by Laurel Greer
“I’m here to talk to you, actually.”
“Ah, you’ve finally decided to get to know your new family?” She put the coffeepot down in a drying rack with a thunk.
Oh, great. How was she supposed to ask a favor now? She settled into one of the mismatched chairs ringing the pristinely clean Formica table. “I’d love to.”
Maggie plunged her hands back into the dishwater. A muffled clatter of cutlery against stainless steel rang out. “Wouldn’t have thought that, given you bailed on us on the Fourth.”
Hadn’t Lachlan explained why Marisol hadn’t been able to make it to the barbecue that night? Marisol frowned, not that Maggie could see her face with her back turned. She made sure to keep her voice level. “I was sitting in the waiting area at the mechanic’s, signing away my—”
Okay. A firstborn child joke seemed harsh. Nor did she feel like admitting how much the bill for a new serpentine belt was eating into her incidentals budget for the month. She had a stipend from the university, and a decent grant from a group supporting women in STEM, but no cushion to speak of. A car repair expense was no small potatoes, especially since she couldn’t revert to eating ramen noodles like she’d done while finishing her master’s. The baby needed protein and veggies.
“Yeah, he mentioned something about that.” Maggie’s shoulders drooped, and she turned. A world of worry pooled in her eyes.
“I wouldn’t cancel without a reason.”
“Reason or not, people still end up disappointed.”
Marisol stiffened. She was not here for a lecture on behavioral consequences. “I didn’t mean to let you down.”
“It’s not about me. It’s about my brother.” Maggie dried her hands and sat down across from Marisol. Her fists clenched on the table. “He might be the youngest, but you’d never know it. He’s been taking care of me since we were kids. And he would have with Stella, too, had she let him. Nothing fazed him. Needed tampons? Send Lach to the store. Boyfriend troubles? He was the best listener in the family. But...”
Silence dragged. Apparently, the therapeutic techniques class she’d taken was wrong—people didn’t always elaborate if you waited quietly. Marisol cocked her head. “But...”
“He’s fazed, Marisol.”
Huh. She settled back against her chair. He hadn’t seemed bothered when he came to retrieve her from her car on Friday. No, wait, he had. He’d admitted to feeling thrown. “Shouldn’t he be, though? A baby and all that?”
“He could have used more time, which he would have had if you’d put in a modicum of effort to find him and tell him.”
“I did, I called, and—” God, what was the point in finishing? Maggie knew the extent of Marisol’s efforts, and clearly found them lacking, and was still stewing about it weeks after the fact.
“Came to see me at work, sunshine?”
Marisol jolted at the intrusion, and glanced over her shoulder.
Lachlan stood in the doorway. The comfortable, slow, hot-as-anything smile stretching across his face had nerves dancing on her diaphragm again.
“I was here to see Maggie, actually...”
His smile flickered for a second, like a light bulb loose in its socket. “That’s good to hear. Gotta keep Auntie Maggie on our good side, right?” He strolled next to Marisol and settled a casual hand on her shoulder.
An urge rose to rub against him. Which is just wrong. I’m not a dog begging for a back scratch. Plus, he wasn’t coming on to her. He was just a toucher.
“You should have asked me out for coffee,” Maggie grumbled, staring at her brother’s hand as he rubbed absentminded circles around Marisol’s shoulder blade.
Funny, Marisol swore she’d put on a shirt this morning. But by the heat seeping from his hand to her skin, it was as if the cotton of her blouse didn’t exist.
“I—What?” Her brain couldn’t simultaneously make sense of Maggie’s words and Lachlan’s touch.
“Instead of coming here, catching me in scrubs and dog hair. It’s not exactly a getting-to-know-you locale.” Maggie shot Marisol a suspicious look. “If that’s why you came.”
“It was.” An image of the cursor of her word processing program blinked in her mind. She couldn’t move forward on her proposal without bouncing her ideas off an expert. “Of course it was. And I was also wondering if I could run a few questions by you about a study I’m going to need to set up if my dissertation plans get approved.”
“Right.” Maggie shot to her feet, sending her chair screeching back a few inches on the tile floor. “Figured it wasn’t just about me. Otherwise you’d have come before now.”
She stalked out of the room.
Marisol closed her eyes, a curse hovering on her tongue.
“Hey.” Lachlan pulled a chair around and sat, knee brushing hers. “Do you need a veterinarian for those questions, or would a tech do?”
The hopeful lift of his mouth set off alarm bells. But why? Lachlan was just as qualified as Maggie in terms of working dogs. He’d for sure have ideas and contacts for her. But she couldn’t get her lips to form the words. Enlisting his help was one more tie she couldn’t afford. Neither the closeness nor the risk she’d start depending on him only to have him get busy with the upcoming training facility construction and no longer be able to help her. She didn’t want him getting ideas, either, that this would lead to the depth of connection and vulnerability that he seemed to want. She’d never be able to open up like that again.
“That’s okay. I’ll figure it out. I was just hoping to use the topic as a way to thaw out your sister,” she lied. “Which backfired.”
