“I think I can mow the lawn without your help.” He knew he sounded grumpy, but hell, she made him grumpy. Those legs. The silver eyes. The memory of her sweet kisses. All three tangling with her unabashed love for Patch and her tender warmth toward Daisy. Groan.
“Okay.” But she sat down on the porch steps, stretching out her legs in front of her, gripping the baby monitor tightly. If the baby made a peep, the sound would come through the wireless transmitter loud and clear. “Daisy’s feeling better, I think. She looks snuggled in for a long nap.”
A spurt of relief diluted Weaver’s rotten mood. Daisy on the mend. Good. Now just to get this place spiffed up and off his hands. With a deep breath, he pulled the lawn mower’s cord.
Nothing happened.
With gritted teeth, he pulled again.
Sputter and die.
Pull.
Sputter and die again.
Over the outdoor smells, Molly’s tantalizing scent floated by his nose. He didn’t turn around. Hell, any guy should be able to operate a lawn mower. He gave it another pull. Quasi sputter.
“Need some help?”
As he suspected, she’d come up behind him. “I think I can get it,” he grumbled.
“Ever operate a lawn mower?”
“Sure,” he bluffed. Like I ever wanted to.
“Sure?”
He turned, ignoring the laughter glinting in her eyes. “Okay, I lied. See, there’s a reason I’m not cut out for this ‘burbs life-style. No lawn mower license.”
Her laugh bubbled out. “No need to get defensive. But here’s a hint—a lawn mower like this one is kinda like a car.”
He stared down at the stubborn beast. “A car?” It looked nothing like the sleek and reasonable Porsche in his garage in Maryland.
Molly had a seriously sexy little dimple in her cheek that he’d never noticed before. It showed up now, all flirty, kicking up his heartbeat and tickling his libido. “Runs on gas,” she said, nodding to the mower. “And I think this baby’s out.”
Double groan.
His plans for the yard proceeded more smoothly after that. Molly returned to the house. He located a gas can in the backyard shed and after another couple of tries got the mower humming.
He’d never noticed the smell of cut grass before. In the lazy June sunshine it smelled…good…pungent and satisfying. The rows he mowed into the overgrown grass were even and smooth. I can do this, he thought smugly. He could see the headlines now: Man From Concrete Childhood Conquers Southern California Suburbia.
Still feeling like a warrior, he rolled the lawn mower back to the driveway. It wheeled easily into its place in the row of yard-care items he wanted to get rid of. Bending over to grab the For Sale sign off the drive, Weaver caught another whiff of the gasoline-and-grass-cuttings blend. The smell of success. He chuckled to himself and moved to hang the handlettered cardboard from the mower’s throttle.
The sign wouldn’t hang correctly. In response to his minute adjustments, it slid way right, then left. Finally at an even dangle, a spurt of breeze flipped it over wrong side out.
Weaver threw the frustrating sign away. He’d make another, bigger one. Later.
He turned back to the lawn, satisfaction rising higher as a butterfly cartwheeled across the newly clipped grass. Yeah, he’d conquered suburbia. Surely he could conquer his other problems, too.
Family for Daisy Ann and—
”Look what I found!” Molly’s butterfly-bright voice came from behind him.
Weaver closed his eyes. And certainly he could squash his attraction to her. He swung around slowly.
Baby monitor clipped to her waistband, Molly walked to him, one hand balancing a short stack of fence boards on her shoulder, the other holding a lethal-looking power tool.
Damn her. She stood there, sunlight sparking highlights in her dark hair, her silver eyes gleaming like moonlight. Heat and cold. Baked Alaska again. A woman shouldn’t get to him like this.
“Daisy woke for her bottle and is back to sleep again,” Molly said. “And I found these at the side of the house.” She waved the tool in the direction of the boards. “The backyard fence could use some repairs. I thought maybe we could do them together.”
Together? Doing anything with Molly had been cut from his agenda two mornings before. “I’ll take care of it myself,” he said, making a grab for the boards.
