SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club Book 4)

by Christie Ridgway

  By every objective measure, her mother was a fine-looking woman.

  “Gone out on any hot dates lately, Mom?” she asked on impulse, though her mother never spoke of such things.

  Instead of answering, Rebecca unzipped the duffel on the twin bed, grabbed up a stack of clothes, and walked them toward the pine dresser.

  Harper’s stomach clutched. “There’s no need to unpack, Mom.” Removing the shirts from her mother’s hand, she redeposited them in her canvas bag.

  “Well, you should at least hang this in the bathroom,” her mom said, handing over the toiletries bag.

  “Sure. Okay.” Harper walked it to the tiny bathroom they’d installed for her when she was twelve. Ducking behind the door, she slipped the hook over one towel rack.

  “You’ll want these there as well,” Rebecca said, and passed over her nightgown and lightweight robe. “Oh, and there’s clean towels in the cupboard. I forgot to get them out.”

  Harper put the nightwear on the hook behind the door then pulled out a towel and washcloth from the built-in cabinet and arranged them on the second towel rack. The shower was barely big enough for a single person, but through the glass door she could see there was body wash in the soap niche and a new scrubbie hanging from the hot water handle.

  Everything here just waiting for her return.

  Those dumb tears pricked her eyes again.

  She blinked, and tried redirecting her thoughts. “I’m serious, Mom, you’re not too old for romance, you know.” Her mother shouldn’t let her heart stay tied to Harper’s father, who had left town before she’d been barely more than a baby promise beneath Rebecca’s Sunnybird Farms T-shirt.

  That would be too, too sad.

  “Did you hear me, Mom?” Stupid to press the issue, but coming home and immediately seeing Mad had jarred some old feelings loose. She emerged from the bathroom to see her mom fussing with the starched white curtain framing the small window.

  That crisp fabric sent her mind straight back to her first boyfriend, his lean, muscled body, his white shirt, his striped tie—

  Her whole body froze. What the hell had she done with his tie? He’d handed it to her for safekeeping while he changed the tire. She didn’t remember returning it. But she recalled jumping into her car to escape him, tossing her hat into the half-zipped duffel. And the tie…?

  With a flutter of panic in her throat, she looked wildly about the small room.

  The duffel bag, empty.

  The small bureau upon which her ball cap now rested.

  One drawer, partly ajar, showing her clothes unpacked after all.

  And that piece of Maddox Kelly’s wardrobe, a length of silk that had felt warm between her hands, that had held his particular, delicious scent, now hung looped around one finial at the corner of the white-painted iron bed.

  Mad adjusted the custom table cover his sister had made him two Christmases before, the one that converted his large dining table into a proper, felt-covered poker surface. He’d bought the piece of furniture along with the bungalow that he lived in from his grandparents when they’d retired to Hawaii. About ten years before that, they’d downsized to it from a larger house outside of town, so this two-bedroom, two-bath home in one of the older Sawyer Beach neighborhoods suited him just fine.

  He walked through his house, making sure he was ready to host a Sunday night poker game. He and his six friends enjoyed a weekly get-together, and had since high school, but they’d had to move their usual night this time. Thursday hadn’t worked for a couple of them and when his vacation plans had been destroyed by that damn hurricane, he’d offered to take over from Eli King. That man’s life always operated on the edge of chaos, thanks to four sisters, a fiancée and her little girl—soon to be his, too.

  Mad had wanted the distraction. The truth was, after running into Harper Hill, he’d considered going on a solo vacation right then—strapping his boards on his vehicle and taking Highway 1 north as evening turned to night. But he’d be the first to admit he wasn’t impulsive, and really, there was no reason to think he’d encounter her before she took off again. There was plenty of room for the both of them in Sawyer Beach.

