That last remark fell like a rock into the middle of the room.
Fuck. As if she wanted to be his roommate, and as if he wanted a roommate. But in a flash he could see it, just like that night he’d driven home from Hart’s. Gemma, in his living room, on the couch beside him, the two of them pressed together as they watched TV or sat in comfortable, companionable silence.
Now, she didn’t say anything either. She didn’t have to. Surely there were other options for her if she actually had to vacate the house next door.
“Well, we can’t have that,” she finally said slowly. “A roommate thrust upon you. But we’ll have to work out some kind of recompense.”
He wasn’t touching “recompense” with a ten-foot pole. “Whatever,” he muttered.
“I’d appreciate your help, then,” she said, nodding, all business. Committed to the idea.
Because they both knew, Boone guessed, that the quicker she moved into this space the quicker he’d be out of her life. And out of danger of once again landing together in a bed.
“Can I catch a ride home, now?” she asked, and he eagerly agreed, because it was beyond time to put some space between them.
With a wave to May, they left the shop and he let her pull open her own door and clamber into the passenger seat without putting his hands on her. Then, mentioning something about the afternoon’s warmth, she stripped off the hoodie she wore over her T-shirt and tossed it to the rear seats. She glanced back, then did a double take. “The Tower O’Crunchies,” she said.
“What?” He started the truck.
“You bought a tower of cat food at Duffy’s that day. For your dad. The bags are back here.”
“Oh, yeah.” Had he really said they were for his father? Just went to show how lying always caught up to bite a man in the ass. At a break between cars, he pulled into the slow-moving downtown traffic.
“I could go with you,” Gemma offered, her voice offhand.
“What?” he asked again.
“To drop off the bags. It’s been a few days. Your dad’s kitties might be getting low on vittles.”
He glanced at her, saw the warmth inside the vehicle had flushed her face, turning it pink, like last night, when—
“Unless you don’t want me to meet him,” Gemma continued.
Still trapped in the memory, he didn’t follow. “Meet who?”
“Your dad.”
Turning his head, he looked at her blankly.
Her face took on a deeper pink hue. “Oh. It’s okay. I totally understand. He wouldn’t like me or something.”
Boone’s dad would love her. He’d start thinking of dates and then grandbabies and… A new image bloomed in Boone’s head, and it freaked him the fuck out, because he’d never imagined any woman pregnant before now. But damn if he couldn’t see Gemma like that. Her slender hands resting on her swollen belly, round because he’d planted a baby there.
God. That had to be the most caveman of all his recent stupid caveman fantasies.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Hart’s Kim is gone.
That had to be it. His mind was messed up.
“You’re muttering to yourself,” Gemma said. “Did I…I say something wrong? I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s me,” he said abruptly. “I lied to you before. My dad doesn’t have cats.”
“Oh.”
He turned onto the road that would take them to Sawyer Shores. To their separate homes.
“I donate to the local no-kill shelter,” he admitted. “I’ll drop the bags off the next time I’m in that part of the county.”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “That’s a nice thing to do.”
“It’s not nice,” he heard himself say. “It’s for Dusty.”
And didn’t that just sound ridiculous? “Dusty was my cat,” he added, wishing he’d never spoken up.
She let that explanation sit there, not prying, not extrapolating, nothing. When he turned into his driveway, she didn’t do anything other than stretch behind her seat to gather up her hoodie. Her hand reached for her door.
He couldn’t shut up.
“My mother took Dusty when she left my dad and me.” He allowed the back of his skull to thump against the headrest. “He was a Christmas present the year before and I named him myself.”
“Was he gray?” Gemma asked.
Boone shook his head. “White. But my mother said I’d get him dirty in no time flat, so I suppose I figured I’d anticipate the color change.”
“Wait.” Gemma’s voice sharpened. “Go back. Dusty was your pet, but your mom took him away?”
“I imagine she believed I couldn’t take care of him any better than she expected my dad to take care of me. But at least she decided the two of us, Dad and I that is, belonged together.”
“Why was that?”
The answer came easily enough. “Both of us, we never could make her happy.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Gemma wringing the garment in her hands like it was a neck. “Yeah,” he said, reading her mood. “Don’t think I don’t realize—to borrow a term from our local viticulturists— there’s some rot in my rootstock.”
She made a choked sound.
“It’s okay, really. I got over it and my dad, he did fine by me. Great, when all is told.”
“Boone…”
“And the local cat world benefits as well.”
Half turning on her seat, she looked at him, her pale blue eyes trained on him. “What do you mean?”
“Gemma.” He wanted to gather her up, hold her close, make all the promises he knew he’d be unable to keep. How to cherish a woman such as this? He hadn’t the slightest idea. “Really. It’s okay.”
“Why exactly do you bring food to the shelter?”
He shrugged. “Something a dumb ass neighbor kid told me all those years ago stuck. He said my mom would probably let Dusty go when she got to her new place.”
Gemma’s hand crept up to cover her mouth. “Oh, Boone.”
“So I do what I can to keep the strays and ferals in food, hoping someone did the same for Dusty if he was ever lost and alone.”