She held on to them. “I can help.”
He pulled harder. “Let me.” He said it nicely, through gritted teeth, then with a tug slid the boards from her grasp. Assuming the weapon in her right hand had some fence-mending purpose, he grabbed that, as well. Though carefully, to avoid the slightest brush of her fingers.
Avoiding her meant avoiding any touch of her, too.
“It’s a cordless drill,” she said. “Be careful.”
Glad the weapon was IDed, Weaver hefted its unfamiliar weight in his hand. “Used one a thousand times.”
“Guess it comes in handy on those spy jobs.”
He skirted her and the smile in her eyes. “Right,” he said, moving in the direction of the broken fence and some much needed solitude.
Solitude that lasted about ninety-seven seconds.
She appeared in his peripheral vision, Patch at her side, just as he aimed the drill in the direction of a screw holding up a half-broken fence board. Thanks to the silky swing of her braid from back to breast, the drill’s point rumbled and bumped aimlessly, about two inches from its intended target.
“Used one a thousand times?” Her brows rose in false innocence.
“Yeah,” he said testily, pulling his gaze away from her. This time, she carried a can of paint and some other gear. “It’s why they recruited me at XNS. My ability with power tools.” With slightly more deftness, he removed the offending screw and ripped away the rotting board from the fence railing.
She silently handed him a new board and a couple of screws from a jar she’d also carried out.
Two more screws went into her mouth, then she knelt to position the fence board against the lower railing.
He stared down at her bent head. If only shé’d go back to the house. Just her presence—the shining darkness of her hair, her light scent—was getting under his skin. Making him…itchy again.
“Gbo ahib.” The screws between her lips wiggled when she talked.
He translated the comment as “Go ahead,” and momentarily resigned, he pulled the weapon’s drill’s—trigger to screw the board to the higher fence rail. As he leaned into the task, his knee brushed the lean warmth of her shoulder. Sparks of awareness shot up his leg. He set his teeth and closed his eyes against the pleasure.
Wha-u-u-u.
Whining drill signaled he’d overdone the job. He jerked his knee, then the drill, away.
“Ow dith u behum a spy, anyay?” he heard her ask around the screws.
How did I become a spy, anyway? He looked down at her, grimaced. “You’re not buying power-drill prowess, huh?” Restless, he shifted his feet, and his knee brushed her again. This time, she edged away.
“I…” Weaver frowned. “I was recruited. By one of my retired COs—commanding officers—in the navy.” Captain Benson now ran a smaller, domesticjobs-only firm in Southern California.
She momentarily pulled the screws out of her mouth. “That explains how. But why’d you say yes?”
“Why?” He hesitated.
Her silver-clear eyes turned upward, toward him.
He found himself talking. “Because…I was trained for it. Because I like the excitement and adventure. Because it was something a guy like me can do.”
She seemed satisfied. He screwed in the second top screw. Knelt beside her to work on the bottom ones. As she held the board straight, for expediency’s sake, he even used his fingers to pop the two screws she was holding out of her mouth. He didn’t for a moment dwell on the shape of her lips or how they had tasted.
Like hell. He dwelled, but then forced his attention back to the fence
. The quicker he got it done, the quicker he could escape from her disturbing presence.
Together, they replaced five more broken fence boards. Task completed, they both stepped back to inspect the repairs. Her shoulder bumped gently against his bicep, a companionable, couple-y touch.
And instead of alarm, he felt a satisfying buzz, not unlike the warm hum of the drill in his palm. In the face of a job well-done, his mood lightened again, and he grinned. “Aren’t power tools great?”
She grinned back. “Move over, Tim Allen.”
His smile faded. “Who’s that? An old boyfriend?”
She laughed. “No, the star of a sitcom about a tooltoting proverbial suburban husband and father.”
Suburban husband and father? “I’m nothing like that guy.”
She shrugged and walked toward the paint can and the brushes.
“I’m not,” he said, following her. “I told you, I like excitement, adventure.”
