Prince Charming Can Wait (Ever After)

by Stephanie Rowe

  He couldn't remember the last time he'd lived in a place that anyone would actually classify as a home. Had he ever? The crumbling, battered house of his youth had been a bastion of hell, not a place where people sat around during family dinners laughing about the day's events.

  But that damned hanging basket of flowers by the front door wouldn't stop taunting him. It was so full that it was a good three feet wide, with more flowers than he'd ever seen in one pot. It looked like a house that someone cared about, it really did.

  Grimly, he glanced at the pile on the seat beside him. Two faded black duffel bags, stuffed full of his crap, random items he'd grabbed from his shack that would take away the feminine feel of her home and turn it into a place that a man lived in. He looked at his bags, then back at the quaint cottage. Yeah, like there was a chance those two things could ever co-exist.

  What the hell was he doing?

  He leaned back in his seat, resting his wrists over the steering wheel, his mood becoming increasingly dark. He didn't like the idea of inserting himself into her life, or this little girl's. He'd have to manage it from a distance and keep them protected from him. He had to play a role, but not cross that line. He could do that, right? Just because his clothes were going to claim her house didn't mean he had to.

  But then the front door opened and Emma appeared in the doorway, shading her eyes to inspect his truck.

  Son of a bitch. Instantly, all his heroic keep-his-distance resolutions vanished, replaced by a dark, pulsating sense of raw need and protectiveness.

  Whether he wanted it or not, it was his wife standing in that doorway in her short white cut-offs, a faded blue tank top showcasing arms that needed a little more meat on them, and breasts that barely filled his palm. There was nothing voluptuous about her, nothing bold, or overtly sexy. She was pure casual Maine girl, with a ponytail, flip flops, and a pair of large silver hoops he was guessing had been made by his sister. No make-up. No necklace. No glam.

  Just a woman with no airs or pretense, almost as if she wanted him to see her only as who she was. Ordinary. Plain. Simple.

  Except she wasn't. She was raw emotion. She was burning sensuality. She was pure loyalty to those few who she trusted. She was hope in a dark night. She was light, his light, his anchor in a black ocean that was trying to drag him deeper and deeper into its depths. He wanted her again. He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to sleep with her. He wanted to wake up with her. He wanted to lose himself in her and never come back up for air. Ever. How the hell could he get out of his truck and walk into her life? It was dangerous as hell, for all of them.

  Jesus. He leaned his head back, his fingers tightening around the wheel as she jogged down the steps toward him, the muscles in her long legs visible as she walked over to his truck. A lock of hair was trailing her jaw, and he had a burning urge to reach out and touch it, to wrap it around his fingers and tug gently, guiding her mouth toward his—

  Shit. He couldn't do this.

  Emma grabbed the driver's door and pulled it open. She shot him a smile so friendly that he actually had to catch his breath. "Hi, hubby," she said cheerfully. "Welcome home."

  Hubby. Hubby. The words shot through him like a knife, tearing at his shields. Her endearment was a word he'd never thought he'd hear directed at him, never in his entire cursed life. And he'd never, never thought that it would make him want to be something he wasn't as badly as it did.

  It was too much. He simply wasn't strong enough to play this role and walk away. "I can't do this. I'm sorry, but I can't." He was a shit, he knew he was, but he just couldn't do it. "I can't pretend to be your husband."

  Chapter Eleven

  His wife, apparently, did not care one bit what he could or couldn't do.

  Undaunted by his croaked protest, she hooked her arms over the car door, leaning on her elbows as she swung the door back and forth. "So, I put some blankets on the couch for you," she said, completely ignoring his protest. Her voice was cheerful, but he saw the wariness in her eyes, the apprehension she was fighting hard to suppress.

  The moment he saw her vulnerability, all his hesitation vanished, replaced by a need to protect her. That was his job. She was his wife. His role was to make sure she was okay. As his tension released, he finally registered the words she'd just said. "The couch?"

