Bad Boys of Summer

by Lori Foster, Erin McCarthy

  “We seem to be stuck,” she said, looking up at him. Her eyes had gone even darker, and the pale gold of her cheeks was hot with color.

  “We won’t get much done this way,” he agreed, letting his hand come to rest on her hip.

  Her head tilted to one side, her lips parting, and he felt her move closer.

  Oh yeah.Tasting her would be even better than touching.

  He bent his head, moving in—and the phone rang, a shrill jingle out in the kitchen.

  She jumped, bumping against the doorjamb, and he stepped back.

  “I…uh, I should…” She released a shaky, pent-up breath, and he nodded.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, and then she was off, running down the hall to answer the phone.

  He leaned back against the doorframe as he heard her breathless “Hello?” and drew in a deep breath. So much for resisting temptation. Christ, he’d practically asked for it.Can I help you move boxes? That translated pretty easily into:Can I hang around and look at you? What the hell was he doing?

  Helping her move boxes, he realized. There was no backing out now. And there was no denying that looking at her while he did was the payoff.

  Oh, yeah. He was in trouble.

  By noon, every box in the compact little house had been moved to its appropriate room. The box of broken china had been set out on the back steps until she could deal with throwing it away.

  Wiping a stray hair off her forehead, Mackenzie looked around the much tidier living room and beamed at Leo. He was slouched against the kitchen counter with a bottle of water, his eyes following her, a weary smile on his lips.

  “I really can’t thank you enough,” she said. “I don’t even want to think about how long this would have taken me without you.”

  “Especially since a few of those boxes were heavy even for me,” he said. He was sweaty, the skin on his arms gleaming. Watching those muscles in action had been an unexpected treat. No matter what he said, he had toted the cartons from room to room as if they contained nothing but feather pillows, stopping only to ask her where to put things when he came across an unmarked box or a laundry basket of odds and ends.

  That wasn’t actually true, she thought, stepping around him to get herself a bottle of water from the fridge. He’d stopped to lift an amused eyebrow at her collection of snow globes. He’d shaken his head at the explosion of bath salts and lotions that tumbled out of a box with a weak bottom. He’d examined a few of her summer dresses with an appreciative eye when he lifted them out of a laundry basket and hung them in her closet.

  And he’d looked at her. A lot. The heat in his eyes alone was enough to make her long for air-conditioning.

  Of course, after the almost-kiss in the doorway to her bedroom, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been looking right back. Leo Dawson was a huge, gorgeous, solid wall of man. But it was more than that. As often as she’d found herself admiring the play of muscles in his arms or his back, she’d caught herself gazing at his face.

  That was where the “more” came in. It was in the lines on his forehead, the shadows in his eyes, a sense of melancholy that lurked behind his smile. Leo Dawson gave every impression of a man who had lived hard, but who was much more than the rough-around-the-edges man he presented to the world.

  Even if that man was so hot, she’d been trying to turn off her imagination all morning. It was disconcerting to find herself fantasizing about a man who was actually in the same room.

  Not that he’d be in the same room much longer. He was probably going to head outside to the shed any minute, since that was what she was actually paying him for. The idea caused an unexpected pang of loss.

  “Can I get you some lunch?” she said suddenly, turning to look at him. “You deserve some nourishment after all that work.”

  Nice going, Kenz, she told herself when he lifted a curious brow at her.Not too obvious. Oh, no. Not at all.

  “I should probably get to work,” he said slowly, but as he stood up and stretched, his eyes took her in, head to foot, lingering in all kinds of places.

  As if he were hungry for something she definitely didn’t have in the fridge.

  “A quick sandwich might do the trick, though,” he added, setting down his empty water bottle. “What have you got?”

  “Let’s see.” She opened the refrigerator, grateful for the cool rush of air on her hot skin, and glanced inside. “Not much, unless half of a day-old bagel with cream cheese is your thing. Or some Fresca. I can run out, though. The deli over on Stone has great subs.”

