by Laurel Greer
“What, did someone do donuts repeatedly with their dually until there was a clearing here?”
“Pretty much.” He put on a false twang. “Where’d a city girl like you learn about our country trucks?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve clearly never been to Squamish.” The little community, between her recent home in Vancouver and where she’d grown up in Whistler, was as quintessential a British Columbian small town as you could get.
“Can’t say I have.” Reddening, he coughed and gripped the steering wheel. “Think you might take me up there one day? To meet your parents? I wouldn’t mind knowing my kid’s grandparents. They’re the only decent ones...”
What kind of home life had he had as a kid? Her heart ached for him. “Lachlan—”
“Look,” he interrupted. He pointed at the sun, a glowing red ball dipping behind the horizon. “Perfect night for this. Mother Nature’s giving you a good welcome.”
“Wow,” she breathed as the sun dipped to half and then a quarter and then disappeared. Streaks of pink and crimson shot through the wispy clouds, which stretched as far as she could see, until orange became yellow became lavender, the promise of approaching dark kissing the edges of the sky. “That’s so pretty.”
She glanced at him.
His gaze seemed fixed on her, and a corner of his mouth twitched up.
“The prettiest,” he said.
Reverting back to the sunset, her cheeks heated. God, they probably matched the clouds. One silly little compliment—assuming he was talking about her and not the colors on the horizon—and she melted. Ugh, she needed some self-control.
“You’re flirting,” she scolded.
“Am I?”
“You know you are.”
“I know I’m having a good time with you. Whether we call it flirting, well...”
She sighed. “You made a good point, though.”
“About you being pretty?”
“No! About my parents. And you meeting them one day. That makes sense. They’ll want to meet you, too. I’m sure they’ll be down here the minute the baby’s born, but once she’s bigger and can travel, I’ll want to take her up to Canada now and again. And if you want to come... I won’t say no.”
“Thanks.” He ground out the word, as gritty as the tires had been against the road. “Appreciate that.”
She shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
Such a lie.
It was a lot.
A big, tangled mess of a thing.
He reached over and threaded his fingers through hers and they watched orange fade to navy.
And she couldn’t untangle their hands any more than she could their lives.
“It’s everything, Marisol.”
“Well...”
“Don’t minimize it. Please.”
“I’m not. It’s just... It’s the least I can do. You’re stepping up, exactly how I asked—”
He brushed a thumb down her jawline, stealing her words. “Of course I am. When it comes to family, I don’t do small.”
Chapter Five
Marisol glared at the line ahead of her at Peak Beans. Apparently, two weeks of being in Sutter Creek hadn’t been enough for her to learn the rhythms of the place. She hadn’t anticipated a crowd, and she really wanted to get on with her Saturday. But the seven people who were also waiting for coffee had a similar plan, interfering with her good intentions. With how busy she was preparing her prospectus, her weekends had to serve a double purpose—getting extra research done and taking care of all her personal stuff, too.
And none of that personal stuff was going to involve thinking about how Lachlan had referred to her as family, or how she’d invited him to meet her parents. She’d successfully avoided getting stuck in that particular emotional quicksand since he’d dropped her off after watching the sunset, and wasn’t going to let herself get mired in it today.
Today’s column in her day planner was a rainbow of coded pen marks, and she’d already checked off the first item, an acupressure appointment with Garnet James. Wow, the woman had gifted fingers. Marisol owed Lach a thanks for that recommendation. Her shoulders were almost what someone would call loose.
Well, loose-adjacent.
Now it was on to Bozeman to hit up the secondhand stores for some apartment things, and hopefully an evening finding journal articles to back up her nebulous hypothesis.
She inched forward in the lineup. The ticking minutes were a palpable weight. Pulling up a journal article on her phone, she started reading.
“Hey there.” The gruff, masculine voice wrapped around from behind. Heat settled low in her belly. Having Lachlan murmur in her ear was no different than having his hands all over her. “You look way too tense for someone who just came from an acupressure appointment.”
Her back cranked another notch. She jammed her phone in her purse and turned to flash him a benign smile. “You knew I had an appointment?”
“Garnet mentioned it at SAR training a few days ago.”
“Fricking fishbowl, this place.”
“Yep,” he said cheerfully. His gaze dropped to her tapping foot, and he cocked a brow. “Your ‘I’m used to putting in a mobile order at Starbucks’ is showing.”
“So?” she grumbled. “I didn’t know ten o’clock was coffee rush hour.”
“What’s the hurry? You’re not working on a Saturday, are you?”
“Uh, I will be after I run some errands. I have a ton to finish before the baby’s born.”
“So you’ve said.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Canceling on dinner on Tuesday said a lot, too.”
Guilt kicked her in the throat. She’d love to say she’d bailed on the impromptu plans because of school, like she’d told him. And she had stayed late in Bozeman that night. But she could have come home, gone out for dinner with him. Casual, like he’d promised. But the more she thought about everything they’d discussed in his truck last Friday, the more she was nervous about the next thing she’d agree to. And she’d been too afraid to risk making more of a connection than they already had. So she’d hidden behind schoolwork. “I hope me canceling didn’t say anything other than ‘I have a crapload of work to do.’”