Her eyes welled with tears. He probably shouldn’t have told her all this. No one knew about his visits to Creature Comforts and why he went there, not his father, not even Hart. But God, it felt absurdly good to share with her on this day of all days.
It made him feel a little less lost and a little less alone.
Shit, he realized, closing his eyes. What was he doing?
He’d gotten no closer to letting Gemma go. Instead…
He’d just gotten closer to her.
* * *
On the front stoop of Gifts for Girlfriends, Gemma felt Boone’s presence at her back. Though he stood on the step below hers, her hand fumbled as she turned the key in the lock. Hoping her clumsiness would go unremarked, she spun to face him, attempting to look grateful instead of rattled by his closeness. Did he have to look so darn handsome?
And big. In work boots, jeans, and a faded T-shirt with “Sawyer Construction” in peeling letters stretched across his wide shoulders and broad chest.
Okay, sexy. He looked so damn sexy, his hair tousled and the limits of the short cotton shirtsleeves tested by his thick biceps. She’d struggled against ogling all afternoon. He’d shown up at two p.m. and stayed past her Sunday closing time of four o’clock, toiling in the apartment above while she took care of paperwork below.
“Thanks again for doing that work upstairs,” she said. “You didn’t have to.”
His expression turned puzzled. “I said I would.”
“Yes, sure.” She glanced around, noting the quiet downtown street, the dusk descending quickly. They might as well be alone in the world, a thought that sent a little shiver down her spine. “I just…well, I didn’t expect you to, you know?”
“Gemma—”
“I’m not that um, kind of woman.”
His brows drew together. “The kind wi
th expectations?”
“Right.” She smiled at him, satisfied she’d made herself clear. It had been beyond kind of him to offer to take over from Nat—who hadn’t showed up or responded to texts—but she’d told herself not to be disappointed if something came up and Boone couldn’t follow through.
Since counting on men wasn’t one of her failings, she’d actually been almost surprised when he’d arrived, painting gear in one hand, a shiny toolbox in the other.
Though he’d told her he’d be by Sunday afternoon, she hadn’t even dressed in anything special, only khaki jeans, her favorite booties, and a peasant top with white-on-white embroidery. Finished off with beaded boho earrings and a matching necklace, it was a careless, easy Sunday, not trying to dress-to-impress look.
Now Boone traced one of her cheekbones with the edge of his thumb. “Your eyes are always so pretty.”
Guilt hiccupped in her belly. She might have spent a little extra time with her makeup that morning. Why not? New products came to her by mail or salesperson visits all the time. She’d edged her lashes with a shimmery thread of liner in a pale blue shade, used a neutral shadow on her lids, and then more mascara than her usual swipe.
Not because she’d planned on seeing him or anything.
She’d promised herself to be without any kind of expectations when it came to Boone.
He leaned closer, sniffed. “What is that? That scent is driving me crazy. It smells…good.”
“Oh, that.” Gemma forced herself to remain still as he brought a handful of her hair to his nose. “It’s a new line of flower-scented products we’re carrying and I’m trying them out. Shampoo and conditioner, hand cream, body lotion.”
He froze, her hair still clutched in his hand and his gaze trained on hers. “You’re saying you smell this great…everywhere?”
Something else hiccupped inside her, but it wasn’t guilt this time around. “Um, well…”
“Darling,” a new voice said, causing Gemma to jerk and Boone to release his hold on her hair. They both looked in the direction of a newcomer on the sidewalk, her smile widening as she took in how close they stood together. “Who is this?” she purred.
“Mom,” Gemma said, skirting Boone to march down the steps. “What are you doing here?”
“I stopped by the wine shop before they closed and then dropped by to invite you to dinner. Now I want to include this charming man you’ve yet to introduce to me.”
With great will, Gemma halted an adolescent eye roll. “This is Boone,” she said, in her most neutral voice. “He’s my neighbor. Boone, this is my mother, Vivien Marquette.”
Her mother’s sunny smile lit up half a block, which told Gemma she remembered him as her recent date. “So wonderful to meet you.” They shook hands, and Vivien looked him up and down and smiled again. “You seem like you could use a good meal. It must take a lot to satisfy the appetite of a man your size.”
Gemma’s face burned and she told herself her mother did not intend the innuendo, no matter how sexual it might sound. “Mom, I’m sure Boone has other things to do. He already spent the afternoon working on my apartment upstairs.”
“What’s the menu?” he asked her mother, ignoring Gemma’s protest.
“Roast chicken and my famous rice pilaf. My sister is bringing over an apple pie for dessert.”
Boone glanced at Gemma. “Can I? Please?”
Now she really did roll her eyes. “What is it about apple pie?” she muttered, defeated by that puppy dog, hopeful look in his eyes. “Yes, you can have dinner with us.”
Then Boone glanced down at his work clothes. “I’m not exactly dressed for a company meal…”
Her mother waved her hand. “Not to worry. We Marquettes like men however they come.”
Gemma replayed that in her head as Boone followed directions to her mother’s home in an older section of Sawyer Beach. Her bike lay on its side in the bed of his truck. He glanced in his rearview mirror. “I hope you weren’t planning on riding home in the dark tonight.”
