by Tami Lund
Tossing her a scowl, he said, “Are you sure you aren’t a psychologist?”
She chuckled. “Sometimes I feel like one. But sorry to disappoint, just a hairstylist here. A fabulous one, though, so if you need someone to trim your beard, I’m definitely your girl.”
He rubbed the stubble covering his chin and cheeks. “I’ve never thought about having a professional trim my beard.”
Her mouth fell open. “That’s natural? You do that yourself?”
Frowning, he said, “Doesn’t everyone?”
She scrambled to her feet and stood before him, so close their toes were practically touching while she eyed the hair on his face. And then she reached out and scraped her fingers across his cheek, and his vision actually went fuzzy for a moment.
Holy hell, that felt good.
He wanted to ask her to do it again, but he clamped his teeth together instead.
“Thanks for enduring that. You can unclench your jaw now.”
He took a step away and twisted his neck until it cracked. “I wouldn’t mind a drink. Would you like one?”
“I probably shouldn’t since it’s still possible that your intentions aren’t pure, but yes, I really would like one.”
He headed toward the kitchen, desperate to put space between them so that his brain would start functioning again. “I have both red and white wine or, if you prefer hard liquor, there’s bourbon, vodka, and I think I have a bottle of tequila.”
“I don’t suppose you have beer?”
He stopped walking and half turned to look at her. “You drink beer?”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
He wasn’t sure why that surprised him, but then again, practically everything the woman did caught him off guard.
“I have Oktoberfest and—”
“Oh, I love Oktoberfest.”
Seriously? So far, everything about this woman was perfect. Which meant she was almost certainly working with Charles. Philip’s luck didn’t often run to the positive. Which was why he never played the lottery or hung out at casinos like Richard did.
He grabbed two bottles from the fridge, popped the tops, and brought them back to the living room. “I was thinking about starting a fire.”
She accepted the beer he offered. “I love that idea.”
Of course she did. Maybe the reason she appeared so damn perfect was because she was a spy. Maybe that entire situation at the salon had been contrived so that he would whisk her away to his secret hideout.
And maybe he needed to quit being such a ridiculous conspiracy theorist.
He piled kindling on the grates and wadded up old newspaper while casually asking, “How long has Frank Charles been your client?”
He glanced over his shoulder; her head was tilted and she stared at the ceiling, like she was mentally calculating the answer to his question.
“Six years. His regular girl had her second baby and decided to stay home, and she recommended me. I remember he was really hard to please in the beginning. Very meticulous. Wanted everything just so.”
Six years was plenty of time to develop a close enough relationship that the two might possibly have decided to work together on the wrong side of the law.
“How old are you?” She didn’t look a day over twenty-five, which didn’t add up. Assuming she finished high school and went straight to cosmetology school, she would have been twenty when she graduated. Unless Frank started with her while she was in school, although based on what she said and what he’d learned by observing the guy for the last three weeks, that wasn’t likely.
“Twenty-eight,” she said with a little thrust of her chin.
He whistled. “If I were a bartender, I’d definitely card you.”
She arched one blond brow and primly said, “Thank you. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“How old are you?”
“Same.” He raised his bottle as if in salute.
The corners of her mouth lifted. “It was a good year.”
He chuckled. “I like to think so.” He took another pull from his bottle of beer and blurted, “Are you working with Frank?”
Smooth, Phil, real smooth.
Her eyes went wide as saucers. “What do you mean, working with?”
He poked at the flames licking the logs he’d placed on the grates. “I mean, is the hairstylist bit just a front and you’re really a hardened criminal?”
Boy, he was getting classier by the second, wasn’t he?
She stared at him for long seconds and then slowly nodded. “Yes.”
He damn near dropped his beer.
Chapter Six
Maecie stood, stomped over to Philip, grabbed the bottle out of his hand, and stormed over to the kitchen, where she placed both empty bottles on the counter next to the sink. Then she tugged open the fridge and pulled out two more beers.
When she returned to where he still stood next to the fireplace, she shoved one of them into his chest, taking out some of her anger and frustration on that solid wall of muscle. “You’re a lousy judge of character, Philip No Last Name.”
She snagged a book off the shelf—didn’t even pay attention to the title—dropped into the armchair and clicked on the reading lamp before burying her nose in the pages.
The nerve of the guy!
Had he seriously just accused her of being a hardened criminal? Okay, sure, he had no idea how hard she’d worked to establish herself as one of the favorite hairstylists at From Beast to Beauty. He had no idea that she’d grown up with a mom and no dad, that her mother had a gambling addiction and therefore half the time Maecie never knew whether there would be food on the table or the electricity would still be on when she got home from school.
He also had no idea that her grandmother had been her savior, that eventually she’d spent more time at Gran’s than at her mother’s house.
She heard Philip sigh and glanced over the pages of the book in her hand, watching as he tossed another log on the fire. When he turned her way, she quickly dropped her gaze and tried to read about a young, destitute, single mother who was so desperate that she agreed to be part of a lottery scam in exchange for leaving the country and never returning.
