by Beth Ciotta
Adam followed although his mind lingered with Ivy. Maybe she was different. Maybe she was down-to-earth and looking for a long-term relationship. Something Adam had been craving for a long while. No harm in introducing himself. Near as he could tell she was single. No ring. Maybe she’d be up for a late-night breakfast.
An hour and a few games later, Adam drifted back to the Rockin’ R stage while Nash hit the john. The band was on break. He didn’t see Ivy, but he spied Peppy getting up from Vince and Daisy’s table and moving toward the bar. Trying to look nonchalant, he ordered two Buds just as Peppy stepped up and ordered three drinks, one being a Fuzzy Navel that had to be for Daisy. Nash’s grandma’s taste for wacky cocktails was town renowned.
“Great music,” Adam said.
Peppy glanced his way. She looked like she wanted to argue, but instead said, “Thanks.”
“Not a local band.”
“No,” she said. “The group’s based in Pixley. We’re booked here for the next four Fridays, though.”
She turned her attention back to Clive who slid her the first of three drinks. Nash was right. Peppy was cute. Petite in height and build. Impish features. Dark brown hair cut in short wispy layers. Kind of a boyish cut but on her it looked … cute. If she had curves, he couldn’t tell, but her bone structure was slight and from what he could see she had nice legs.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she said.
Busted. Adam met her amber gaze, saw a flicker of amusement and a slight flush of red to her freckled cheeks. At least she wasn’t pissed. He smiled. “Let me buy your drinks.”
“Thanks, but I’m good.” She slid Clive some cash.
“So your lead singer,” Adam said.
“What about her?”
“Is she single?”
Peppy’s expression turned from amused to annoyed. “What are you, in fifth grade?” She managed the three drinks like a pro, smirked at Adam. “Ask her yourself.”
“Smooth,” Clive said to Adam after Peppy hustled away.
Adam closed his eyes and cursed. He hadn’t meant to hurt Peppy’s feelings. In fact, he’d meant to go against type and to flirt with her instead, but then he’d gotten flustered. That was a first.
Ivy drifted into view, beer bottle in hand, laughing and flirting with the three men surrounding her. Peppy was sipping cola through a straw and entertaining two seniors. If Daisy and her granddad weren’t there, would she be sitting alone in a corner, biding her time until the next set while her hot bandmates enjoyed all the attention?
Nash breezed in and nodded toward Ivy. “Looks like Bill Tully and friends beat you to the punch.”
Adam dragged a hand through his hair, wondering if he was ever going to meet the girl of his dreams. “I’m outta here for the night.”
“Something I said?”
“No.” Adam gave Peppy a parting glance then waved to Nash. “Something I said.”
ELEVEN
Saturday morning dawned and Sam couldn’t decide if it was a new day or a continuation of the day before. He blinked into the hazy morning, senses fuzzy. He’d drifted off at some point during the night, but he was fairly certain he’d never reached REM. No dreaming. Just a barrage of memories and projections. Life before with Paula. Life ahead with Harper. A tornado of emotions, but mostly a sense of anticipation.
Worry had contributed to his insomnia, as well. Braced for an emergency text, he’d checked his phone several times throughout the night. Even though Harper had seemed calm and stable when he’d driven her home, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t suffer a bout of panic at any given moment. That spa shooting preyed on her heart and mind and no doubt haunted her dreams. Sam was perplexed by the severity of her reaction to the attack since she hadn’t actually witnessed the horror. Although she had heard the shots, the screams. Her imagination had probably taken it from there, painting a bloody picture and cranking the terror up a notch. Plus there’d been the news reports, the graphic descriptions, and a leaked crime-scene photo. Sam had easily researched the incident on the Internet. A definite dose of ugly.
Regardless, Harper had made it through the night without reaching out to Sam. He was glad and, also, oddly disappointed. It was nice to be needed.
He glanced at his bedside clock. Seven A.M. Was she awake? Showering? Exercising? Surfing the Net or the television? He’d asked her to lay off the hard news, specifically bad news. Being informed was one thing. Obsessing another. She’d noted his logic, but was she following his advice?