  He shook his head. “Not necessary.”

  “I insist,” she said, straightening up and going toe-to-toe with him, which forced her to crane her neck to see his face. “You’ve been working like a pack mule all morning, and not even at the job I’m paying you for. Do you want an Italian or a roast beef? Or something else?”

  “Nothing, I swear,” he said. “You go get yourself something and I’ll get to work.” He didn’t move, though, and she was suddenly aware of how close their bodies were, and how warm his was.

  She swallowed hard, fighting the rush of heat in her cheeks. It was going to be a long two weeks.

  Two weeks of looking at him, and of inviting him in for a cool drink, since that was the polite thing to do when someone was working for you in the summer heat. Two weeks of having him close enough to touch, but not touching him. Two weeks of the throaty rumble of his voice echoing in her head, of remembering the moment when he had almost kissed her…

  She stepped backward, angling for a little distance, a comfortable separation between herself and the heated, masculine smell of him, and bumped into the refrigerator.

  Damn it. Why did the one contractor with time free have to be him? Why did he have to look like the embodiment of a fantasy bad boy?

  And why-oh-why had she never realized shehad a fantasy bad boy before now?

  He wasn’t her type, really. He was too gruff. Too rough around the edges. Too…blatantly masculine. He could probably do a pretty fair caveman imitation.

  When he’s carrying you off to bed.

  To stop that train of thought in its tracks, she drew in a breath, speaking before she even knew what she was about to say. “You’re pretty easygoing for someone who won’t even let me take his picture.”

  In the suddenly deafening silence, she had plenty of time to examine his furious scowl.

  It wasn’t pretty.

  “I thought we agreed on that.” It was practically a growl. And he’d leaned forward, his arms crossed over his chest, making her wish she could back up even further.

  “We did! I was kidding,” she said quickly, trying not to squirm under his glare. His green eyes had gone muddy and darker. “Kidding. Really.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “I’ll be outside.”

  And with that the screen door banged shut behind him, his boots thudded down the wooden porch steps, and he was gone.

  Four

  For a Sunday night in early June, Buddy’s was packed. Shouldering her way through the crowd with two fresh beers for herself and Susannah, Mackenzie wished for at least the dozenth time they’d found somewhere quieter to meet. She wasn’t in the mood for noise, and the jukebox had been blasting since they’d arrived.

  Susannah was loving it, though. She was perched on a stool, moving to a Gwen Stefani song and flirting with a guy across the room, who very clearly appreciated her moves. One more bounce from her and his jaw was going to drop open.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said when Mackenzie handed her the icy Corona. “I’m parched.”

  Mackenzie nodded, settling onto her stool and staring at the lime wedged into her bottle’s neck.

  “I’m beginning to get the feeling you’re not having a good time,” Susannah said, leaning closer to be heard over the music. “Are you still stewing over your hunky carpenter?”

  “I’m not stewing,” Mackenzie protested with a frown. “And he’s notmy carpenter.”

  “Semantics,” Susannah said fon
dly, nudging her with one bare shoulder. She was wearing a sleeveless red blouse that set off her early tan, and her fingernails were painted to match. “You like him, you almost kissed, and then he bolted. So tell me the rest.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Mackenzie said, running a finger along the side of her cold beer. “I haven’t seen him since.”

  “But he’s been there working, hasn’t he?”

  Mackenzie nodded, fighting the cold knot of unhappiness in her chest. “Friday and Saturday, as planned. But I left Friday before he showed up, and I had to leave Saturday while he was out—I think he had to run to Home Depot. And both days he was gone by the time I got home.”

  Which was fine, really. He was working for her, after all, despite the almost-kiss. And he was working hard. She’d wandered out to the shed today, his day off, to find that he’d already torn away the rotted siding, replaced it with fresh lumber, and started preparing for the plumbing and electricity hookups. Then there was the small fact that for a photographer like her, it probably wasn’t the brightest idea to get involved with a man who seemed to be pathologically opposed to cameras.