  She nodded. "We'll get them put away before Dottie gets here, so she doesn't think we had a spat that left you on the futon. Is that cool?"

  On the couch. She was putting him on the couch. Relief rushed through him, yet at the same time he felt a rising disappointment. Not that he'd expected or wanted to end up in her bed, but he couldn't help the flash of irritation. Fortunately, at least one of them was thinking clearly. "The couch sounds good," he lied. The couch sounded damned bad, actually, which was why he needed to plant his sorry ass on it all night long.

  "I cleared out some space in my closet, but just enough for a couple shirts." She grinned, a sparkle in her eye. "She'll never believe we're actually married if you have as much closet space as I do. I think we should battle over that. Every time you go away, I encroach up on your closet space, and you find your stuff crammed into a smaller and smaller area."

  He stared at her, not quite following her good mood. "What?"

  Her smile faded, and the serious expression returned. "Here's the deal, Harlan. I need you, and Mattie needs you."

  They needed him. He liked the sound of that. Liked it a hell of a lot. He felt like he hadn't brought a whole lot of good into his personal life, but he could deliver here. "I know. That's why I'm here."

  She held up her finger to silence him. "But you also terrify me in a lot of ways."

  He nodded. "That's good. You should be smart." But even as he said it, he couldn't keep the wave of bitterness from washing over him. He didn't want to be the guy who she had to run from or fear. He'd been around people who lived in fear, and he saw it in her. He didn't want her to be that way. He wanted her to walk with confidence, and to throw herself into life without looking over her shoulder.

  She leaned forward, so close he caught a whiff of fresh soap, and he realized she'd just finished showering. Her hair was still damp around the nape of her neck. His groin clenched at the sudden image of her in the shower, and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

  "You terrify me because I'm afraid of marriage, and relationships with men," she said with the candor he was getting used to expecting from her. "I don't trust my judgment when it comes to that. But I do trust my perceptiveness when it comes to friends, so if we keep our relationship platonic, then we're both good." She smiled. "I'll even keep my promise to cry for you if you die." She held out her hand. "Deal? Friends?"

  He stared blankly at her extended hand. She wanted him to make an agreement to stay friends, and only friends, with her? He wanted to grab her, yank her into his lap, and show her how impossible that idea was. But at the same time, he knew she was right. It was the only safe path. Grimly, a part of him bellowing in protest while he did it, he reached out and wrapped her hand in his, intending to agree.

  But the moment he enveloped her hand in his, all his good intentions vanished. There was no chance. "Sorry, Emma, but I can't promise that."

  Apprehension flickered over her face. "What part? Letting me have more closet space?"

  "No. Keeping it as friends only." He tightened his grip on her and pulled her close. "Each time I see you, each time I catch a whiff of your scent, each time I hear your voice, and each time I see that look of vulnerability on your face, every good intention I have disappears. All I can think about is you as a woman. There's not a single platonic thought in my head when I'm around you."

  Her cheeks turned pink. "Well, Harlan, you're just going to have to do better than that."

  "Better? That was my best line. It didn't work on you?" He knew what she meant, but he wasn't interested in being a good boy and playing along. He was not going to do better at thinking of her as only a friend. There was simply no
way.

  She pulled her hand free. "You're going to have to do better than that at restraining yourself," she clarified, as if he hadn't known exactly what she'd meant in the first place. "You're the one running around saying how dangerous you are, right? So, why are you not stepping back? Or do you not believe your own claims?" she challenged. "Do you think that you're really a good guy who can be the husband every woman dreams of?"

  A cold wave seemed to slam into him. "No," he said. "I don't. Point taken." He raised his right hand. "I swear to look at you and see only a telephone pole. Okay?"

  She started to laugh. "A telephone pole?"

  "It's the most asexual thing I could think of."

  "I don't know," she teased. "It's actually sort of phallic—"

  Heat rushed through him. "Oh, for hell's sake," he muttered, even as he laughed. "You're not helping." He grabbed his two duffel bags off the passenger seat. "Out of my way, woman. I need to take over your space."

