by Harley James
She swiveled to open her door and almost peed herself.
Spencer was standing right there outside her window. He didn’t look happy.
A warm gust of wind swept into the car as he opened her door and leaned his left forearm against the top of it. She held her purse against her body like armor, her heart jack hammering. “Did you follow me?”
His frown deepened. “Did you notice someone tailing you ever since you left your house?”
“Did you notice only stalkers follow a woman who’s never given them the address of her workplace, residence, or her family’s residence?” she fired back, leaning forward to feel under the seat with her fingers.
The socket wrench was still there. Thank Heavens.
It wasn’t very heavy, but if she nailed him right between the eyes, it might buy her some time to re-manuever herself for a better blow. “You need to go. Now.”
“You need to be more aware of your surroundings.” His gaze dropped to her purse, then came back to her face. “Based on what I learned from events surrounding the…bombing last night, I fear you might be in danger.”
She frowned. Yeah. In danger of swooning over that sexy British accent. Check. In danger of remembering his hands and mouth on her body for the rest of her workaholic, spinster life. Double check.
He shouldn’t be here. This was weird and inappropriate. So why was he frowning? Frustrated because she wasn’t taking him seriously? Because she wasn’t as easy of a mark as he’d hoped?
He seemed sincere, but then she sucked at reading men. With Derek, she’d missed all the break-up signs he must have been putting out there.
“Stop trying to be mysterious. It’s annoying.” She sounded peevish, but couldn’t help herself. There was something strange about last night—other than being close to a bomb—that she couldn’t shake. “If you know something, spit it out. I don’t like beating around the bush. I don’t like men stalking me either. It’s creepy as hell.”
He opened his mouth, but seemed to reconsider what he’d been about to say. He took a step back to make room for her to exit the car. She grabbed the wrench and held it against her thigh. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the curtains above her mother’s kitchen sink move.
Frick.
“Look, I appreciate you taking the brunt of the fallout from the bomb last night. You or one of your staff must have driven me home after I hit my head or passed out or something.” She held up her hand to forestall any response because priority one was losing the British dude before her mother and the rest of the pack came outside to interrogate him. “In any case, thanks again, and I’ll be careful. Now, please go home.”
She slipped the wrench into her back jeans pocket as she stood, then attempted to squeeze between him and her open car door, but he didn’t budge. “I wish I was overreacting, Sydney, but I’m not. There are a league of unsavory characters in the city at present, and you’d be an important catch for any of them. They will take note of you once they know what I know.”
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
She squinted at him. “There’s something wrong with you. Do you always talk like this?” It was so odd and old-fashioned and strangely fascinating. Mostly now, though, she was irritated. And worried. She probably only had sixty seconds before that front door opened and Clara came barreling down the sidewalk with a pan of brownies for the new guy.
“You’d be foolish to not heed my warnings.”
She kept her eyes on her parents’ front door, palms sweating though it was only 50 degrees, pitching her tone as cold and off-putting as possible. “Okay, let’s pretend you’re right. Why am I—a small-time auto mechanic with no social life—in danger, and from whom?”
Spencer cleared his throat and put his hands in his dress pants’ pockets. “Well, that’s difficult to explain—”
She cursed, raised her hands, and let them fall heavily. “Why did I even bother? You’re just like so many other guys. Go home and leave me alone.” She slammed her car door, locked it, and pushed by him.
“Sydney—”
“Go. Away!” she yelled over her shoulder, crossing the street.
Of course, he was making it all up. Why had she even humored him? She knew better. “I don’t want your games or your flowers or your cloak-and-dagger enigmas.” Those twenty-seven vases were going to the local children’s hospital. Stat.
She had a business to run and problems to solve. He could play his fake knight in shining armor card with someone who wanted that shit.
Her breath was coming in little gasps as she stepped onto the curb. Please go away please go away. Mom had a yarn ball wreath with a wooden sign proclaiming WELCOME TO ALL on the front door.
No wreath had ever been more sincere.
Please go the hell away! The sidewalk loomed longer than ever. Running would be so undignified.
But when the front door opened like jaws of death, Sydney’s heart free-fell, then rocketed up to her throat, nearly strangling her with its wild pulse.
Later, she would reflect that she’d almost made it inside. And she should have goddamn-well run to the door, undignified or not.
Her tiny mother charged out the door and barreled down the sidewalk, a blinding smile on her face and an overflowing plate of cookies in her capable grasp.
“Mom, wait!”
But Clara-The-Happy-Tornado-Ashby zoomed right on by her daughter.
“Well, hello, handsome! You’re just in time for Sydney Renee’s big birthday lunch!”
Chapter 8
Spencer was keenly aware that he shouldn’t enjoy Sydney’s discomfort so terribly much. Particularly when she was in such fine fettle and in so much danger should Baal discover she had the angel feather.
Not detecting any demon activity in the area, he smiled as Sydney’s mother handed him a plate of cookies and threaded her arm through his. She ushered him up the sidewalk to the small but inviting stoop that led to the Ashby’s front door.
While she continued to chatter animatedly, he glanced behind, actually smiling with teeth this time to catch Sydney scowling and mumbling beneath her breath as she followed them.
