She was mulling over the option as Fancy, leaping into bed, sabotaged her.
“Daddy?”
“What, sugarplum?”
“Jada said you were flaky in high school. Why did you act like a bunny rabbit?”
Chapter 7
Philip left the bedroom with an air of confidence that required no interpretation. Thanks to Jada’s faux pas, he’d wrested back the upper hand.
“You were chatting about me with my kid? Is this something you do often?” Shutting the door, he blocked her from escaping down the hallway. “Fancy is the president of my fan club, you know. If you’re joining, I’ll send you a special gift.”
Embarrassment flamed across her face, but Jada managed to nail him with a sassy look. “Wait. Your fan club is still up and running?” she asked tartly. “I thought it disbanded after you broke too many hearts.”
“Fair enough. Maybe it did.”
“Maybe? Philip, your days as the Sun King ended around the time I bought my first iPhone.”
“Is that why my kid thinks I acted like a bunny rabbit in high school? Because I had fun dating?” he teased her. “Got any other goofy opinions you’d like to share?”
“Forget it.” Jada darted past him. She entered the living room with her dignity in shreds. Obviously, Fancy needed a primer on how to keep a secret.
“Stop stonewalling. You thought I was flaky in high school?”
“Please. You dated half of the girls in our class, mostly to get out of doing your own homework. Or did you fall in love on a weekly basis? Plus, you never remembered to study for tests.”
“All of which falls under the purview of ‘dreamy.’ As in, ‘the kid with his head in the clouds.’”
“Flaky,” she corrected. “Whitewash the past any way you’d like, but I know what I know.”
“And I was a flake?”
“You were.”
He gripped his chest in mock pain. “Talk about a blow to my ego. And here I thought you looked up to me during my forgotten youth.”
Arrogance wasn’t a card Philip usually played. At least not with her. He did so now with a winning smile that darted pleasure to Jada’s belly. The pleasure mixed nicely with her irritation.
“Dream on,” she said, fending off his charisma. They were playing a new game, one she doubted she’d win. “The flakiness wasn’t the worst of it. You were also obnoxious. Hard core, insufferably obnoxious.”
“Is that why we were never friends?”
“In high school? Philip, I would’ve shaved my head and pierced my nose before I would’ve been friends with you.”
“Keep rubbing in the salt, buddy.” Philip hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. He appeared one degree shy of laughing out loud. “You’re doing real damage to the memory of my suave younger self. I’ll give you the bit about being a flake, but I was never obnoxious.”
He really was unbelievable. “Are you kidding?” A smile tickled the corners of her mouth. “You had a special talent for obnoxious behavior. What about all the paper airplanes you shot into my hair? The paperclips, the rubber bands—there was a day in our senior year when you went into a wind-up with a wad of bubble gum.”
“Yeah, but I nixed the idea when you channeled the death-stare.”
“What death-stare?”
“That thing you do with your eyes when you’re really peeved. And your lips,” Philip added. His attention lingered on her mouth like a caress, smooth and slow, and undeniably delicious. When he captured her gaze, her heart jumped. “You’re doing it now.”
If they were running a race, he was gaining on her. “If you had pitched that wad of gum, I would’ve beaten you to a pulp,” she said, astonished by her bravado.
The remark kicked up the lights gleaming in his eyes. “I would’ve deserved the thrashing,” he agreed, taking a step closer.
“You would’ve deserved more than a thrashing.” Warning lights flashed in her brain. She was challenging him, and the competitive lights glinting in his eyes only made Philip more attractive.
“Yeah?” he murmured, his voice husky. “What sort of punishment would you have devised?”
The air between them sparked and snapped.
Why am I flirting with him?
The atmosphere was too inviting, too much like the interplay between a man and a woman reveling in a common attraction. Everything about Philip was comfortably familiar, yet she couldn’t shake the impression she was seeing him for the first time. As if a lifetime of disliking him, which had only recently evolved into a late-blooming and sometimes awkward friendship, was nothing more than a mirage. As if she’d never before glimpsed the man standing before her now.