  Grinning, she stepped back, and the tension that had been so thick between them was gone. "How about a mud-covered pig? That's asexual."

  "Mud? No way." He slammed the door of his truck shut. "Co-ed naked mud wrestling. You'd look sexy as hell in a string bikini caked in mud. Nope, won't work."

  She led the way back to her cabin, her hips swaying far too seductively as she walked in front of him. "How about a moss-covered rock?"

  He narrowed his eyes at her as she tossed a grin back at him. "Moss? The thick, green, felty kind?"

  She held the door open for him. "Yes, sure—"

  "No, sorry. It's soft. It'd make a great bed to throw you down on." He caught the door and stepped inside the building where he'd made love to her on their wedding night. Every memory of their night together was so vivid, it felt like it had been only hours since he'd made love to her.

  She raised her brows. "How about a piece of cheese?"

  "Cheese?" He eyed her. "That might work. The thought of spraying canned cheese over your body and licking it off isn't all that appealing. Whipped cream would be better."

  She set her hands on her hips. "Licking spray cheese off me? Seriously? Does your brain actually function in any normal pathways or do all thoughts lead to sex?"

  "Normally, I'm pretty focused on catching bad guys and rescuing people." He walked past her into the bedroom and tossed his bag on her bed. Their bed. Because as long as he was faking the real husband bit, it was his bed, too. "But with you around, it's pretty much just sex."

  She paused on the threshold, folding her arms over her chest as she propped her shoulder against the door frame. "Okay, then, how about mothballs? What if you just thought of mothballs whenever you looked at me?"

  "Mothballs?" He couldn't wrap his mind around a single sensual connotation with the smelly, tan spheres. "Mothballs, it is. I promise to see you only as a giant mothball." He walked over to the closet and pulled it open. The small wardrobe was packed with more women's clothing than he thought could have fit in that space. "Where's my space?"

  "On the floor."

  He looked down and saw an empty shoebox in the left corner, surrounded by high heels, sandals, flip flops, sneakers and two pairs of hiking books. "The shoebox? That's what I get?"

  "Yep." There was definite mirth in her voice.

  Harlan looked over at her, and he couldn't suppress his own grin. "You're trouble, aren't you?"

  "See, that's the difference," she said, her smile fading. "Knowing me, if we were really married, I'd probably yank all my clothes out of the closet so you could have the whole thing. Since we're not, you get a shoebox. I can claim my personal space from platonic friends, just not men that I—" Her voice faded.

  "Men that you what?"

  She cleared her throat. "Sorry, I was just thinking of mothballs for a second."

  He grinned, allowing her the privacy. Hell knew, his own thoughts weren't appropriate for sharing when he looked at her. "You want us to live together as platonic friends?" Just saying the words made him cranky, but at the same time, he didn't like the image she'd presented of how she subordinated her own needs when in a relationship. When put that way, what the hell else could he say? "All I want from you is the shoebox," he said roughly. He unzipped his bag and tossed a pile of boxers and socks into the shoebox. "And if we were really married, you should still only give me the shoebox. Keep your space, Emma. Always."

  Her shoulders seemed to relax, and a real smile lit her face. "How can you say you're such a bad guy when you say things like that and mean it?"

  He held up his hand to cut her off. "Don't fool yourself, Em. You lied to yourself about Preston. Don't make the same mistake with me." He really didn't need her trying to make him into the good guy when being in her presence was tempting him almost beyond what he could endure.

  He pulled open a dresser drawer as she fell silent. Staring at him was a pile of lace underwear and bras that made his entire body ignite. No thongs. Nothing risqué. Just classy and elegant, and nothing like the cotton underwear packed in beside it, which is what she'd been wearing the night they'd made love.

  He hooked his finger around one of the lace numbers and held it up. "You don't wear these anymore?"

  Her cheeks burned bright red, but she lifted her chin. "It's none of your business what I wear."

