by Beth Ciotta
“I … never … thirteen … fourteen … claimed to be … fifteen … a good influence.”
“An influence nonetheless.”
Her expression relaxed, her shoulders slumped. She fell back against the cushions with a ragged sigh. Her brow was damp, but her breathing had evened.
“Better?” Sam asked as she pulled her fingers from his.
She massaged her chest, nodded. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Her cheeks burned red and she averted her gaze.
Sam rose and sat beside her, his thoughts whirling. He’d never known Harper to be embarrassed. He’d never seen her panic. Last winter she’d flipped her car on icy roads and seconds later she’d been texting a client, blasting Sam when he’d chucked her phone before pulling her out of the overturned car. She was always in control, always controlling. Seeing her in a tailspin had shaken Sam in a new and perplexing way.
Looking wiped, Harper pushed her bountiful hair off her flushed face—gorgeous, even when distressed—and twisted the wavy mass into a messy knot. “Sorry I bothered you,” she said, staring at the television and massaging her chest.
“Glad to help.” Sam pulled his phone from a hip holster. “I should call the CLs. Let them know you’re okay. They were worried when you didn’t show and then I ran out.”
She slid him a look. “I don’t suppose you could lie—”
“How’s a plumbing emergency sound?”
She smiled then—a grateful, albeit shaky smile.
Sam’s heart kicked. Yeah, boy, that was—in Daisy’s words—wonky. He focused on his cell, dialed Rocky. “Yeah. Sorry to interrupt. Harper’s fine. Plumbing emergency.”
“Was anything ruined?” Rocky asked.
His cousin ran an interior decorating business. While Sam had been tackling various carpentry and electrical challenges on this old house, Rocky had been purchasing retro furnishings and redecorating every room. She’d been at it for months. Not because she was slow or inept, but because Harper was so damned finicky. “Minimal flooding in the kitchen,” Sam lied. “Nothing that a mop and a new coupler won’t fix.”
“Guess you two won’t be making the meeting.”
He glanced at Harper who was doing her best to look composed. And failing. “No.”
“We’ll fill you in later then,” Rocky said with a secret smile in her voice. “Have a good night, Sam.”
Sam disconnected, cursing the day he’d let it slip to Rocky that he had the hots for Harper. Knowing Sam had been struggling since Paula’s death, his cousin had encouraged him to pursue a no-strings-attached fling. He’d begged off, saying Harper wasn’t mother material and he couldn’t afford a casual affair. He’d yet to confess to Rocky that he’d folded, but he suspected she knew. After tonight’s Kick-in-the-Pants analogy, he suspected Rae also had a clue. Or at least thought Harper and Sam would make a good match, although God knew why.
“Thanks for keeping this quiet,” Harper said as she pushed to her feet. “I’d be even more grateful if you’d forget this ever happened.”
Sam knew that tone. He knew that cocky stance. He was being dismissed.
Like hell.
She’d cited anxiety as the source of her problem, so she must’ve had a panic attack before. She knew enough to recognize the symptoms. Sam was seeing another side of Harper, a vulnerable, fragile side that caused him to dig in. He was curious. He was also intrigued that she’d tuned in to CNN—hard news—when her news of choice was fluff. Entertainment Tonight. Hollywood Access. Yet her gaze kept gravitating to the graphic content on the screen. It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. Had she seen something that had triggered a personal panic button?
Sam nabbed the remote, thumbed off, then relaxed against the cushions of the vintage daybed sofa—just one of the treasures Rocky had snagged in her 1940s antiquing spree. “What prompted the attack?”
Harper turned to face him, crossing her arms, and narrowing her eyes. “Don’t you need to be somewhere? Like home? With Ben and Mina?”
“Hired a sitter till nine. Cupcake Lover meeting, remember?”
“Then you should be there.”
“How can I fix your plumbing emergency if I’m there?”
“You’re a pain in my ass, McCloud.”
“Ditto. What prompted the attack? Something on the news?”
“What? No.”
“Did you see Mary?”
“I’ve told you before, I don’t believe in apparitions. I believe in restless spirits.”