  It was a great place to live and he didn’t have a single itchy inch on his feet despite having been born and raised in this exact zip code. Though he was sure someone from a California big city like San Francisco, LA, or San Diego would see it as a small town, it wasn’t the least bit provincial. The vibrant, varied economic base gave it a certain sophistication and the beach to the west and the surrounding agricultural region provided unique qualities a man could never tire of.

  You want surf, you got it.

  You want mountain views and fertile valleys, you got that too.

  If you had a desire to sample some local wines and craft beers along with locally grown foods prepared by expert chefs…that was available as well.

  Mad wheeled the vacuum back into the utility closet. A housekeeper came a couple of times a month, but he liked his environment tidy and clean and wasn’t averse to getting out household cleaners and appliances. His sister Tracy said that he might be set in his ways, but at least he wasn’t a slob.

  Mad had decided to take that as a compliment.

  In the kitchen, he adjusted the plates and silverware on the peninsula then glanced into the refrigerator to see the beer and hard seltzers already cold as well as the guacamole and salsa he’d purchased at the Mexican market. The bakery stayed open on Sunday mornings, and he had a cardboard box of various cookies waiting.

  On his way out the door to the garage, he snatched his keys off the hook. Only one item left to pick up for tonight’s dinner. Poker night’s host provided the meal the crew shared before getting down to play. He had enough time to head to the weekly farmers market before it closed for the evening.

  Sunday afternoons local vendors sold their wares in the overlarge parking lot adjacent to the city administration building that also housed the post office and the library. Attendance was always strong and more than one performer offered live music as well. A face painter came out every weekend and the vintage car club lined their cars along a nearby street for a chance to show off their loving restorations.

  The line of gleaming classic vehicles brought Harper’s beater to mind, but Mad quickly dismissed her from his thoughts and headed in the direction of Alma, his tamale connection. He’d already texted her his usual order. Customarily he picked it up at her family’s taco shop, but on Sundays she had a booth at the farmers market where she’d promised to have it packaged and waiting for him.

  “I’ve been looking forward to Alma’s tamales since you offered to host,” a man’s voice said, then the man himself fell into step beside Mad.

  “Hey, Hart.” Mad glanced over, making a quick assessment of Hart Sawyer, one of his oldest friends. Hart’s great-grandfather had named the town and the family had prospered here. Hart owned a real estate development company and he’d seemed to live a golden life, which included reconnecting with his old college girlfriend at a reunion and quickly getting engaged to her.

  Then, just weeks before the wedding, Kim had died of a brain aneurysm, killing Hart’s plans for his future too.

  He’d lost weight, lost a lot of his usual spirit, and sometimes Mad suspected he’d lost all hope.

  “Hart,” he said now, “you need to hit the gym. Your biceps are looking scrawny.”

  The other man shrugged. “So you tell me all the time. I need to eat more too, which is why I mentioned the tamales. They sound good. So does a big batch of guac and that salsa you buy at the little market on the corner of Lemon and Palm.”

  “Maybe I’m not serving them tonight,” Mad said, a bit annoyed at being so predictable. “Maybe I’ve decided to go with…with, I don’t know, a tofu stir fry or something.”

  Hart’s chuckle sounded rusty. “Right. But sorry, bud. You know I love you, but you don’t have the imagination to come up with a new menu starring something like ‘tofu stir fry.’�
� He laughed again.

  “I do too have an imagination,” Mad muttered. Because what else was responsible for those damn dreams he’d been having, day and night, starring Harper Hill and her hot mouth and clinging arms and the sweet way she’d say his name. Yeah, she used to give him shit about being predictable and staid and an inveterate rule-follower but she’d responded so sweetly when he sent her his best authoritarian stare, giggling like crazy while she attempted to loosen him up.

  Then breathing hard and melting against him when she only managed to make him hard as a rock instead.

  “Who’s that with Sophie?” Hart asked now, his tone sharp.