She stirred the paint with a stick she found on the ground. “You said you had a job a guy like you can do.”
“Exactly right.” He nodded and picked up one of the brushes.
“So what does that mean—a guy like you?” She dipped her brush in the can and stroked it against one of the brand-new boards.
He hated the way it reminded him of her fingertips moving against his chest. And that reminded him of the intimacy of finding her in the morning dimness, of watching her sleep within that circle of light on the couch. And then, crazy as it sounded, it was just a half step to another, almost deeper kind of intimacy—working on a home together while the sun beat down and the bees droned and the baby slept inside.
“A guy like you. What did you mean by that?” she asked again.
He tightened his hold on his paintbrush and moved toward the can. “A guy like me.” Wasn’t it obvious? “A guy with no need for family, no need for responsibilities.”
Their knuckles bumped as they both dipped into the can at once. Fingernail tracks of hot reaction to the touch tickled up his arm.
Their gazes met. He waded hip-deep into cool silver.
Damn. He just had to face it. There was no way he could avoid his attraction to her. Even if he hotfooted it to the other side of the world, he’d still remember her taste, her touch, her smile.
Molly read the discomfort on Weaver’s face and the resignation in his gaze. She sighed. “Geez, Louise.” She dumped her brush in the paint can and gave Weaver a squinty-eyed glare. “It’s time we killed the elephant in the living room…’
He blinked at her, clearly astonished. “Huh?”
With a burst of breath, Molly blew an annoying strand of hair from her eyes. “I’m going to generously and completely accept responsibility for it, and then you’re going to help me kill the annoying thing.”
His voice rose an octave. “Huh?”
Molly crossed her arms over her chest. “We have a problem. We haven’t talked about it. We even tried to pretend it doesn’t exist.” She lifted one hand. “So, voila.”
The crease between his eyebrows deepened. He made a pale imitation of her hand gesture. “Voilà”
“And so the elephant in the living room was born.”
The crease between his brows smoothed out.
“You see?” she said. “And it grew, and grew, and grew with every hour we didn’t address the problem.”
“Which is…?” he inquired warily.
“The problem is…we exchanged a kiss.” At his raised eyebrows, she hastened to continue. “Well, okay, more than one.”
His eyebrows lowered. “Right.”
“And we didn’t have any business kissing. Right?”
“Right.”
She wished he’d respond with more than one syllable at a time, but at least he was agreeing. “So,” she continued, “as I see it, we have three options.”
His eyebrows lifted again. “Well?”
She held up a finger. “I could quit.”
“No!” He emphatically shook his head. “Next?”
Another finger up. “We could go on tiptoeing around that great big elephant in the living room.”
He shook his head again. “Third?”
“We could try to become comfortable with each other. Become friends instead of thinking so much about being…something else.”
His mouth twisted wryly. “Friends.” He sounded skeptical.
“You never can have too many friends,” she said quickly. “You know that.”
“So you’re sure that if we become friends, we won’t be bothered by the…other stuff?”
She wasn’t sure of anything of the kind, but they both didn’t want her quitting, and her nerves couldn’t stand another hour of trying to ignore the elephant. “Sure.” She waved away all of his concerns. “Has happened to me dozens of times.”
His eyebrows rose. “You’ve been in this situation dozens of times?”
Heat surged up Molly’s neck. “Sure.” In for a penny, in for a pound.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “So how do we go about becoming…friendly?” His gaze narrowed on her again, and she felt it like the brush of a fingertip against her cheek.
She gulped. “Well,” she said, grabbing up her abandoned paintbrush, thinking quickly. “Maybe we talk a little bit about ourselves.”
The corners of his mouth kicked up and he took a step closer to her. “I already know everything about you. You’re a schoolteacher. You like dogs and babies. You have a close-knit family, you like to garden, and you want a home.”
She had an inkling that he was laughing at her. “Listen, if you’re not buying this friends thing, then you try to think of something better.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m just wondering what else we could learn about each other.”