A tawny-blond brow lifted. “She’s gone a bit guard dog. I’ll talk to her.”
“Because that would go over well. Something tells me Maggie’s not going to like you coming to my defense.”
“As long as I’m happy, she’ll be fine.”
Fear snaked down her spine, and she stared at her knees. Would he be happy, coparenting the way she wanted?
Better to try that than being together. Together will eventually come apart.
It would be bad enough to face that on her own, but she didn’t want to subject her baby to that kind of rejection. She had another heart to guard now, not just her own.
He shifted his hand to the base of her neck and massaged a knot.
She swallowed a moan.
“Want to come over for burgers?” he asked.
Her hesitation must have struck a nerve because he grimaced.
“Come on, Marisol. Work with me here. We’re going to need to be friends if we’re going to raise a kid.” He pulled his hand away, held both in the air like a bank robber was pointing a gun at him. “Is that the problem? Me touching you? I’m sorry. I’m an affectionate guy. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
I wish you had.
He had a point, though. They would be around each other a hell of a lot. Which meant she needed to get desensitized to him. And a zillion psych textbooks told her the best way to do that was through exposure. “Burgers sound great.”
* * *
Lachlan backed his truck up to Maggie’s double garage Tuesday evening. Fudge was a liver-brown and white blur as she hopped out of the car and surveyed Maggie’s front yard with her nose to the ground, making sure no squirrels had dared set a toe on the premises since their last visit. He let himself in with his spare key and managed to hit the automatic door button before his sister noticed. She came into the garage from the inside entrance right as he was shifting the dresser to the end of the tailgate.
“Uh, Lach?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatcha doing?” Fudge bounded over, and Maggie bent down to snuggle the dog before standing and adjusting her headband. The pink strip held her hair off her face, and her Darth Vader pajama bottoms and bought-it-in-high-school sweatshirt broadcasted she was in for the night.<
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“I’m unloading a dresser. Come help. Climb up and lift from the top while I lower it down.”
“What?”
“Climb up and lift—”
“Yeah, I heard you.” She rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers at Fudge to lie down on the dog bed in the corner of the garage. She shuffled down the two stairs to the cement pad. “But I don’t understand.”
“Did I not mention this on the weekend at some point? Marisol was eyeing this dresser. I’m going to refinish it for her. A surprise. And given I can’t exactly work on it in my apartment...” He motioned to the empty space next to her SUV.
“Oh, good grief.” Her sigh was epic, but she hoisted herself onto the tailgate and gave him a hug before shooing him to the ground. “During what spare time? I thought you were meeting with the contractor and working on your website this week.”
“I am. I’ll just live with less sleep for a while.”
She made a face, but was too busy grumbling about heavy old dressers to reply.
Once they had the wooden behemoth off the truck and onto an old drop cloth, she grabbed him by the elbow.
“I don’t want her to get in the way of your plans. You’ve worked too hard to have your focus divided.”
“Maggie.” He raked his free hand through his hair. “It’s not about her. It’s about becoming a father. And doing that right.”
She blanched, stricken.
“Hadn’t thought of it that way?” he murmured.
“Not exactly.” Her lower lip wobbled.
Something he’d seen far too many times over the years. Maggie liked to pretend that their parents’ “we only pay attention when it suits us” routine didn’t bother her, but wet eyelashes didn’t lie.
“I want to do this right,” he repeated.
“You will.”
Doubt crawled up the back of his neck. Showing Marisol she could trust him was no small feat. Nor were the more tangible concerns. Balancing his training business and his tech job, finding a new place to live, affording it all... There were too many variables. But he didn’t want to give Maggie another reason to worry about Marisol and him. She needed to hear all the things that were going right.
He stepped back and started examining the dresser’s finish. Sanding sucked ass, and getting the glossy varnish off was going to take a lot of it. “Dinner last night went well, you know.” He’d put forward the invitation, expecting Marisol to make her usual excuses. But for once she’d said yes.
“Yeah?” Maggie sounded entirely unconvinced.
“It was absolutely—” he scrambled for the right word “—normal. Unremarkable, almost.”
Except for how much he’d wanted to have Marisol in his bed rather than sitting in his armchair with a tea in her hand. Though the fact she’d accepted his invitation and they’d had a quiet evening was a step forward.
“You hooking up with her again?” Maggie asked.
“Not that it’s your business, but no.” He pulled the dresser drawers out and stacked them next to the main frame.
“Huh. I’m kinda surprised by that.”
“She doesn’t want to risk things not working out between us,” he admitted. He hadn’t wanted to get into it, but keeping it all inside was too hard. He and Maggie had always been confidants. He’d have loved to be equally close to his half sister, Stella, but she’d always kept a wall between them.
“Logical.” A note of appreciation colored the word.
“Probably.” Frustrating, though. Marisol hadn’t stayed late last night. She’d been legit tired after a long day at work. And once she’d gone, he’d taken a cold-as-hell shower.