  But she couldn’t help wondering what he was hiding. And there had to be something. Every time she remembered the guarded sadness in his eyes, not to mention his entirely negative reaction to the possibility of having his photo printed somewhere, she came to the same conclusion. And she’d been letting herself remember his face an awful lot over the past few days.

  “Maybe he’s in the witness protection program,” Susannah offered, her eyes wide. “Maybe the mob is after him!”

  “You’ve been watching too much HBO,” Mackenzie told her, rolling her eyes. “Real world here, remember?”

  “Hey, the mob is part of the real world,” Susannah argued. “So are other criminals. And murderers! Oh God, what if he killed someone? What if he’s on the lam?”

  Mackenzie spluttered beer on the table, narrowly missing her shirt, and sighed. “I don’t think crazed killers ‘on the lam’ establish carpentry businesses and come with good recommendations.”

  “Well, you never know,” her friend sniffed. “Truth is stranger than fiction, and there has to be some reason this guy doesn’t want you to take his picture. Either way, you should talk to him. Just ask him, for heaven’s sake. What’s he going to do?” She considered her words for a moment, and added, “If he’s not a murderer, I mean.”

  Mackenzie laughed and took another swallow of her beer, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. I mean, yeah, I’m curious, but it’s not really my business, is it? And he’s not even my type.”

  Susannah didn’t bother disguising her snort of disbelief. “For someone who’s not your type, he’s definitely managed to work his way into your imagination. Hell, he’s working his way into my imagination, and I’ve never even met him.”

  Mackenzie restrained the urge to glare at her friend, but she couldn’t help frowning at the ship’s lantern hanging on the wall opposite her. Leo was clearly hiding something—or maybe protecting something?—but he wasn’t a criminal. He certainly wasn’t a murderer. It didn’t matter how little she knew about him, she knew that much, deep down. Crazed killers didn’t help you move overstuffed boxes and hang up your dresses. They didn’t gently tease you about your collection ofLittle House on the Prairie books, or admire photographs you’d taken of your family. There was something soft under Leo’s crusty exterior, all right.

  It was a shame she’d probably never get to it.

  “What is your type, anyway?” Susannah asked, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head. “I’m trying to work it out based on Peter and Tom, but they’re nothing alike.”

  Mackenzie definitely didn’t want to talk about ex-boyfriends, especially Tom. The big, shaggy blond jerk. He’d been more attached to his PlayStation than he’d been to her.

  “They’re not the same physical type, no,” she said, thinking about the two men with a grimace. “But they’re both the kind of guy I think I’d like. You know, if they hadn’t turned out to be totally wrong for me.”

  Susannah frowned. “And the kind of guy you’d like is…?”

  “It’s not always about looks, you know,” Mackenzie chided her with a lift of her chin. “I want someone stable, someone who will be a good dad, someone who wants the same things I want, like a home and a family, a dog.”

  Susannah stared at her, her mouth pursed in a frown. “And you’re looking for this guy where? The Mr. Bland Yellow Pages?”

  “Not bland,” Mackenzie protested, kicking her friend’s calf with the toe of her sandal. “Responsible. Reliable.”

  “Yeah, well, it doesn’t mean you can’t have a fling with your mysterious carpenter in the meantime, you know.” Susannah stood up, hooking her bag over her shoulder to go to the ladies’ room, and gave Mackenzie an affectionate smile. “As long as he’s only mysterious in a sexy way.”

  Mackenzie was still thinking about that an hour later, when she and Susannah parted ways outside the bar. She’d refused the offer of a ride home. The night air was sultry and soft, and walking would give her a chance to enjoy it.

  And to think.

  Susannah didn’t have a five-year plan. In all the years Mackenzie had known her, which dated back to high school, she couldn’t remember her friend even coming up with a five-day plan. Five minutes, maybe, but that was pushing it. She’d bounced through college, somehow emerging with a degree in education, and she was a wonderful first-grade teacher, but she seemed to enjoy the fact that her students changed every year. And when it came to dating, she was all over the map—in the last two years alone, there had been a pediatrician, a mechanic, a software designer, and a navy lieutenant who was scheduled for an overseas tour in the coming year.