Common sense warned her to break off the exchange. Take this too far, and she wasn’t sure where it would lead.
She couldn’t manage to follow through.
“When we were young, why did you throw stuff at me?” she said, unable to quash her curiosity. “The antics started way back in grade school. I never got why you liked making me angry.”
“Hmm. Let’s see.” Philip crossed his arms, clearly enjoying her interest. “Getting you riled up was a secondary consideration.”
“What was the primary consideration?”
“Your crazy curls. Even as a kid you were careful and precise, never making the wrong move. Never jumping into anything until you’d calculated the odds of success. Jada Brooks, the girl in control.”
He’d summed her up perfectly. “What’s your point?”
“Everything about you is tidy except your wild curls. Doesn’t matter what you do, you can’t control them. Man, I love that. They’re the one part of you that can’t be tamed.”
“Wait. You threw crap at me because you liked my hair?”
“The move got your attention, right?”
Was Philip admitting he’d had a crush on her? An infatuation kept on the down low all the way through high school? She couldn’t bring herself to believe the cocky, love-’em-and-leave-’em youth she’d known had viewed her as anything but the most responsible teen at Sweet Lake High. Especially since she’d had absolutely no interest in viewing Sweet Lake’s charming and shallow Hot Body as boyfriend material.
For all the obvious reasons.
A dazed silence followed her outside. The night breeze whispered in greeting, funneling across the daffodils bobbing in the flower bed. A car drove past as she started across the grass. She watched the taillights receding into the darkness with her thoughts colliding into one another. There were moments in your life capable of altering the most strongly held assumptions, shuffling the known facts into a new arrangement that revealed a larger truth. Was this one of those moments?
Of one thing she was certain. In the contest of bizarre evenings, tonight deserved the grand prize.
From behind, the front door clicked shut. Philip said, “What would you have done? In high school, I mean.”
“About what?” Her keys jangled as she withdrew them from her purse.
“How would you have reacted if the flaky guy had asked you out?”
A sweet, nearly seductive note carried through the question. She didn’t dare turn around and look at him.
“If you’d asked me out in high school? You weren’t my type.”
“You weren’t my type either. The boring chick with the books.”
The taunt lured her flashing eyes back to him for a fleeting moment. “I was serious about my studies,” she countered, turning away.
“You missed out on all the fun.”
“No, I decided to do the work and play later.”
“How much longer are you planning to wait?” he asked, and the edgy quality in his voice coaxed her into facing him. He looked nearly smug as he appraised her. “By my count, you’ve dated exactly two guys in the last five years. Both dull in the extreme, and totally not your type. Keep playing it safe, and you’ll never find what you need.”
“Give me a break.” Circling away from the car, she swatted him pla
yfully. “Since when do you know what I need?”
Touching Philip was a mistake. She saw the error on his features, registering first her incredibly childish response of swatting him. Then his expression narrowed in an undeniably masculine way. The distance between a playful response and a sexual challenge was no greater than the space between heartbeats.
A distance he crossed as he strode to her swiftly. “You first,” he murmured, crowding her, erasing the space between them by backing her into the car. Dizzy spots of color leapt before her eyes. “Repeat after me: Philip was not a flake. In high school, or at any other time in his natural-born life.”
“Pass,” she said, caught by the devilish gleam in his eyes.
“Last chance, Jada. Take it back.”
Nervous laughter bubbled in her throat. “No!” She fought it down.
“Fine. Have it your way.”
He stepped away. But only long enough for the suppressed laughter to shake her ribcage with fizzy indulgence. When he turned back to her, the revelry fled his features like sunlight before a storm. Yearning darkened his eyes.
The startling change extinguished the giddy sensation in her belly, doused it with the strength of the message he conveyed. The light attraction she’d sensed growing inside the safe confines of their friendship didn’t match the fever making his cheeks ruddy with color, or the accompanying response of her heart, cartwheeling now in her chest, responding without her conscious approval. Heat built between them. With it came an unexpected hunger so fierce she froze stock-still.