  Mad glanced around, and saw the sister of Cooper, Sophie Daggett, arm-in-arm with some long-haired guy, sleeves ripped from his T-shirt, arms tatted up with colorful symbols. The pair strolled through the crowd ahead of them, weaving from one side of the aisle to the other, glancing at the booth selling artisan breads and then the one with handmade soap.

  “He doesn’t look familiar,” Mad said, then couldn’t resist baiting the hook. “I don’t think I’ve arrested him.”

  “Shit.” Hart narrowed his eyes. “Come on, let’s find out who he is.”

  “What? She has a big brother. Sophie won’t thank us for interfering in her life.”

  “You said you didn’t think you’ve arrested him,” Hart said. “That leaves room for doubt.”

  “I was kidding.” Mad stared at his friend. Yeah, he seemed unusually agitated and Sophie wouldn’t appreciate them dogging her heels, but it was the most animated he’d seen Hart in a long, long while. If worrying about the sister of one of his best friends made the guy come alive again, then he wasn’t going to argue any further. “But sure, let’s go catch up with them. If we get his full name I can do a records search through the department’s database.”

  Hart took off, without even seeming to realize that Mad wouldn’t do any such thing…because, yeah, against the rules.

  His friend was four strides ahead of him and Mad was so focused on keeping up that he didn’t look ahead to see that Sophie and friend had turned into another of the booths, a double-wide with a canopy top and long tables set up with baskets tilted to attractively display their wares.

  Through the throng of customers, he glimpsed rosy tomatoes and shiny green peppers. Some corn and avocados. With a feeling of inevitability, he took in the bright sign advertising Sunnybird Farm and the familiar woman standing right beneath it, smiling as she made change.

  Harper Hill.

  She wore a pair of jeans that looked as ancient as Friday’s cut-off overalls along with a T-shirt advertising the farm that he thought she’d had six years before, the ribbed neckline cut out to reveal her delicate collarbones and the color faded to a soft butter. Her dark hair was again woven into a long braid that hung over her shoulder, but this time a green ribbon bound the end. When she looked up, her gaze meeting his, he saw that it matched the exact shade of her eyes.

  His abdominal muscles tightened, his gut clenching to ward off a blow.

  “Hart,” he said, his voice urgent. “We should—”

  The woman who’d just been handed change—Sophie, he noticed now—turned, as if alerted by Harper’s shift of attention. “Hey, Mad! Hart! Look who’s back in town.”

  God. Too late to run the other way. His feet planted, he raised his hand in a greeting of sorts. “Yeah. Hi,” he said, his salutation lost in the general babble around him. Could he retreat now?

  Hart moved into the booth, proving he needed a refresher course on proper wingman etiquette. When the principal player didn’t want to engage, the helper was supposed to assist the principal in avoiding the undesirable situation, not plunge toward it.

  Maybe he could have drifted away anyhow, but Mad refused to surrender to cowardly impulse. So what that they’d run into each other again? He could exchange a pleasantry and then move on to more years of his life without her in it.

  Harper was already in conversation with Hart. As Mad drew up, she shot him a glance and a smile played at her mouth.

  That fucking, perfect, tempting, sweet mouth.

  “I can’t believe you seven guys are still playing poker after all these years.”

  “A lot of things change,” he said, “but not that.”

  “You were always loyal,” Harper said, still smiling.

  Unlike yourself. Maybe his expression communicated the words for him, because her smile wilted at the edges and she directed her attention to Sophie. “Remember when we named them the 7-Stud Club?”

  “I hate that name,” Mad said, scowling.

  Sophie threw him a laughing look. “Why do you think we came up with it?”

  “She still uses it whenever she wants to get a dig in,” Hart told Harper. “More of what never changes, Sophie being the pesky little sister to the entire crew.”

  In response to that, Sophie laughed and moved closer to Tatted Arms who appeared bored with their conversation, even though he slid his hand in her back pocket, a proprietary gesture that Mad saw had caught Hart’s attention too.