She shrugged. Maybe it was a little game she’d played with herself…taking a chance that he’d show up at the shop as promised so that she could offer to buy him a drink after work in exchange for a lift home. Now, of course, they’d be sharing a meal.
With her mother and aunt.
We Marquettes like men however they come.
Gemma sighed. “I should apologize in advance for my mom. She’s…” Another shrug was the best she could dredge up by way of explanation.
“Not to worry,” Boone said. “You know about my mother.”
That. She’d tried putting it from her mind since he’d shared the information with her, but since then she’d only wanted to lessen his childhood heartbreak by crawling into his lap and curling up like the kitten taken from him—something he surely wouldn’t welcome given his concern that he’d be seen as “starting something” by an act as innocuous as eating breakfast out.
He braked in front of her mother’s place, the front porch edged in tiny fairy lights and the glow through the windows welcoming. As they exited the truck, the aroma of delicious food made Boone breathe deep. “Wow,” he said.
Without comment, Gemma led the way up the steps. Her mother was already opening the front door, with Aunt Rita hovering behind her.
“I should have brought something,” Boone said, after greeting both older women and shaking her aunt’s hand. “We should have stopped—”
“Nonsense,” her mother replied, looping her fingers around his elbow and drawing him forward. “You only need to bring yourself into the dining room where you can sit down and be comfortable.”
The meal went predictably after that. Not for a moment had Gemma worried that her relatives wouldn’t charm the man and they seemed to read immediately that he wasn’t one to take the conversational lead. They kept up entertaining chatter at the dinner table, drawing him in often enough, but mostly making him chuckle with their stories of the infamous parties they’d thrown throughout their youth and adulthood.
“We’re known for our Marquette merrymaking,” her aunt said. “We were well-practiced when it came to putting on all our many weddings.”
Gemma’s fork, loaded with a bite of pie, hovered in the air. She slanted Boone a look, noting his gaze, which had been dotingly focused on his large wedge of apple and crust, transfer to Rita. “You’re wedding planners?”
Of course he’d think that. Gemma looked to her mother, letting her handle the clarification.
“Oh, no.” Her mother laughed. “Between us, Rita and I have been married seven times.”
Boone shot Gemma a quick glance. “Ah,” he said, then scooped up a bite of food and diligently chewed it.
“Our Bright Eyes,” her mom continued, “has had four fathers to wrap around her little finger.”
A sentiment that had been expressed more than once in her lifetime, but which turned Gemma’s food to dust anyway. She set down her fork and pushed her plate aside, as the conversation continued to rise and fall around her.
Boone shot her another look, but she supposed she responded appropriately enough because the meal continued and nobody showed surprise when she rose from her chair a while later to clear the dishes. Boone followed her into the kitchen with his arms full too, her mother’s voice following them. “Put those things on the counter, children. Rita and I will wash up later.”
Gemma didn’t expect him to know how she was feeling—she was pretty sure she didn’t want him to know how she was feeling—but maybe he suspected something, because soon after they were on their way, following an appropriate round of thank yous and goodbyes.
No sound beside the radio interrupted the silence on the ride home and she was never more glad for him being a man of few words. When he pulled into his driveway, she instantly made her move to get out of her seat.
“Who first called you Bright Eyes?” Boone asked, turning off the ignition. “It fits.”
Her fingers curled around the handle. �
��Thank you for not running screaming from the house tonight. My mom and Aunt Rita are quite a pair.”
“You know they’re gracious and charming,” Boone said.
“They had you seated and with a drink in hand before you could take a breath. I’m surprised they didn’t offer you a pair of slippers and pipe, already lit.”
He laughed. “They were just being welcoming.”
“They love men,” Gemma said, matter-of-factly. Maybe a trifle bitterly.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Boone added, with a laugh in his voice. Then he sobered. “I didn’t know about the four fathers.”
Gemma sucked in a breath. “There aren’t four fathers. There was never four fathers.”
“Your mom said she was married four times.”
“There was never four fathers,” Gemma repeated. “There’s not one father.”
When he didn’t comment, she pursed her lips. “My mother’s relationships—marriages—don’t explode or anything. Nothing to make headlines. They just…end. And so does my association with her husbands.”
“Your dad—”
“First to be given the boot,” she said. “First to never answer my letters or texts after he left.”
“Shit,” Boone muttered.
“Exactly.” She tossed her hair over her shoulders. “I don’t know if it’s merely bad luck or…”
“Or?”
Gemma stared out the windshield. “Or me.”
“Shit.”
Damn. “I shouldn’t have said that.” Gemma couldn’t imagine why she would. She shot him an unhappy look. “You bring out the worst in me.”
A beat of silence passed. “That’s not what you seemed to think the other night.” There was now a smile in his voice. “When you were moaning my name.”
Gemma’s jaw dropped. “I can’t believe you just said that.” She reached across the center console to shove at his shoulder. “Did you just say that?”
He laughed. “I did. I couldn’t resist.”
“Men.” With a shake of her head, she pivoted on her seat to look at him. “Forget the topic came up, okay?”
“The two of us in bed or your mother’s marriages?”
ALL IN (7-Stud Club Book 1) Page 15