Little did she know he had extraordinary hearing, and her ‘opportunistic asshole’ commentary was far more amusing than insulting.
He’d gone about this all wrong.
He generally had more finesse with the fairer sex, but there was something about Sydney that went beyond the enhanced sensory experience she generated for him…
The more she pulled back, the more he was compelled to pursue her.
Especially when he’d seen the feather in her purse last night after bringing her home. That had been both a shock and a stroke of luck.
Clearly his hypothesis about humans not being able to see angel feathers was incorrect. He should have taken the feather then while she was unconscious, but Jinx had shown up, bloody and more serious than he’d ever seen her. They’d left Sydney’s together, and it had taken all night to dispatch the rephaim who were raising hell up and down consumer-dense Market Street.
Luckily, he hadn’t brought the feather into battle because he might have lost it again. Come morning, he’d needed to recover from his injuries, and then this afternoon, he’d debriefed his security team.
It should be a simple matter to take it from her, but he hoped to do it with the least amount of mind wiping possible. Especially since he’d already erased how he’d prevented her escape. Guilt niggled at him, but it wasn’t enough to make him confess to such heavy-handedness. Her safety justified the means.
So then, extracting the feather from her here under her parents’ roof would probably not accomplish his goal of limiting further mind wiping.
Still, he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to see where she’d grown up. To meet the people who’d shaped her, for better or worse. Probably for worse. What family wasn’t an unmitigated calamity?
On the doorstep, Clara blinked up at him with smiling brown eyes. “Do you like cottage pie and farls, youn
g man?”
Sydney squeezed around them, blocking him from advancing into the house. “He’s not staying, mom. He’s a very busy and important man.” Her eyes issued a warning that fired his blood in a different way than she’d intended.
He found himself wanting to stay.
He…who avoided family encounters at all costs.
Clara’s disappointed look had probably contributed to more than one young person’s guilt complex over the years. “A strapping man like you has gotta eat. You might as well stay. I’ll warn Alroy not to pester you with all that infernal NASCAR rabble.”
The garage door suddenly rolled up to reveal a space not for cars, but a lounge area complete with teenagers sprawled on various pieces of furniture and an enormous TV mounted on the wall surrounded by more NASCAR paraphernalia than Spencer had ever seen in one place.
“My damn ears are burning again, Clarabelle. Come here, little woman, and abuse me to my ugly mug.” The large man with fire-red hair, a crooked nose, and snapping blue eyes advanced on the now-giggling Clara.
Spencer couldn’t tear his eyes from the unlikely spectacle of a married couple over fifty falling together in a passionate kiss.
A scrawny teen on one of the couches covered his eyes and made gagging noises. Another one rolled her eyes. One smirked. Two more didn’t even seem to notice, their eyes glued to the TV where colorful cars zoomed around a racetrack at 200 miles per hour.
“Jesus Christ, you guys have to do that shit here?” whined a dark-haired young man with olive skin and peach fuzz on his chin.
Clara turned her face from Alroy’s kisses. “Don’t say ‘shit,’ Mateo. And you know I hate it when you take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Lo siento, mamá,” Mateo replied. “Still, though, get a fuckin’ room.”
The room erupted in a mixture of cheers and jeers when the Goodyear driver pulled ahead of the Mobil 1 car. Spencer’s shoulders relaxed, his lips curving into a smile, his gaze straying from face to face.
The energy in the space was astonishing.
Two older males and nine young adults and teenagers representing at least four different ethnicities were gathered, arguing about future stock car safety features after the previous month’s deadly crash involving the Sprint Cup Series champion.
They’re talking my language, he thought bemusedly.
When was the last time he’d been around a group of people as passionate for NASCAR as he had been…once upon a time?
Never had he ever.
“Who’s your pick for rookie driver to make the biggest splash in the upcoming season?”
Spencer tore his gaze from the life-sized cutout of Dale Earnhardt to face Sydney’s father.
“Dad, can you not deduce from his three-piece suit that he’s probably never watched a race?”
Spencer didn’t spare a glance at Sydney as he answered her father. In the split second before the assembled group responded to his pick, Spencer had the surreal awareness that he’d crossed a threshold he wouldn’t be able to easily re-cross.
All at once, half the teens groaned and shook their heads while the other half whooped and taunted the naysayers. Spencer held very still as Sydney’s father narrowed his gaze at him. After a suspended moment, Alroy extended his hand.
“Here’s to me, and here’s to you. And here’s to love and laughter. I’ll be true as long as you. And not one moment after.” He barked out a laugh as bright and unforgettable as his red hair, while the rest of the clan groaned. The red-haired man offered his hand. “Alroy Ashby. Since you made the right prediction, I hope you’ll stay for Clarabelle’s cottage pie and then re-watch last season’s final race with this band of fools and feckers. You willing to walk on the wild side?”
Sydney’s look of horror sealed the deal.
He’d rather do nothing more.
Chapter 9
What the hell just happened?
Sydney’s feet were rooted to the spot as her dad introduced her stalker to five of her siblings and four of their friends. What was a suit like him doing here, talking to her NASCAR-obsessed family like he was as much of an addict as they were?