Sam stared up at the ceiling, obsessing in his own right, aching for a bedmate. Specifically Harper. They’d never slept together through the night. He looked forward to that as much as their next round of lovemaking. Although he’d put the kibosh on sex until after they’d married. Part of his strategic plan—one that focused on emotional rather than physical intimacy. At least it sounded good in theory.
Sporting morning wood and a dull headache, Sam forced his thoughts away from his future wife and focused on how he was going to make that future happen. Time was of the essence and he’d yet to broach the subject of marriage with the kids. He was still waging the best campaign. Since Ben and Mina spent every other weekend with their maternal grandparents, Sam would have these next two days to get his act together. Two days to sort through details of his alliance with Harper. Two days to strengthen their bond and to lay groundwork with his family. Two days to figure out the best way to break the news to Ben and Mina.
Suddenly a tour of duty sounded like a cakewalk compared to tackling this next phase of his life.
“Pull it together, McCloud.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed just as his bedroom door flew open and a little girl skidded into his room.
“Da-deeeee!”
Mina’s high-pitched screech would have tweaked his concern, except she didn’t look scared or hurt or upset. She looked pissed. Sam regarded his tangle-haired, red-faced daughter with a raised brow and strained patience. She’d been at war with her brother for more than two weeks. “What did Ben do now?”
“He won’t let me flip the pancakes.”
“What pancakes?”
“The pancakes we’re making for breakfast.”
Sam blinked. What the …
Adrenaline spiking, he stabbed his legs into his sweatpants. Since Paula had died, he’d taken to sleeping in boxers and a tee, always at the ready should the kids cry out in the middle of the night, always decent should they burst into his room without knocking which they almost always did. He nabbed his phone with one hand then scooped up Mina—ratty teddy bear and all. “You’re not supposed to use the stove without me being there.”
Two weeks before, there’d been an incident when Mina had taken it upon herself to roast a marshmallow over the gas burner, and not long before that she’d fritzed the microwave by nuking soup in the fricking can. Ben had more kitchen sense, but his mind often wandered. “Dammit, honey.”
“You said a bad word.”
“I know. I’m sorry. But I wish you would have asked me first.”
She scrunched up her impish face. “We wanted to surprise you.”
They’d surprised him all right. They’d somehow gotten past his room and down the stairs without rousing his attention. Even when sleeping Sam was attuned to every creak in the floorboards, every footfall on the steps. Whispers, murmurs, sighs, coughs, sneezes, cries …
Sam descended the carpeted stairway with his young daughter on his hip. His pulse settled as he hit the first floor—no sight or smell of smoke or fire. Concern gave way to curiosity as he cleared the kitchen and spied his son expertly shifting a fat golden-brown pancake from skillet to platter.
Short and slight for his age, Ben peered over his scrawny shoulder and glared at his sister. “You’re such a baby, Mina. We were supposed to spring the surprise together.”
“I’m not a baby,” Mina blasted, clutching her teddy bear tighter.
“Are so.”
“Am not.�
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“You tattled to Dad just cuz I wouldn’t let you cook. You’re not allowed to cook.”
“Neither are you,” Sam reminded his son. “Not unsupervised.”
Ben turned back to the skillet, turned off the burner. “I was careful,” he said in a quiet voice.
Since Ben typically played by the rules, Sam was doubly intrigued. We wanted to surprise you. Setting Mina to the floor, Sam marveled that he’d been oblivious to the early-morning activity. How could he have been so distracted, so immersed in his own thoughts? Either Ben and Mina had been quiet as mice or Sam was really off his game. The counter was a cluttered mess of bowls, measuring cups, a quart of milk, and a box of Bisquick. In contrast the kitchen table was neat as a pin, three places set with a small vase of wildflowers in the center. His nose twitched and he glanced to the coffee maker. Sludge-black java dripped into the glass carafe.