Suddenly, a shadow made it impossible to read the print on the pages. Maecie looked up again, into Philip’s almost impossibly gorgeous face, pinched as it was.
Seriously, the guy trimmed his own beard? Talk about perfection.
“Yes, I have trust issues,” he said.
She waited.
He sighed again. “Yes, I’ve had them for only a few years. Four, to be exact. I got out of the marines when I was twenty-four and was about to apply to the ATF—”
“Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.”
“Yes.”
“Frank talked about them a lot,” she explained. “He had a love-hate relationship with them. He respected what they did, but hated all the hoops he had to jump through to run his business.”
“So I was about to apply when I got offered a contract job.”
She held her breath.
“Temporary. Easy. Play bodyguard for this guy. Who turned out to be a very off-the-radar yet powerful criminal.”
“Whoa.”
“When he paid me five figures in cash, I pretended I had no idea I’d been protecting him from an enemy who also operated on the wrong side of the law. And then he referred me to an acquaintance, who referred me to another, and four years later…” He spread his arms wide.
“You’ve distanced yourself from your family because you know darn well they won’t approve,” she guessed. She’d had a similar decision to make as she was graduating from high school. Luckily, her grandmother had been there to help guide her down the right path. Philip either hadn’t trusted his family enough to reach out to ask for advice or he’d fallen in too deep before he realized what he’d gotten himself into.
Probably the latter, based on those photos.
He crossed his arms,
closing himself off. “Yes.”
Why had an emotionally distant, insanely attractive man who had the same taste in beer, in décor, in food as she did basically kidnap her—even though he insisted he hadn’t—and tuck her away in the middle of the woods, far away from—so she assumed—any other civilization?
And then accused her of conspiring with Frank Charles to do illegal activities?
“Okay, first of all, Frank was innocent of whatever the heck you think he did,” she stated firmly.
“You don’t know that.”
“You don’t know he’s guilty, either.”
“That explosive you found in his coat pocket says I’m more right than you are.”
“Oh please. How do you know it wasn’t planted?”
“By you?” He arched a brow as he said it.
“Stop it,” she scoffed. “You don’t really believe I’m a bad guy.”
“Actually, I don’t know what to believe.” Abruptly, he shifted gears. “I found your mom’s number.”
He tugged his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and held it out to her, flat in his palm. “If you want to let her know you’re okay. Call only, no text, and you need to keep it short.”
She stared at the contraption. “How did you do that?”
He shrugged. “Public records.”
Right. Of course. It probably wasn’t very hard to find much of anything these days. No doubt that was why he wouldn’t let her bring any electronics with her on their impromptu, er, what did she call this? A vacation? A retreat?
“How come you have a cell phone, but I couldn’t bring mine?”
“Well, you left yours at the salon, but aside from that, mine has a variety of security measures that make it virtually untraceable.”
“And we’re back to why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t.” He strode back to the fireplace to stoke the flames. “Just like I shouldn’t trust you.”
She canted her head. “Why?”
“Seems obvious.”
Standing, she dropped the book on the chair and joined him in front of the roaring fire. “No, actually, it doesn’t. I told you I’m a good judge of character, and my gut tells me you aren’t the bad guy I feared you were, initially. I have a feeling I can trust you.”
He scoffed. “That’s a bad idea. Trust me.” He shook his head and ran his hand over his face. “Did that sound as stupid to you as it did to me?”
She laughed softly. “Maybe.”
She watched as he typed a code into the phone to unlock the screen. Then he offered her it and a piece of scrap paper. “Call her so she won’t worry.”
Maecie almost snorted but caught herself. She wasn’t concerned that her mom would worry so much as she would be annoyed that she’d have to fend for herself on Thanksgiving.
Philip cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, so she took the phone and paper and turned away from him.
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to stay within earshot,” he said.
She didn’t respond. Instead, with her back to him, she punched in Mom’s number and then sucked in a deep breath and held it.
“I’m all paid up until the end of the month,” the woman snapped when she answered the call.
Great. Which bill collector was coming after her now?
“Mom, it’s Maecie.”
“Maecie?” The woman’s voice was full of suspicion. “Why is it coming up as ‘private number?’ Are you in trouble?”
Maecie sighed. Her mother was excellent at projecting her own issues. Maecie hadn’t gambled a single day in her life, she was responsible with money almost to a fault, and she’d never, ever done something morally questionable in order to cancel a debt.
Like sleep with a pit boss from her favorite casino. Without protection.
Mom used to tell Maecie stories about how wonderful it had been when she was pregnant with her. Especially toward the end, when she was big as a house, other patrons at the casino would give her chips, buy her food, do all sorts of kind and considerate things because of her “condition.”
Luckily, having a baby had convinced Layla McIntosh not to get knocked up again because the sleep deprivation, not to mention the annoyance of having a responsibility beyond her own wellbeing, had far outweighed the attention she’d gotten for a few months prior to giving birth.