His closeness was making her nervous. She dipped her brush and walked away from him, back to the fence. “I don’t know nearly as much about you. Where did you grow up?”
“Not anyplace like this,” he said matter-of-factly. “I lived in foster homes since I was two days old.”
Her grip tightened on the paintbrush. A foster child? “Oh?”
Emotion stayed out of his voice. “My parents dumped me on social services, then disappeared.” “Oh.” Molly turned. She wanted to warm him, to bring some animation to his face. Her feet moved toward him. “But you had some family. Your cousin, Daisy’s father.”
Weaver shrugged. “Can’t really call him family, you know. I mean, we were related, of course, but I didn’t even know he existed until I was eighteen.”
She made herself take a long breath while she carefully balanced her brush on the paint can. “But he came looking for you.”
“Yeah. From somewhere he got this strong drive to find relations, blood ties. I never asked him why.”
Another long breath filled her lungs. “You never thought it would be nice to find someone to belong to?” She put her hand on his forearm. “You didn’t want a family?”
Weaver stared straight in her eyes, his expression serious, a little sad, even. “It’s not a question of want, Molly.” One long finger tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
She shivered. “What do you mean?” Her voice came out hoarse.
“I told you. I’m not a ‘honey-I’m-home’ type of guy. I don’t know the first thing about having a family.” He stroked the hair back again.
Molly cleared her throat, determined to keep the emotion from her voice. “I don’t think it’s a knowing thing, Weaver.” She laid her palm against his cheek. “It’s a feeling thing.”
He stiffened and a frown drew his brows together in a V. “Never mind,” he said. “I don’t even know why we’re talking about this.”
Molly reached up to stroke the dark wing of his hair. “Because we’re friends. And as your friend, I’d like to tell you—”
His hand caught hers, his blue eyes silenced her. He rubbed her palm down the prickly stubble of his jaw to his lips. “That’s right,” he sai
d, his voice deepening. “Friends. Good ol’ option three.”
His gaze mesmerized her. “Mmm-hmm. Friends,” she said. A distinctly unfriendlike heat traveled from his skin to hers. Molly thought about pulling her hand away.
His lips brushed her fingers, darting shivers up her arm.
She stopped thinking.
“But there’s a fourth option, Molly.”
She could barely hear him over the sound of her heartbeat in her ears. “Fourth option? What fourth option?”
“We could become…”
Anticipation dried her lips. She licked them. “Become what?”
“Lovers,” he said.
6
“Yahoo! Hello! Anybody home?”
The sound of a woman’s voice reached Weaver at the same instant he registered Molly backing away.
“Dana!” A note of surprise in her voice, Molly brushed past Weaver and ran toward the side gate. “We’re in the back.”
Feeling as though the governor’s call had arrived in time, Weaver watched Molly embrace a tiny woman with wavy curls and a big smile. They laughingly parted when Patch dashed from his spot in the shade and wedged between them.
“Why did you come?” Molly asked her friend
And thank God you did, Weaver thought. Before I made another stupid move.
Dana grinned. “I came to meet the new man in your life.”
Silence dropped like a lead weight. Molly pulled on the hem of her T-shirt, hard. “New man?” she repeated.
New man? Had Molly’s friend overheard his crazy suggestion and—
“Patch.” Dana knelt on the grass at pooch level. “Didn’t you say his name is Patch?” She stroked the animal’s furry head. “I hope he has more staying power than most of the men in your life.”
Molly giggled. Weaver stared at her. He’d never heard such a sound come from her. A giggle. A nervous giggle.
“Of course, Patch. Patch is my new man.” Another little giggle escaped, then she clapped her hand over her mouth.
Dana rose and turned toward Weaver. “And you are—?” She held out her hand. “I’m. Molly’s oldest and best friend, Dana Hartley.”
Weaver extended his hand and received a brief, but firm handshake. “I’m Weaver Reed,” he said. “Molly’s, um, uh—” He couldn’t think how to describe himself. Not the new man in her life.
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