“Can I flip a pancake now?” Mina asked.
“All done,” Ben said as he set the spatula aside. “You get the juice.”
“And the syrup!” Looking excited now, Mina hustled to the fridge.
Head spinning, Sam eyed his son as he set the heaping platter on the table then doubled back for a small basket of toast. The pancakes looked fluffy and delicious. Ben had never had a head for sports or mechanics, but he remembered everything Sam had ever taught him in the kitchen and devoured any game, show, or book in the fantasy realm. The boy, God love him, had inherited Paula’s domestic and whimsical qualities. He was also painfully shy.
Mina, who wasn’t the least bit timid, set a carton of orange juice on the table then raided the pantry for the maple syrup. They’d cooked … on their own. Set the table … on their own. Working as a team to prove … what? Suspicious, Sam helped himself to a mug of what looked like espresso. “Who taught you to make coffee?” he asked his son.
“Bridgett.”
One of the three sitters Sam relied on. Especially in the summer when the kids were out of school and Sam was up to his eyeballs in carpentry work. Bridgett had been the sitter-on-duty while Sam had attended the Cupcake Lover meeting.
Sam sipped his coffee and smothered a grimace. Yup. Sludge. Either Ben had added too little water or too many grounds or Bridgett couldn’t make coffee worth jack. Sam kept that speculation to himself. He also squelched the scolding crowding his tongue regarding the stove. Something about the way Ben’s shoulders were squared. A determination and confidence that Sam rarely saw in his boy. “What’s the occasion?” he asked as they all three took a seat.
“We’re grown-up now,” Mina said.
“Self-sufficient,” Ben said.
Sam raised a brow.
“We even packed our bags for the weekend,” Ben added. “And don’t worry about this mess. We’ll clean it up.” He narrowed his eyes on his little sister. “Right, Mina?”
“Yup.”
“The word is yes,” Sam corrected, then, “You’re willing to help your brother with the dishes?”
“Yup. I mean, yes. Sir.”
Sam eyed them both. “You two in cahoots? What’s going on?”
“What’s cahoots?” Mina asked.
“Bridgett said you won’t get married, because you don’t trust anyone to take care of us,” Ben blurted, eyes glued on his plate.
Sam fumbled his fork. “She told you that?”
“No. She told Rudy.”
Bridgett’s boyfriend. “Rudy was here?”
“They were talking on the phone,” Mina said as she chewed.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, honey.” Sam didn’t appreciate knowing he’d been the subject of gossip in his own home. Especially given what Ben and Mina had overheard. Regardless, he strove for casual as he nabbed a piece of toast. “It’s not polite to listen in on people’s conversations,” he told them both.
“We weren’t listening on purpose,” Mina said. “She was talking really loud.”
“Rudy was mad because she spends so much time babysitting,” Ben said. “She’s going to quit, but you don’t have to find someone new. I can take care of Mina.”
Mina nodded. “And I’ll make sure Ben does his homework. We don’t want you to be a lonely old man, Daddy.”
Oh, hell, no. What else had Bridgett said? “Mina, honey, I’m not—”
“We were talking. Mina and me,” Ben interrupted, “and we decided we’re too old for sitters.”
“You don’t have to trust someone to take care of us,” Mina said. “We can take care of ourselves.” She poured more syrup over her already soggy pancakes. “Now you can marry any ol’ person.”
“We vote for Harper,” Ben said.
Talk about being blindsided. Sam sipped sludge, giving his stunned brain a fortifying jolt. Of all the women in Sugar Creek. “Why Harper?”
Mina beamed. “She likes purple.”
“She’s kind of cool.”
“She makes good cupcakes.”
“We could live in that rad house.”
“She knows Cinderella.”
Sam assumed his daughter was referring to an actress. One of Harper’s clients or a celebrity acquaintance. He eyed his son who still looked uncharacteristically driven. “Anything else?”
Ben’s shy gaze skipped to Sam and then back to his pancakes. “She’s lonely, too.”