  Taking life as it came worked for her, Mackenzie thought, breathing in the salty air as she walked along North Lumina and letting the breeze blow her loose hair off her face. But Mackenzie had always had a firm idea about the way her life would end up, or at least the way she wanted it to, and a moody carpenter with a secret didn’t exactly fit the picture. He was a loner, that much was clear. And fitting a baby seat into his pickup probably didn’t figure into his plans.

  And she wanted a baby seat, with a baby to put into it, someday. She wanted the kind of guy who was thinking long-term, who wanted a partner. It was what she’d always seen when she imagined her life—herself branching out from wedding photography into gallery shows, with a husband in a white shirt and tie coming home at the end of the day with a kiss, helping to give the kids their baths, offering to make her tea, talking to her as she loaded the dishwasher and got ready for bed…

  No matter how tempting it was to think about what it would be like to spend a night with Leo, he didn’t exactly look like the kind of guy who had marriage and fatherhood on his mind.

  Which made it that much more surprising when she realized that the man walking out of the drugstore just a dozen feet away was Leo.

  With his arms full of diapers, and what looked strangely like baby shampoo.

  Fumbling with the slippery package of diapers and the bulging bag from the pharmacy, Leo swore under his breath as he reached for his keys. At the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk, he looked up—and nearly dropped everything.

  Mackenzie.

  And she looked good.

  He’d spent the last three days trying to hammer the sight of her, the scent of her—thefeel of her—out of his head, which wasn’t easy when he was doing it in her backyard.

  She was dangerous, that was the thing. Dangerously curious, dangerously stubborn, and very dangerously tempting. Not a good combination, not for him. He’d finish the job on her shed because it was the right thing to do, but he’d been stupid enough to hope he could do it without seeing her again, at least not for more than a minute or two.

  Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Because here she was, close enough to touch and looking like she’d just walked off the beach in loose white
pants and a little blue T-shirt that hugged her breasts, her hair long and loose around her face. Tousled, a little sleepy, and unbelievably sexy.

  “Hi,” she said. In the street light, her eyes were nothing but a soft, dark gleam.

  “Hey.”

  She was fidgeting, dragging the toe of one sandal along the sidewalk, her mouth working as if she had something else to say. She looked so uncomfortable, he couldn’t take it. Juggling his purchases, he said, “Can I give you a ride home?”

  Her mouth opened in surprise, a round pinkO , and she blinked at him. “I…all right.”

  Oh yeah, this was the way to keep his distance.

  He motioned her around to the passenger side, and she held out her hand for his packages when he climbed into the driver’s seat beside her.

  “Shopping?”

  Girl didn’t miss a trick. “Yeah.”

  “For…diapers.” It wasn’t a question. She held the bulky package up to the light. “Newborn, I see.”

  “They’re for my neighbor,” he explained, turning the key in the ignition. The truck rumbled to life. “She just had a baby and her husband had to go out of town. Death in the family or something. I said I’d pick up a few things for her.”

  When she was silent, he cast his eyes in her direction and found her biting back a grin. “What?”

  She shrugged helplessly. “It’s just…well, it’s a little like seeing your grandmother revving up a Harley. I didn’t expect to see you with…this.” She held up a fuzzy duck washcloth he’d snatched off the rack on a whim.

  “My grandmother does drive a Harley,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road as he pulled out of the parking space.

  She laughed, stuffing the washcloth back into the bag and setting it on the floor. “I’m sorry. It’s just that you don’t look like the warm, fuzzy type.”

  He grunted. “Oh yeah? What type am I?”

  She didn’t answer immediately, and he cut his eyes sideways as he turned onto her street. This early in the season, most of the houses were dark; her porch light was a warm glow in the distance.