“It...” He leaned close to her ear. “Gotta be honest, I spent the rest of the week trying to convince myself you weren’t avoiding me.”
She winced.
“Were you avoiding me?”
He stayed close, likely to ensure they had a modicum of privacy as they inched toward the counter in the packed café.
All it did was ensure every pore of her body hummed with energy. She could try to tell herself that nothing good would happen if she closed the space between them.
To a large extent, that was true.
A broken heart, having to parent with someone whom she’d loved and lost, that would be devastating.
But a whole lot of awesome tended to follow him and her and touching bodies.
Adrenaline and oxytocin. Chemicals, not reality. Don’t be fooled.
She had enough of those to do with pregnancy—add in any more and she’d be a blithering mess.
Backing up a few inches in an attempt to stifle the electricity still zapping between them, she forced a neutral expression. “Like I said, I have a crapload of work to do.”
His strong shoulders deflated a little. “If I learned anything from my parents, working hard and avoidance can coexist.”
The psychology student in her twigged on the residual trauma under his words. “Lach...”
He lifted a corner of his mouth, a little “nothing to see here” shrug of lips.
She hated anything other than joy there. If she went up on tiptoe, pressed her mouth to his, could she erase that sadness?
In the middle of gossip central? Talk about giving everyone the wrong idea.
>
Including him.
And herself.
In no world would a relationship bring joy for either of them. No matter how delightful it would be to revisit their kisses.
“We’re up!” He ushered her forward and frowned as he got ready to place their order. “I don’t know what you prefer.”
“We never went out for coffee,” she said gently. “And I wasn’t pregnant at the time, so I’m not drinking what I used to anyway. Caffeine and all that.” She turned to the barista and ordered a decaf iced latte.
“Right.” He stepped to the other end of the barn-wood bar and waved for her to follow.
“Hey.” She couldn’t be responsible for the disappointment in his eyes. Yeah, getting close scared the hell out of her. There was so much new going on. Familiarizing herself with a new department and advisor while jumping into the summer semester of teaching left her with barely enough energy to drive home and eat something with vegetables in it let alone figure out Lachlan Reid.
But getting to know him was just as important as figuring out school and an unfamiliar town. She wasn’t going to be able to be a good coparent if she kept him entirely at arm’s length. There had to be a balance. Surely she could adapt to the new without forgetting the old.
“You’re still good to come to my doctor’s appointment on Monday, right?” she asked as he put an arm around her and pulled her closer.
Not out of affection, but because she’d been so lost in her own head that she hadn’t noticed a mom with a stroller was trying to get past.
“So sorry,” she said, shifting farther away from the woman and out of Lachlan’s hold. She looked up at him. “I make a better door than a window, eh?”
His mouth finally stretched into a real smile. “That’ll be you in not too long, pushing a stroller. It’ll be me, too, for that matter.”
“That it will.”
He bent his head to her ear. “It’s going to look good on you. Just like this does.”
He ran a quick palm over her T-shirt-covered belly, and her knees got downright close to dissolving.
Sweet Mary, did he purposefully work to smell so good? But how? It wasn’t cologne. A little soap. And lemon laundry detergent. And man.
Her impatient hormones gave her a poke again, reminded her that six months was a very long time to go without appreciating how good a man smelled. And all the enjoyable things that tended to follow burying her nose in Lachlan Reid’s neck.
Which she wasn’t going to do. No matter how tempting that tanned notch at his collarbone became.
“Flatterer.”
“Never. And of course I’ll be at your appointment,” he said. “Also, I’m off today, which is why I was giving you a hard time about working too much. If I can take the time off, you can, too. You’ve been here for two weeks, and I bet you’re still living out of boxes.”
Her cheeks flared hot. “School’s busy. But I’m planning to head into Bozeman today to get a few things I’m missing.”
“Sounds like something you need a truck for. I have one of those.”
“I’m not getting anything big.”
His face fell.
“But I’d love the company, if you’re offering.”
* * *
They hit up a used furniture store and found what Marisol declared to be the perfect bench for the foot of her bed.
“I’ve never had to sit to put on my socks before,” she explained, blushing adorably.
He almost teased her for the admission, but she seemed a little on edge today, so he didn’t want to push her in the wrong direction. So he let her guide him from store to store, playing bag-carrier in her wake.
A discount department store was good for towels—cheapest way to make a small bathroom feel lux, according to her—and a runner for the entryway.
At an antiques store, she rooted out forks and knives from a pile of assorted cutlery.
But none if it was baby stuff. Disappointing. Which was weird. Was he nesting? Did men nest?
All he knew was the urge to create safety and calm for this woman and their child burned like a damned inferno inside him.