With satisfaction, Philip read her face. He moved back in.
With strong hands, he cupped her face. His touch was gentle as he thumbed the sensitive skin beneath her ear. A hungry shudder rippled up her spine, and she moaned. The sound lit his eyes with desire as his gaze roamed at will, taking in every inch of her face, taking her in with a leisure she knew he’d never before dared.
The moment hung suspended out of time. Breathless, she looked up at him.
If Philip meant to deliver a tentative kiss, the decision went astray. The moment he bent his head to press his mouth to hers, his body came too. With a shudder, he sealed himself against her in a reaction that seemed equally wrought from pleasure and pain. His fingers dove into her hair, twining through the curls, a groan slipping from his throat as he angled her face up to better allow him to explore her lips. The desire carried in his kiss sent fire all the way to her toes. Beneath the onslaught of pleasurable sensation, her knees threatened to dissolve.
When he finished kissing her from earth and halfway to heaven, he clasped her around the waist. A nice move, Jada thought in a bliss-induced stupor. She’d melted against the car in a perfectly acceptable swoon.
“That,” he said, “I don’t take back.”
Chapter 8
Philip strode past the three women and crouched before the low garden wall. “Frances, this is the emergency that couldn’t wait? There’s a shipment of azaleas coming in for the Wayfair’s new patio. My crew is already on-site.”
The seventyish co-leader of the Sirens had called him at daybreak. She owned a beaut of a house on Highland Avenue, and Unity Design handled all her landscaping.
“Stop whining like a mule. It’s not attractive.” Frances extracted herself from where she stood between Ruth and Penelope. “Surely you have mortar and the necessary tools in your truck. How long will it take you to fix?”
“I don’t have mortar in the truck.”
“What sort of handyman shows up for the job without proper supplies?” Feigning distress, she motioned to the three wrought-iron chairs lined up on the grass. “We were planning a nice visit while you worked.”
“Frances, I’m a landscaper, not a handyman. Or a mason, come to think of it. I will help out with the wall, just not today.”
Philip picked up one of the broken chunks of brick scattered across the grass. If he didn’t know better, he’d conclude the morning SOS was a ruse. It sure looked like one of the Sirens had whacked the garden wall with a sledgehammer, taking care not to wreak too much damage.
He threw an assessing glance at the most ill-tempered Siren. The knees of Ruth Kenefsky’s denim overalls were dirty, and she did look winded.
Tossing the chunk of brick from hand to hand, he got to his feet. “Mind explaining how this happened?” All three of the women looked guilty.
Frances tilted her chin. “I assume a deer gamboled into my yard.”
“And rammed a two-foot high wall? Try again.”
“Plant roots pushed the wall out,” Penelope offered.
“We’re talking about perennials, not tree roots. They didn’t cleave a hole in the wall ten inches wide.”
“Might have been kids,” Ruth growled. Her white braids whipped in the breeze as she gestured for emphasis. “There are hooligans in these parts.” When he gave her a jaundiced look, she added, “Sweet Lake’s not immune to vandalism, Mr. Smarty Pants.”
“Kids don’t haul around sledgehammers. Mostly because they’re hard to lug.” Philip scraped the hair from his brow. “Ladies, keep your dirty little secrets. I’m not really interested. Frances, I’ll let you know when I have time to repair the wall.”
Penelope, clearly aware he was onto them, came forward. “Philip, wait.” Fiddling with her glasses, she added, “We have a question.”
One important enough to bring him before the tribunal of three curious Sirens? This, he decided, was not good.
“What is it?”
Her myopic gaze lowered to the grass. “Well . . . it’s about Tilda.”
“What about her?”
When the bashful Siren continued staring at the grass, Ruth nudged her aside. “Tilda sent a group text to all the Sirens,” Ruth informed him. Her wrinkles merged into an expression of intense scrutiny. “She drove by your house last night. She swears you were putting the moves on Jada in your driveway. Is it true?”