It didn’t compute.
They surrounded him like he was a god. Even Dad...who was notoriously untrusting of new people.
Well, she was not going to trust him. In fact, she’d be more on guard for any funny business with him around her family.
Clara took her arm, scooting her inside the house to help Joaquin put the finishing touches on the cake that her brother Omar had baked this morning.
“Ma, you don’t ask the birthday girl to frost her own cake,” Omar said from the table where he was pouring powdered sugar into a bowl. At fourteen, he was the baby of the family, though some days (okay, most days) Sydney thought he was more mature than Malik, the oldest boy who had ten years on him.
“I can’t believe you invited him to stay for my birthday lunch when I very clearly indicated I didn’t want him around. I don’t even know him.” Sydney slammed a cupboard door in case her annoyance wasn’t clear enough in her tone.
Clara raised an eyebrow, getting a spreading spatula for Joaquin. “Your body language by the car was contradicting your words, Sydney. That means something. I need to know what.”
“No, it wasn’t, but even if it was, that’s not your business anymore. I’m an adult for heaven’s sake.”
“Adults don’t slam cabinets like petulant toddlers,” Omar rejoined, dyeing the frosting a turquoise blue. Her favorite.
Sydney supposed throwing a plate at him wasn’t responsible adult behavior either. “You, stop. Wait until she starts dissecting your life.”
Joaquin laughed. “Right, because she’s never done that to anyone besides you.”
Clara closed one of her two ovens with a hip. “Alright, you three. Let’s get the others and eat!”
Lunch dragged on forever with Spencer the epitome of politeness and impeccable manners. It was quite possible he heard four-fifths of their family history, a smile on his face and appropriate responses to the occasional question peppered his way. And by the looks of the spell he was casting on her entire family, she’d have to endure their endless questions about him for weeks afterwards.
What was he after? Billionaires didn’t spend Sunday suppers in middle class dining rooms talking about the trials and triumphs of two struggling immigrants who were determined to love and make room for each unwanted child or troubled teen the good Lord saw fit to put in their path.
Nah, billionaires definitely didn’t do that.
Spencer was too perfect. And look what had happened with perfect Derek. Cultured guys didn’t go for girls like her. Not after they figured out the puzzle of the tomboy-who-likes-cars-for-real. It was as if the idea of her enjoying a typical male occupation lessened their own virility.
But who really knew? She was tired of psychoanalyzing her dating failures.
She could always freeze her eggs. Or adopt. Single mothers were doing that sort of thing all the time now.
On their own timeframe.
“Syd! You need a nap or something? You’ve hardly eaten a bite,” Alroy said with a mouthful of cottage pie.
“It’s my fault.” Joaquin laid his fork down and gazed at Sydney, his dark eyes so bright with shimmering tears she felt them rise up in her own.
The whole room quieted. No silverware clinking on dishes. No mumbled arguments between too-closely-packed siblings. Not even dad’s noisy mouth breathing.
Her throat tightened, her face on fire. “Joaquin, no,” she whispered.
“You can’t give up your dream. You’ve worked too hard and given up so much already for me. For all of us,” he rushed to say before she could tell him not to worry.
Not to open this conversation in front of a stranger.
She shook her head with a smile as fake as Spencer’s intentions.
“Everything and everyone will be okay, I promise.” Her heart beat so loud she’d swear the others could hear it in t
he continued silence. Spencer’s gaze felt like a physical touch. It was unnerving.
She swallowed hard and turned to her mom. “How about that cake?”
Chapter 10
Spencer watched Sydney steadfastly ignore him as she pushed her birthday cake around her plate, laughing with her beautiful mouth but not her eyes. The last hour and a half with this dynamic family had been more interesting than the entire previous year of his life. Probably longer.
The only family member missing from the noisy gathering was the second oldest after Sydney, Tiana, whom none of them had heard from in weeks. They were all worried. And judging by the stories Jiang blurted before Sydney finally shut her chatty sister down—recurring disappearances, drugs, bad company, inability to hold down a job—it seemed like their concerns were justified. Tiana sounded like a troubled young woman.
And financially, the family was struggling, which was no surprise since they didn’t seem to turn anyone away. He found himself unexpectedly touched.
He leaned back in his chair, loosening his tie—he’d already dispensed with his suit coat long ago—and observed the open way they interacted, teasing and laughing, seemingly so secure in their sense of worth and place.
Had he the good fortune to meet a family like the Ashbys when he was alive so long ago, he would’ve gladly relinquished his parents’ duchal estates, the grand clothes, the trips, the empty prestige, all of it to feel a fraction of the warmth flowing freely around this scratched and humble table handmade by Alroy to accommodate their large family and daily strays–friends and homeless teens who had nowhere safe to go at night.
His eyes touched on Clara, the heartbeat of all this human compassion and charity. Sydney’s smooth skin and high cheekbones came from her. He’d love to learn what non-physical traits—the deep-down stuff that influenced your choices—she’d gleaned from her mother.
His gaze wandered back to Sydney.
She wasn’t as open or cordial as her mother. But she was protective and loyal. Dedicated and responsible.