“This dresser would make a perfect change table if it was painted white and distressed a little,” she said, running her hand along the top of a long, wooden piece, currently a drab brown. She made a face. “Who am I kidding? I don’t have time to be refinishing furniture.”
Neither did he, but he’d find some if it meant bringing her nursery vision to life. He committed the identification code to memory and made a mental note to buy some white paint at the hardware store. And to watch a YouTube video on making a piece of furniture look stylishly worn instead of dilapidated.
“Have you thought of a crib?” he asked.
Her jaw dropped. “Have I thought of a crib?”
“I didn’t mean it that way—”
“I’m carrying fifteen pounds around on my stomach. And ten on my ass and thighs. You really think I haven’t thought of a crib?”
“Should have stuck to the hand towels,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Hopefully the sun he got when he was out training with the SAR crew yesterday would hide the warmth in his cheeks. “What, uh, are your thoughts on a crib?”
“I’m borrowing one from Zach and Cadie for now. Ben’s moving into a big-boy bed.”
“Handy timing.”
“Yeah.” She fussed with a stack of crocheted doilies on the table in front of her. “Will you want to have the baby at your place? You’ll need a crib, too.”
He’d need a new place was more like it. Gertie Rafferty had not been wrong about that. But how was he going to swing the expense? He doubted her offer of cheap rent would be as low as he was paying on a studio apartment. Her house had to be a four-bedroom, at least. “I definitely want to share custody.”
His stomach twisted the minute he spoke. Custody. He looked away.
“Are your parents divorced, Lach?”
“Huh? I mean, no. They’ve been married since right before Maggie was born.” His dad had cheated on his first wife with Lachlan and Maggie’s mom. And now their union was fueled on spite and making money off other people’s misery. “They work together, too. The law firm of Reid, Reid and Travers—building the coffers thanks to collapsing marriages since 1982.”
Her eyes widened. “The way you said ‘custody’ made me think you had a history with it.”
“Not with being shuttled back and forth or anything.” With having parents who liked to use each other—and their children—as verbal-trap bait? There, he was familiar.
“But with being neglected.”
It wasn’t a question.
Did she expect an answer? He didn’t intend to give one.
Being ignored interspersed with brief spurts of lavish attention had been jarring. No need to revisit the specifics, except for the parts that affected them now. “Not a pattern I intend to repeat.”
“Lach.” Her eyes glistened, and she discarded a lacy scrap of fabric on the table. She threw her arms around him.
Hugging her back, he smiled. Both at the gesture, and at how her belly was big enough to get in the way. “It’s okay, Marisol. I’ve worked past it, really. Found what I needed elsewhere.”
She stepped back, leaving a void in his chest, an echo of the emptiness he’d felt when she’d left after her winter holiday.
“But our pasts always leave scars,” she said.
“You’re the psychology expert. Isn’t the general principle that scars fade with time?”
Picking up a teaspoon that had been turned into a bracelet, she studied the tag. “Some dogs never manage to heal from trauma. God, we had a rescue mutt when we were kids. Sweetest guy. But the minute a man with a hat stepped on the property? Pandemonium. Total Mr. Hyde.”
He la
id a hand over hers. “Look, you’re never going to get me to say that dogs can’t experience complex emotion, or that they can’t empathize—”
“Technically, we don’t know they can. That’s what I’m studying in part. But I wasn’t talking about empathy, I was talking about how someone with a bad childhood might never get over it, and that’s okay—”
“Childhood, Marisol?” As if she was still talking about him. “Or a marriage?”
Her throat bobbed, and her gaze flew around the store, wild and searching. “Look! There’s baby stuff over there! Ohhhh, an antique pram...”
She strode away from him, and started flicking through garments on a rack with shaky hands.
He lingered back by the doilies for a minute longer, calming his breathing. Having never met Marisol’s ex, not knowing his name, even, would complicate his attempts to locate the dude and destroy him. But Lach was resourceful. If he could find a small child in a thick forest during a snowstorm, he could find one asshole and—
Okay, enough fantasy time.
Marisol was the one who was here, the one who needed his attention. Her troubled frown erased his earlier desire to look through tiny clothes and soft blankets. Once he was certain any murderous intent was erased from his expression, he ambled over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders from behind. He fully expected her to shrug off the affection. She didn’t, and his heart gave a victory kick.
Christ, her back was knotted. He pressed his thumbs into a few of the tense spots, rubbing at the rigid muscles.
Her hands landed on the handle of the pram she’d exclaimed over, a navy, leather-sided number that reminded him of the baby carriage in a picture of his grandmother and his father from the early ’50s. Veins rose on the backs of her hands as her fingers tightened.
“Hey, now,” he said. “You’re making my job harder. And erasing all Garnet’s good work, to boot.”
She took a deep breath, and a fraction of her tension dissipated. “There. All relaxed. Happy now?”
“No, sunshine. Not at all.”
“The ‘sol’ in my name doesn’t mean sunshine, you know. It means ‘Mary of solitude.’”