But though he’d had to work to keep from touching her, avoiding small displays of affection as much as anything sexual, having to focus on talking had been nice. She’d mainly discussed her dissertation and classes, and he, his plans for construction and course offerings. And damn, she’d looked right in his space.
Not long from now, there’d be a tiny human joining them.
It still shorted out his brain, acknowledging that.
“I’m thinking of checking out Gertie Rafferty’s house on Ponderosa tomorrow over my lunch break. Decent yard, three bedrooms.”
Maggie gnawed on her lip. “Space doesn’t mean love, Lach.”
They both knew that. Their parents’ house in Chicago was massive. And entirely devoid of real love. “I’m not going for a McMansion, Maggie. I just need more than five hundred and fifty square feet. For the baby.”
And for Marisol.
He’d agreed to keep things platonic. But his heart still held out for that changing in time. One reason he’d been so happy to have last night’s dinner be relaxed and easy. If Marisol saw that they clicked in more ways than just sex, she might start to soften her stance on getting closer.
“Babies don’t take up much space, Lach,” Maggie said.
No, but his pride did, apparently, because no way would he cram a crib in underneath the TV mounted to the wall by his bed. “It’s a happy medium, Mags.” He snapped his fingers. “I hear about the Backcountry International grant sometime this week. Then I’ll be able to breathe easy.”
“What if you don’t get it?”
“Hold your tongue.” He sent her a teasing grin. “I will. It’s all but a formality, given how I saved their ass by taking the traveling position this winter.”
She smiled, but her deep breath echoed the apprehension he’d been living with since he’d started signing contracts with people to build the barn.
Hoisting his box of supplies from the truck, he took out two sanding blocks. “Here. Take out your worries on some ugly varnish.”
Chapter Eight
On his lunch hour the next day, Lachlan left Fudge under Evan’s watchful eye, hopped in his truck and headed for Ponderosa Street. His route took him past Marisol’s apartment, and her car was in the parking lot.
He pulled in to a visitor spot and dialed her up on his cell.
“Hello?”
“You’re home.”
“How do you know?” she asked warily.
“I was driving by—I’m on my way over to check out a house... Want to come along?”
“You want my help picking out a house?”
“I could use a second set of eyes. Are you busy?”
“I’ve been staring at the same paragraph for the last two hours,” she said with a yawn.
“You need a break, then.”
She sighed. “I really do. But I’m not dressed to go out.”
“Oh.” He checked the clock on the dash. “I need to be there in seven minutes.”
“God, you like giving a woman some real lead time.”
“I—It was a spontaneous invite.” More like her inevitable refusal was easier to take if he could blame it on not giving her any warning versus asking in advance and having to wonder if she just didn’t want to spend time with him.
“Let me see what I can do. I’ll be down in a few.”
He stared at his phone. Had he heard that correctly? But she’d already hung up.
True to her word, she exited the building three minutes later. She had on leggings and a loose top with a wide, asymmetrical neckline. Her hair was up in a messy bun.
Her academic-on-a-writing-tear look only intensified the urge to wrap his arms around her. He hopped out and went to the passenger side to give her a boost.
“Thanks.” She smiled, lips bare of their usual gloss. Actually, her whole face was makeup-free. Goddamn, she looked kissable. Natural sexy.
He swallowed down the urge to lean in. “Thank you. I’ll make it up to you. If you want to use any of my contacts in the training world, let me know.”
“I don’t know, Lachlan.” She gripped her purse strap with both hands and stared at her knuckles.
“Just
think about it. It might help.”
“Okay.”
Going back around to his side, he got in, started the car and headed toward the rental. “I was thinking about what you told me about your study. That you’re trying to clarify the factors that impact canine empathy—”
“If canine empathy exists at all,” she cut in. “Still hasn’t been proven.”
“Scientifically? Maybe not. Practically? You’ll never convince me it doesn’t.”
“Well, that’s what I’m trying to do. See if the science will back up the practical.”
“What about narrowing down your test groups even more, then?” When she’d explained her study to him over dinner two nights ago, she’d talked about having groups of mixed breeds. “Separate them out. By breed, by type of training. Take Labradors, for example—test a group of working Labs, a group who aren’t working and a control group, whatever that would look like.”
“The problem is, breed or working or whatever, when dogs are exposed to a situation where they’re tested to see if they respond to distress, we can’t know for sure why they do or don’t go to their owners or handlers. It might be empathy, but it could also be loneliness or curiosity. A hope of getting dinner.”
“What about changing up the sounds, then? Some distress, some not.”
“I thought of that. I thought of all these things. But my previous advisor wanted me to stick close to a study that’s already been done. Part of the reason I was happy to switch schools—I never worked well with that guy.”
“Now that you’re with someone new, you could try again.”
“I could.” She peered out the window as he slowed to a stop at a curb of a quiet residential street a few blocks from her apartment. “I’m nervous to change things up given my tight timeline.”
He got out and opened her door for her. Squeezed her hand in reassurance as he helped her down. “It’ll be the next couple of years of your life, though. Not to mention your name on a study. If you’ve thought of all these things and had to argue yourself out of pursuing them—maybe there’s something to that.”