  "You're right." Suddenly annoyed, he tossed the underwear back in the drawer, not sure whether he was more irritated at the idea that she'd worn that underwear for another man, or the fact that she had shut down her sexuality to the point where she tried to hide the fact that she was a woman. He braced his forearm in the middle of the drawer and shoved all the contents to the side, making enough room for the few tee shirts he'd brought with him.

  It took him about three minutes to make space for the rest of his clothes. He tossed a couple pairs of his shoes in the corner, unloaded his shaving kit into the cramped space in the bathroom, and shoved a six-pack of beer and several frozen pizzas into the fridge. A couple sports magazines on the coffee table, a baseball hat and his denim jacket on a hook by the door, and he was done.

  Emma was sitting on the couch by the time he stood back, surveying his claim to her home. "You unpack like a man used to being on the move all the time," she observed.

  He glanced at her. "What does that mean?"

  "You didn't care where anything went. You just unloaded it wherever you could fit it. Your stuff is here, but you could walk out the door without it and be gone forever." She cocked her head. "Is your own house like that? Transitional?"

  "It's a place to crash," he said, leaning back against the kitchen counter.

  Now that he was done unpacking, the smallness of her house seemed to close in. He became so aware of the bedroom only a couple feet away, of the fact that the kitchen counter he was leaning on was only ten feet from her. They were too damned close to each other, and there was nowhere to retreat.

  Shifting restlessly, he looked around for a distraction, noticing for the first time all the artwork on the walls. Many nature scenes, all of it framed. Beautiful watercolors that seemed to bring the beauty and purity of nature into the room. "You did those?"

  She glanced at them. "Yes. I rotate them in and out depending on my mood. The rest are in my studio." She nodded at the door on the other side of the living room. "That's where Mattie will live. I'm thinking of having Jackson Reed build me a studio off the kitchen instead. I always dreamed of having one with huge windows and lots of natural light."

  Something inside Harlan shifted at the expression on Emma's face. She was sharing a dream with him, he realized. Something that made her truly happy and gave her peace. He'd never seen that expression before, not on anyone. It was pure tranquility and beauty, and he had to look away from it, feeling like he was intruding in a place he didn't belong. Invading her underwear drawer had not been a problem, but her dreams were different. They were beyond where he should tread.

  Shit. How was he going to fake being married to her tomorrow? How was he going to look Dot
tie McPhee in the eye and say he was going to be around to take care of this woman, and that little girl? He couldn't make those promises. He just couldn't.

  "I'm leaving," he reminded her. "As soon as my hip is good enough to deal with my job, I'm gone." He knew it wouldn't be long. It still locked up occasionally, but it was healing fast.

  Emma's expression changed, growing harder. "I know."

  "I need to be honest with Dottie about that. I can't promise to be around and raise that kid. I can't lie about that. My job takes me away."

  She pressed her lips together. "I know." There was relief in her eyes. "That's the way it needs to be."

  "Yeah."

  Awkward silence fell. What did he say to her? He shifted restlessly, wanting to get away from the enclosed space, from implied promises, from the traps of domesticity—

  "Emma!"

  They both jumped as the front door swung open and Clare walked in, wearing jeans and a brightly colored blouse. The moment she saw Harlan, she stopped in her tracks, staring at him open-mouthed.

  He shrugged. "Not dead."

  "Oh, my God!" To his shock, Clare rushed at him, and threw her arms around him in a huge hug. "You're alive! We thought you were dead."

  Harlan hugged her awkwardly, not sure how to handle her outburst. He didn't know her well enough to get that kind of greeting. "Yeah, well, I'm not."

  She pulled back. "Does Astrid know?"

  He grimaced. "No. I haven't been to see her." He actually had intended to slip in and out of town without anyone knowing. A quick divorce with Emma and then gone, which was clearly not happening.

  "Oh, wow. She is going to kick your butt when you show up at the barbeque tonight," Clare announced cheerfully, clearly delighted by the idea.