Philip muffled a groan. He didn’t need Tilda and her twitchy texting finger advertising his novice attempt at romance around town. Twelve hours later, he still wasn’t sure if Jada was on board with the idea. He’d tested the waters at daybreak by sending a good morning text. In a real dipshit move, he’d added a row of purple heart emoticons. Then he’d stared at his phone with heat scalding his scalp as he wished for a “Delete” button.
Jada didn’t reply.
Twenty minutes later, desperation compelled him to send a less adolescent text—minus emoticons—stating he hoped to see her again soon. As Fancy trailed cereal across the kitchen and they debated the merits of wearing a pink tutu and ballerina slippers to school, he invented a dozen reasons why Jada, who always replied promptly, was taking so long.
He never received a response to the second text either.
Snapping out of the reverie, he regarded the women. “Let me get this straight. You dragged me over here this morning to pick through my private life?”
“As if there’s much to pick through,” Ruth grumbled. When he began to object, she waved him into silence. “Get real, son. You’re no more adventurous than a turtle hiding in its shell. Roosting alone in your house, burying yourself in work. If you laid the moves on Jada, well, I say ‘Go get her, tiger.’ You both need some excitement.”
“And you need advice,” Frances said. The comment sent horror marching across his features, and she smiled like a benevolent queen. “Don’t waste this opportunity, Philip. Spare ten minutes from your schedule to have coffee with me and Penelope. We only want to help.”
Ruth kicked a broken wedge of brick, pinging it against the wall. “What about me? Aren’t I coming inside for coffee?”
“Would you mind if you didn’t?” Frances asked sweetly. “I’m sure you understand. This conversation appears more difficult for Philip than I’d anticipated. It’s best if you leave.”
“Yeah, Ruth,” Philip put in. “You won’t be missing much. I’m having a quick cup of coffee and skipping the heart-to-heart with your comrades.” He bobbed a thumb
at the wall. “Besides, your work here is done.”
“Fine. I’m leaving.” Ruth stomped across the grass.
After she’d gone, Frances led him inside. Crafty woman that she was, she’d already brewed a pot of coffee and set out a crystal tray of cherry Danish. He had no intention of answering questions, but he wasn’t stupid enough to forgo the good eats.
Grabbing a Danish, he set the ground rules. “I know you both mean well, but I’m not letting you take a magnifying glass to my private life.” He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. “And let Tilda know if she adds me to the gossip chain, I’m done mowing her lawn. She can tackle the chore on her own.”
“Back to whining?” Frances poured coffee into a china cup, handed it off to him. “It’s not like you to spurn our advice.”
“Sure, when it comes to my daughter.” The Sirens had been helping him navigate parenting since Fancy was a newborn. Their intervention was a godsend. “Lend all the advice you want about Fancy. No offense—I don’t want your input on my own life.”
Penelope, quivering by the Danish, lifted her head. “There was another time when you ignored the Sirens’ advice—about Bodi. Do you remember?”
He flinched, stricken by the reminder.
At his reaction, she hurried forward. “I don’t mean to upset you,” she said, her rheumy eyes watering. “Philip, I hope you are planning to woo Jada. Nothing would make me happier. I’ve always thought you were a match made in heaven, even if the celestial lines got crossed along the way and you two lovebirds never discovered you were meant for each other.”
Frances sighed. “Penelope, dear. You’re jumbling your metaphors and confusing him.” She patted his arm. “She’s trying to give you advice once again. You’d be wise to listen.”
Frances’s intervention seemed to give Penelope the courage to continue. In a stronger voice, she said, “Philip, I have an awful suspicion Jada blames you both for Bodi’s death. Give her a better understanding of the troubled girl she befriended and you hastily married. Do that, and your relationship has every chance to blossom.”
The Season of Silver Linings (A Sweet Lake Novel Book 3) Page 10