“The term you used before was kindred spirits.”
“That, too.”
“You intimated you and Mary Rothwell are kindred spirits,” Sam said. “Meaning you have something in common. Like what?” In the past, he’d steered clear of the subject, half convinced Harper was a New Age flake, the kind who put stock in ghost hunters and psychics. He’d assumed she was enamored with the romantic slant of the Rothwell legend—most women were.
“I didn’t panic because of anything having to do with Mary,” Harper said by way of an answer.
Instead of working that bone, he explored elsewhere. “Someone try to break in?” It wasn’t the first time Sam had had reservations about a woman living alone in this secluded patch of woods. Not to mention, Harper owned a tempting collection of electronics. Although her decorating taste leaned toward vintage, she’d stocked several rooms with state-of-the-art audio/visual components. She’d even had her bedroom enlarged and augmented so that it doubled as a high-tech office.
“Nothing like that,” she said.
“Then what?”
Harper hugged herself, worked her jaw. Her right eye ticked, and Sam warned himself to tread lightly. The last thing he wanted was to incite another attack. His death glare never worked on Harper so he utilized patience—his secret weapon.
Five seconds and one annoyed huff later, she broke. “I was getting ready for the CL meeting,” she said. “Then I got a text, backed up by an e-mail.”
“From?”
“My firm. I called but I was routed to a freaking assistant who recited some scripted bull.” She glanced away, rocked back and forth on her three-inch pumps.
Sam had a thing for Harper’s vast collection of sexy footwear. He wouldn’t call it a fetish, but close. Nads tightening, he tore his gaze from her stylish heels and shapely calves. Locking on her face didn’t ease his untimely arousal, but it did help him focus.
“I’ve been dismissed,” she blurted. “Fired! Services no longer required! Two fricking weeks’ notice. Severance. Then poof! Gone!”
There are worse things, Sam thought. Although maybe not for Harper. The woman was an overzealous workaholic. Always on the phone. Always plugged in to one or another media outlet via her phone, laptop, television …
“Do you know what this means?”
Was that a trick question? “You’re out of work.”
“I’ll be deported!”
Well, hell. Sam shifted, bothered by the notion as well as Harper’s distress.
“I’m a Canadian citizen. For the last few years I’ve been in this country, living and working compliments of an L visa. A three-year visa that expires in two weeks!”
Instead of rocking, she was pacing now. Sam kept his tone even, his posture relaxed, hoping to offset Harper’s intensifying agitation. “What’s an L visa?”
“It’s when a U.S. employer transfers a manager or an executive from an affiliated Canadian office to one of its U.S. offices. Spin Twin Cities PR is based in Toronto and L.A. I’ve been with the firm for years. I never thought … I always assumed…” She palmed her chest and rubbed. “I can’t go back … I can’t…” She dropped into a chair and massaged her chest. “Damn.”
Christ.
Sam leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees. “There must be another way. Another work visa—”
“There’s not. Oh, God.” Harper flopped forward, head between her knees. “Give me a minute,” she said in a tight voice. “I’v
e got this. One. Two…”
Sam pushed off the sofa, confused as to the crux of her anxiety. He’d thought it was because she’d lost her job. But she seemed more upset about being deported. Why? With a shark reputation like hers, surely she could secure work at another top Canadian firm.
He gripped her arms and pulled her to her feet, chest tight when he noticed her shimmering eyes. What the hell had reduced hard-ass, badass Harper Day to tears?
Instead of breaking into sobs, she blindsided him with a kiss. A punishing kiss. A frenzied clashing of lips and tongue. One hand tangled in his hair while the other wrestled with the buttons of his fly. She palmed the bulge in his boxers.
Jesus.
It was always like this. Down and dirty. Fast and furious. Sex, just sex. Usually Sam was game, but this time emotions factored in. Harper was a knotted mess and Sam was barely coherent. Her kisses alone fried his logic.
She tugged at his waistband and his conscience kicked.
Sam took control, shifting her hand to his neck, holding her close, deepening the kiss, and tempering the frenzy. His heart pounded against his chest. His blood cooled to a simmer as he had a mental man-to-man with the dude down south.