“No, Mom, I’m not in trouble.” She glanced at Philip and then crossed her fingers. “I lost my phone, so I’m calling from someone else’s.”
“Who’s? Who are you hanging out with? Why is the number blocked?”
“It’s just a friend, Mom. And I have no idea why the number is blocked. Anyway, I’m calling to let you know I had to go out of town for a few days. I probably won’t be home for Thanksgiving.”
“Are you serious? You aren’t going to make me dinner?”
Maecie wasn’t all that great of a cook, but then again, her mother wasn’t remotely picky. If it was a warm meal and someone else was providing it, she was all in.
“Don’t you have any vouchers left? So you can eat at the casino?”
Layla scoffed. “Used the ones I had. Haven’t been winning lately, so I haven’t been able to go as much as I’d like to, therefore not racking up points for vouchers.”
It never ceased to amaze Maecie how convoluted her mother’s thought process was. If she weren’t spending so much time throwing her money away at the casino, she wouldn’t need vouchers to eat.
In her peripheral vision, Maecie could see Philip making a circular motion with his finger, which she took as “wrap it up.”
“Mom, I have to go. Just…don’t worry about me, okay?”
Layla snorted. “What about me? Who’s gonna worry about me?”
“I…” Hell, she wasn’t even sure she could transfer the woman money right now. Philip probably would nix the idea because the money could be traced or something.
“I’ll worry about you,” she finally whispered, and then she pressed the button to disconnect the call.
Chapter Seven
The hangdog look on Maecie’s face, the way her shoulders slumped as she pressed the phone into his hand, made Philip want to gather her into his arms and hold her tight while he reassured her that he’d do everything in his power to fix whatever was wrong. For her.
It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in quite some time. Like, oh, four years, give or take.
He shoved the phone into his pocket while rubbing his hand over his face. He needed a reality check.
Fact: He had not brought a beautiful woman to his cabin so they could spend a cozy week together, just the two of them, getting to know each other and maybe falling in love or some shit.
Fact: He was also not going to solve Maecie’s problems. In fact, once he figured out what was going on with Frank Charles, he planned to deliver her back to her life and wish her well and never see her again.
There was no room in his life for a new friend. Or whatever Maecie could be. He didn’t have the emotional capacity to care for another person right now.
Even if he’d told her far too much about himself and she hadn’t run away, screaming about what a terrible person he was.
“You okay?” he finally asked.
She nodded but didn’t look at him. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. It’s just…” She cleared her throat. “It’s the first Thanksgiving without my grandma.”
He wasn’t even conscious of the action as he pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair. When her arms snaked around his waist and he felt her bunch the back of his shirt in her fists, he rested his chin on her head.
Damn, did this ever feel good. It wasn’t even sexual, although he wasn’t about to kid himself that he didn’t appreciate how perfectly her curves fit against the hard plains of his body. Still, it was more than that. This was about letting another person in. Trusting them.
“I’m sorry,” he said. She released him and swiped at her cheeks, and he hurried over to the powder room, grabbed a box of tissue
s, and offered it to her.
“Thanks.” She dried her eyes, picked up the beer she’d abandoned earlier, and drained it. “Sorry you had to witness that.”
“Don’t be. I don’t mind.” He glanced at the shelves next to the fireplace, where the photo album she’d been perusing sat. “My brother Tommy doesn’t live too far from here, and he’s hosting Thanksgiving this year. Maybe, uh, if it’s safe to do so, we can, uh, go.”
God, he sounded like a dork. Like he was in high school, inviting his crush to homecoming. Which was a funny analogy because he hadn’t had a crush in high school, and he’d never gone to a single dance.
With Tommy and Kyle both heavily into dirt bike racing by that point, the entire family spent most of their time at the track. Philip’s first sexual experience that involved someone other than his hand had been in a camper at Rogers Speedway.
Her name was Patsy, and she’d seduced him thinking that would get her closer to his older brother. But Tommy hadn’t paid attention to anything other than racing and practicing back then, and when Patsy finally realized that, she’d huffed away. Philip had never seen her again.
“Will they all be there? All of your brothers?”
Philip nodded. “And my parents. And, actually, one of my grandmothers.” On second thought, maybe they shouldn’t go. Would it be too painful for Maecie?
She gave him a watery smile and said, “That sounds wonderful.”
Well, hell. Hopefully he wasn’t writing checks he couldn’t cash, because now, more than anything, he wanted to take her to Thanksgiving dinner with his family.
“You should probably know something about them before we go. My mom, she has always wanted a daughter. And somewhere along the line, that desire shifted to daughters-in-law. So if we are able to go, there’s a strong chance she’s going to take your presence the wrong way.”
Maecie chuckled. “Does she have any yet? Daughters-in-law, I mean?”
“Almost. Tommy’s engaged. You’ll like Camila. She’s got a lot of confidence, like you do.”
Her smile widened. “I can’t wait.”
Sounded like he needed to figure out a way to make it happen. Because all of a sudden, the last thing on earth he wanted to do was disappoint this woman.