  A customer nearby held up a bag of lemons and requested a price, and Harper gestured the person forward and threw them a half-apologetic glance. “Back to work for me, sorry.”

  Sophie stepped away to let the buyer closer. “We get it. Can we count on catching up later, though?”

  “I don’t know.” Harper murmured a price to the woman and waited while she rummaged through her purse. “It’s a flash visit,” she told Sophie.

  Relief rushed through Mad. That was her second assertion. Friday she’d said she wouldn’t even be unpacking her bags. He drifted backward, on the verge of escape.

  “Mad.” Harper’s voice caught him one step away from freedom.

  His gaze shot toward hers. “What?”

  “I’ll have to catch up with you again, though.”

  He stared.

  “I have something of yours.”

  His heart? After six years did she believe she still had hold of it?

  “Your tie,” she said, when he continued staring at her.

  “Oh. Yeah. Right.” Until now, he’d forgotten he’d handed it to her before changing her tire and hadn’t taken it back.

  So now it was tying them together.

  Fuck Freud, you know that?

  Without another word to her, he moved again, headed down the aisle toward Alma’s Tamales. Shit. Should he go back? He could tell Harper to leave it in his mailbox.

  But then she’d know where he lived.

  Flash visit, he reminded himself, staving off any overreaction. She’d be gone before he knew it.

  But until then, he thought, a dark mood descending, this town was too damn small.

  Chapter Three

  Harper sat up in bed and smiled at her mom as she came through the door, bearing a steaming mug of coffee. “You didn’t need to bring that to me.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Rebecca said, passing it over and seating herself on the edge of the mattress.

  One sip had Harper moaning in pleasure. “Grandmom’s secret, cinnamon sprinkled on freshly ground coffee. Careful. I could get used to this.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  Harper froze, the steam coming off the mug bathing her face. What day was this? Tuesday? She’d taken two weeks’ off, but frankly wouldn’t have surprised herself by being back at the bar yesterday. But Sunday she’d helped out with the farmers market until it closed at six, which meant it was too late to start the long drive back to the desert.

  Then yesterday…

  At breakfast, Grandpop had brought in just-picked zucchinis and tomatoes and Grandmom needed help chopping to make her famous ratatouille for lunch. Her mom had gone into town and brought back a crunchy loaf of sourdough from the bakery. Missing that meal had not been an option.

  Lunch had turned into afternoon which had turned into late afternoon, early evening, evening. More good food, more time around the kitchen table, more idle moments in the
kitchen garden taking in the scents of things growing, thriving, green.

  So different from the odors of stale beer, bleach-drenched bar mats, and air-conditioning in need of servicing.

  A small vase of lavender sat on her bedside now, its scent mingling with the coffee and cinnamon and she wondered if she could bottle the mixture and bring it with her to the apartment she shared with her roommate. The walls were painted Navajo white. There was a steer skull on the coffee table in the living room. A dreamcatcher the size of a wagon wheel hung in one corner like a spider ready for desert rat-sized flies.

  “Harper?”

  Her mom’s voice brought her back to her pretty, sunlit room. To her pretty mother.

  I could get used to this.

  Instead of voicing that again, she cleared her throat. “Yes, Mom?”

  “Grandpop,” she said, grimacing. “He seems to think we’ve had another…event.”

  Harper shot straighter against the pillow. “What event?”

  “That shed down by the road? It’s always been full of odds and ends and he claimed he had a box of plumbing parts in there. He wanted to replace the gate valves in the kitchen garden and he says someone’s taken all the copper and brass pieces.”

  Covers thrown back, Harper exited the bed, only stopping to grab her robe before heading down the stairs. “I want to hear it from him.”

  Her mother caught her arm. “Grandmom says she’s not sure…Grandpop might not know exactly what was in there.”

  Frowning, Harper turned. “Grandpop’s not forgetful.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “Honey, he’s aging.”

  “Grandpop’s not aging.” Panic shot through her.

  “He’s in his seventies, Harper.”