stopped. She clearly had an opinion about the place but unexpectedly kept it to herself. The room was spacious, clean and freshly painted, and was a combined living and kitchen and dining area. But he rarely used the kitchen other than to make coffee or to heat up something in the microwave. There was a small dining table and she immediately headed for it.
“Come here,” she instructed once she placed her bag on the table and opened it. “Sit down.”
He did as she asked and rested his arm on the table. She pulled a few things from the bag, including surgical gloves, and quickly put them on. He watched, fascinated as she gently removed the towel and examined the gash on his arm. Her touch was perfunctory and methodical. But having her so close made Brant achingly aware of every movement she made.
“So, how did this happen?” she asked as she stepped back, undid her belt and slipped off the trench coat.
Her buttoned-up pajamas were baggy and shapeless and did nothing to highlight her curves. But he was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra and the very idea spiked his libido instantly. And she smelled so good...like apples and peppermint. He cleared his throat and tried not think about how one layer of flannel stood between him and her beautiful skin. “I had a problem with a circular saw.”
Her mouth twisted. “You certainly did. It’s deep and needs a few stitches.”
“Can you do that here?”
“Sure,” she said. “But I don’t have any local anesthetic so you’ll have to be a tough guy for a few minutes.”
Good. Pain would help him stop thinking about her skin and curves. She was so close that her leg was pressed against his. She’d ditched the beanie and, with her hair loose, her baggy pajamas and silly slippers, she was more beautiful, more desirable, than any woman had a right to be. And it aroused him. Big-time. He swallowed hard and concentrated on the pain in his arm instead. “No problem.”
It took her less than ten minutes to stitch up the wound and wrap a bandage around his arm. “Try to keep it dry. And let me know if there’s any irritation with the stitches. Seven days should do it before they need to come out.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Is there anything else?”
She sounded mad. Annoyed. Angry.
And he was sure of it as he watched her clean up and thrust equipment back into her bag.
“Lucy?”
He gaze snapped toward him. “What?”
“You’re mad at me?”
Her mouth tightened. “Yes, I am,” she replied honestly. “It’s like you have some kind of death wish. Motorbikes, mountain climbing, dangerous power tools... What’s next, Brant? White-rapid canoeing? Skydiving?”
He laughed loudly and stood. “A defective power tool is hardly my fault.”
“What about the other things?” she snapped.
“Haven’t we been through this already? I told you about the bike accidents. And admitted I was an idiot to climb Kegg’s Mountain without the correct gear.” He grabbed her hand and stepped closer. “I don’t have a death wish, Lucy. I promise you.”
She looked up and met his stare head-on. God, he loved how she did that. Eye to eye. As though, for that brief moment in time, there was no one else in the world but the two of them. It felt like tonic. Like salve. As though her green-eyed gaze had the power to heal.
Of course she didn’t...that was crazy thinking. But the more time he spent with her, the more difficult it was to keep denying how much he wanted her. Because wanting might turn into needing. And needing was out of the question. He couldn’t afford to need anyone. And not someone as sweet and lovely as Lucy Monero.
“Are you sure? Your mom’s worried you’re... She’s scared because she thinks you take too many risks. As if you don’t care.”
Brant’s stomach tightened. His knew his mother frequently talked to Lucy, and it would be naive to think he didn’t regularly turn up in their conversations. But he hated the idea that his mother was worrying about him unnecessarily. “What are you saying? That my mom thinks I’m reckless?”
“That’s part of it.�
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His stomach continued to churn. “And what else...suicidal?”
She shrugged as though she didn’t want to acknowledge the idea. “Maybe. It happens to soldiers all the—”
“I’m not,” he said, cutting her off as he squeezed her fingers. “I’m very happy to be alive and plan to stay that way for a long time.”
“I hope so,” she said, whisper-quiet.
Brant tugged her closer. “I promise I’m not depressed or suicidal.”
She didn’t look entirely convinced. “Depression can show itself with varying symptoms. Do you sleep well?”
“Mostly,” he replied, hating that he was suddenly under the microscope but inexplicably unable to move away from her.
Her expression narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”
The truth burned his tongue. “Okay, so sometimes I don’t sleep...sometimes I pace this room for hours or stare at the ceiling. That doesn’t mean I’m depressed or suicidal.”
“No,” she replied. “Not on its own, but when you combine insomnia with other things, it can manifest itself into more.”
“There are no other things.”
“No?” she queried. “What about moodiness? Solitude?”
“If I was as disagreeable as you seem to think, I wouldn’t be reopening the tavern.”
“I didn’t say you were disagreeable,” she shot back quickly. “In fact, you’re very charming and easy to talk to most of the time—like you were last night. I needed someone and you were there for me.”
It didn’t sound much like a compliment. Still, he didn’t release her. And she didn’t pull away. “But?”
“But you rarely, if ever, talk about yourself,” she replied. “And that can be harmful to a person’s well-being.”
“So, I’m not much of a talker. That doesn’t make me a head case.”
She flinched. “Now you’re angry. Being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak, Brant. Something bad happened to you over there, didn’t it?”
His tone grew hard. “It was a war zone...bad things happened all around me and to a lot of people.”
“I know that,” she said, reaching up to touch his face. “But it’s you I care about.”