Nuns and puppies. Miss Kitty and Astro Boy.
Harper trembled in his arms, melted into the kiss, and Sam felt a shift in his universe.
A heartbeat later, she broke away, resting her head on his shoulder. “Was that a no?”
Sam struggled to right his world. “We’re not going to muddy this with sex. We’re going to talk.”
She tensed and pushed away.
Sam caught her hand, held her gaze. “Why can’t you go back to Canada, Harper?”
Whatever calm she’d gleaned from his kiss threatened to snap. But the words flowed. “Because I’d never have a moment’s peace. He … I…” She trailed off, switched gears. “I’m needed here,” she rushed on in a brittle voice. “My work is here. People are counting on me. Fifteen celebrity clients in L.A. The Cupcake Lovers and associated charities. I promised Daisy I’d orchestrate a televised special to raise awareness. And Rae … I promised I’d keep the paparazzi off her ass. I gave my word. I refuse to bail.”
Which is exactly what he’d been in the midst of doing with the CLs. It was the first time the typically self-absorbed publicist had trumped Sam in decency. Poleaxed, he pulled Harper against his body, stroking her back as she battled for composure. Since she was opposed to any nonsexual type of embrace, this was another “intimate” first.
What the frick?
They’d never been emotionally close. Harper had made sure of it. She’d even ended their affair. Yet tonight they’d connected on a new level. He couldn’t fathom the reason or catalyst, unless … “You mentioned a man.”
She tensed.
“‘I’d never know a moment’s peace. He…’ He, who? An abusive ex? A stalker?” Given her beauty and preference for kink, he could easily imagine Harper falling prey to a dangerous man.
“No. Nothing like that. I just … I let down a lot of people back home. Including myself. There’s nothing there for me anymore. My work is here. People depend on me. I can’t fix things if I can’t fix things.”
He had no idea what that meant. She’d been rambling against his shoulder, avoiding eye contact. But he felt her tension and sensed she wasn’t being entirely truthful. Quick on her publicist feet, she kept spinning the conversation away from what Sam sensed was a deeply troubling issue. She was proud or stubborn or scared. Maybe all three. One thing was certain, she was adamant about not abandoning those she deemed in need.
“There are lots of good women, Sam, but, like great cupcakes, not all of them are sugary sweet.”
He looked past his own narrow mind and put himself in Harper’s clients’ shoes. Knowing you could count on someone to save your bacon was a bona fide blessing. He remembered how Harper had sent cupcakes home for his kids, how she’d drawn Ben out of his shell by telling him about the superheroes she’d represented at Comic Con, the way she’d soothed Mina’s ruffled boa feathers when the kids had made fun of her obsession with tiaras. He flashed on the time she’d taken control when the paparazzi had swarmed Rae. Harper was bossy and arrogant, always in control.
But somehow always saving the day.
“Your perfect cupcake could be the one with kick. And if you sink in deep enough, long enough, maybe you’ll taste the sweet among the spice.”
Sam sorted through scattered thoughts as Harper vented against his shoulder, cursing her former employer for putting her clients at risk. He didn’t ask how she planned on helping the celebrities on her client list when she’d been canned. He didn’t mention that her devotion to a bunch of narcissistic, kamikaze B-listers and reality stars struck him as over-the-top. Questioning her judgment wouldn’t quell her misery. Offering a possible solution might.
“Marry a U.S. citizen and your spouse can petition for permanent residency.”
“Brilliant, Rambo. With a slight glitch.” She pushed off him now, a trace of her normal snark seeping through the anxiety. “I don’t do relationships. There is no steady someone. No single male friend who would give up his freedom solely as a favor to me. Where do you suggest I find a husband? Match.com? Craigslist?”
“Sugar Creek.”
Harper blinked. “Who—”
“Me.”
She looked at him as if he was crazy, and maybe he was. Hard to grab hold of a sane thought when your head’s spinning. Finding Harper in panic mode, experiencing her vulnerable side—Christ, he hadn’t been aware she had a vulnerable side—had messed with Sam in a major way. That kiss confirmed their intense sexual connection and hinted of something deeper. This moment, he knew four things.