* * *
The oven timer dinged in tandem with Harper’s phone. She glanced back and forth from the vintage chrome and porcelain stove to her ultramodern android then decided to multitask. She snatched her phone from the counter while opening the oven door, poking a toothpick in one of the aromatic cupcakes—done!—then glancing at the text. What?
MINA WANTS THE BUTTERFLY ROOM.
Sam’s text shocked Harper to her sneakered toes. She assumed two things. He’d told the kids about their impending marriage and he’d decided they’d move in here at the farm. Rocky had decorated the third bedroom with a butterfly theme. Mina was claiming that whimsical room as her own.
“Holy…”
Heart thudding, Harper donned oven mitts then transferred two muffin pans from the heated oven to a cooling rack on the counter. Although she’d spent last night and this morning readjusting her mind-set and rethinking her career plan, Sam was in full action mode. Researching legalities, prebooking a Vegas marriage license, breaking the news to his kids, deciding where they would live. Alleviating stress and handling complications with speed and apparent ease. Harper felt grateful and resentful at the same time. Taking control and solving problems was her drug of choice. An addiction that kept her soaring above the dark waters of her past. An addiction that enabled her to disconnect from her true self, a person who preferred rose-colored glasses to battle gear. A woman who’d unwittingly contributed to two deaths and multiple heartbreaks because she’d given in, given up, and given over.
No one was going to die if she botched this marriage, but hearts were definitely at stake, especially where Ben and Mina were concerned.
Harper was so flustered that she texted while wearing the mitts which resulted in gibberish that garnered a Daisy-like response from Sam.
????
Blood roaring in her ears, Harper connected verbally. “You told the kids?”
“They told me.”
“What does that mean?”
“They don’t want me to be a ‘lonely old man.’ Declared themselves self-sufficient then gave me permission to marry ‘any ol’ person,’ although they voted for you.”
Harper palmed her forehead. “Why me?”
“You know superheroes and Cinderella.”
“Oh. Well, I do. Sort of.”
“Hard to deny them when they plied me with pancakes,” Sam went on, sounding amused. “But I did slow their horses.”
“Meaning?”
“I fessed up to thinking you’re cool, too, and said you were definitely a contender.”
Harper rolled her eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
“Just planting more seeds so the actual marriage doesn’t come
out of the blue.”
She flashed on their lunch at the Shack. The way Sam had cozied up. The things Luke had overheard. Surely Luke had said something to Rae, who probably said something to Rocky or Chloe. That particular seed was no doubt growing like a weed. Now the kids would say something to a cousin or an aunt or an uncle or a friend. Within twenty-four hours everyone in Sugar Creek would be whispering about the town’s most unlikely couple. “I guess that makes sense.” Harper smiled a little, knowing she’d been preapproved by Sam’s kids. They thought she was cool?
“Are we still on for this afternoon?”
Sam had promised a lesson in self-defense. Though she knew his intentions were good, once again it put him in the position of authority. She hated feeling ineffectual and clueless. Maybe she’d search YouTube for an instructional video and bone up on some self-defense tips before Sam arrived.
“Harper?”
“What? I mean, yes. Sorry. Distracted.” She tested the cupcakes for coolness. “Are you bringing Ben and Mina?”
“Just dropped them at their grandparents for the weekend.”
“That’s right. You told me. Right. Great. So you’re free for the night.” Frustrated, Harper jumped on an opportunity to take charge. “Bring a bag. You’re staying over.”
“You’re inviting me to spend the night? All night?”
“We might as well get our feet wet.”
“No sex.”
“Right. Whatever. We’ll”—ugh—“talk. I have a say in this relationship, too, you know.”
“Of course you do. I’ll sleep in a guest room.”
“Are we going to sleep together once we’re married?”
“Yes.”
One word loaded with a world of innuendo. Harper fought his machismo charisma for all she was worth. “Then we’ll sleep together tonight,” she said, vying for control.
“Think you can lie next to me and keep your hands to yourself?”