He was sick of waking alone every morning.
Weary of being a single parent.
Done with searching for Paula’s clone.
Most importantly, Ben and Mina liked Harper.
She wasn’t his ideal choice in a wife or mother, but she damn well stirred his blood. She wasn’t perfect but neither was he and how many couples had perfect? Sensing she needed to be saved from someone or something provided a second incentive. Sam was hardwired to rescue and protect—an adrenaline high chased with a shot of contentment.
“By the way,” he added, knowing how her mind worked. “That wasn’t a declaration of love.”
“Thank God.” She was gawking at him, but she’d tempered her breathing. Her mind was racing. He could see that. No secret, they mixed like oil and water. She narrowed her eyes. “What do you get out of it?”
“Aside from hot sex on a regular basis?” Aside from a companion to fill the void in my life? “A mother for Ben and Mina.”
“I don’t want to be a mom.”
“Then go back to Canada or purchase a husband on Craigslist.” Okay. That was harsh. But Harper pushed his buttons. Nothing was ever easy with this woman. Marrying the first time had been a breeze. So perfect. Then again, he and Paula had been head over heels in love.
Harper snatched her phone from the leather-topped, black lacquered coffee table—another Rocky score. She scanned her texts, probably hoping her firm had sent a retraction, but not seeing one. “Bastards.” She massaged her chest, breathed slow and deep.
“Don’t overthink it, Harper. Bottom line, we’ll both benefit. Think of it as a business deal. We can work out details and guidelines later.” He glanced at his watch. As much as he wanted to stay, he needed to go. “The kids—”
“Are waiting.”
“You okay?”
“Hunky-dory.”
They engaged in a stare-down that rocked Sam to his core, amplified by a dose of déjà vu. As if they’d gone this marriage route before—together—which they hadn’t.
The air crackled. That was familiar ground. Intense sexual sparks that often prompted sex. Only this time there was something more. That nagging hint of something deeper.
She didn’t move. Maybe she was waiting for him to take back the m
arriage offer.
He didn’t.
“Think it over,” Sam said as he turned toward the door. “Let me know.”
He walked out into the night, breathed the fresh country air. His whirling thoughts settled the farther he got from the house. His pulse rate doubled. Holy shit. He’d just proposed marriage to the most vexing woman he’d ever met—a woman with kick. Two steps from his pickup truck, his phone pinged—an incoming text from Harper.
YES.
FIVE
Sun streaked through the lacy mint-green curtains of Harper’s bedroom. Those same curtains fluttered a ghostly dance, compliments of the morning breeze blowing through the partially opened panes.
Groggy from a restless night, she kicked aside her rumpled blankets and hugged a pillow while gazing across the room at the two windows facing Fox Lane. According to legend, Mary Rothwell had sat in front of those windows every day, for hours on end, waiting for a glimpse of her husband, Captain Joseph Rothwell. Even though she’d been told he’d gone missing in action, she believed with all her heart he’d find his way home. To her. She’d died. Waiting.
Harper remembered the first time she’d heard that story. A native of Toronto, Canada, she used to pop into the U.S. on breaks from the university. Sometimes she and her schoolmates would drive down to New York City—a weekend of shopping and theater in the Big Apple. Sometimes just over the border to Vermont for a spontaneous ski trip. A few of those trips had landed her in Sugar Creek. She’d heard about the haunted Rothwell Farm from the proprietor of a bed-and-breakfast on her initial visit. The sad, romantic tale had seeped into Harper’s being, and years later when she’d been looking for a vacation home, a place to retreat and rejuvenate far from the chaos of L.A., she’d thought of Sugar Creek. She’d never dreamed the Rothwell Farm would be available, but it was. And—bonus—it had been a steal. She hadn’t cared that it was rundown or that there was a dogged depression associated with the house. This house had history and surely some of the residents’ emotions had seeped into the walls and floorboards over the decades. Maybe the house had never recovered from Mary’s sad tale because no one stayed long enough to imbue the walls and floorboards with happier vibes.