It wasn’t until she entered the room and met Sawyer’s gaze that she belatedly made the connection. Too late to go upstairs and pull on a robe. There was nothing scandalous about her pajamas, but she felt a little silly in front of him—barefoot in a pink T-shirt and shorts set that was covered in pandas. He sat at the kitchen table in a thin white T-shirt and pair of faded jeans, polishing off a sandwich and a glass of milk.
“Did I wake you?” His apologetic expression gave way to a slow smile as he studied her. “Cute pj’s.”
She held her head high, attempting dignity as she marched to the refrigerator. “They were a birthday present from Marc. And no, you didn’t wake me. I wanted a glass of water.” Which sounded more mature than she’d come down to stuff her face with pie in the middle of the night. Then again, this was her damn house, and who cared what he thought of her sleepwear or her eating habits? “And pie. I really want pie.”
“I was hungry, too. I never did get dinner earlier. Figured it would be best to let you and your sister catch up without an audience, then nodded off while checking the baseball scores. Woke up with my stomach growling. You don’t mind my raiding the pantry, do you?”
“Not at all. Just, if you finish something, write it on the grocery list so I can get more.” She tapped the magnetized notepad on the fridge. “And don’t ever finish the last slice of key lime pie. I’d have to kill you in your sleep.”
“Nah. You wouldn’t stoop to a sneak attack. If you decided to take a man out, he’d see you coming.”
“Thanks. I think.” When she opened the fridge door, she saw that there was over half a pie left in the fluted dish, and turned toward him. “You want some of this?”
He arched an eyebrow, his gaze wicked. “Just to clarify what you’re offering, sweetheart—”
“Oh, grow up.” She should be cold from the refrigerator, not tingling with warmth over his juvenile single entendre. Slamming the door shut, she retorted, “You know perfectly well what I was—and was not—offering.”
“Sorry,” he said, with an unrepentant grin. “Did Brody warn you I have a bad habit of teasing? I made one playful comment to Jazz today at lunch, and for a second I thought he was going to come across the table. He should know better than anyone that I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“And you should know better than to flirt with other men’s wives.” But her tone wasn’t sharp. Habitual flirt or not, Sawyer had been polite but restrained with her sister, and Becca was grateful. She carried her plate of pie to the table. “Thank you for not encouraging Molly.”
“Hit on your little sister under your roof? Oh, hell, no. I’m much too afraid of you for that.” He leaned back in his chair. “Besides, she’s not my type.”
“You don’t like redheads?” Why had she asked that? Sawyer’s taste in women was irrelevant, and God forbid he think she was fishing for compliments. It was not a Sensible Becca question. It was a midnight, key lime, to-hell-with-the-consequences question.
“I have nothing against redheads. I like women of all shapes, sizes, skin tones and hair colors. But getting involved with a girl that young?” He pretended to shudder, then flashed a wolfish smile. “I like experienced women.”
She just bet he did. “I’m going to pretend you mean life experience.”
“How do you know I didn’t? There’s something very appealing about a woman who’s had time to figure out who she is, who knows her own mind.” He held Becca’s gaze, and heat prickled over her skin like a full-body blush—one she hoped was invisible.
Looking away, she reminded herself that she was not foolish enough to take his words as a personal compliment. He was a chronic charmer whose flirting, by his own admission, meant nothing. Yet the thought of a man who could appreciate a strong-minded woman was heady. Since the divorce, her few attempts at dating had shown that too many guys were looking for a female who would defer to the big strong man in her life. The guy who’d come the closest to appreciating Becca had been Will Trent, who’d taken her to dinner last December, and praised Becca’s blunt, forthright nature. But she’d spent the evening exercising said bluntness and telling Will that if he had any sense, he’d win back the local florist who loved him. And I was right. Will and Megan had been together ever since.
Sawyer crossed the kitchen and returned with his own slice of pie. “Not that it’s any of my business, but you didn’t mention your sister was coming. Surprise visit?”
“Surprise doesn’t begin to cover it. Molly and I haven’t spoken much in the last few years.”
“Is she your only sibling?”
“Hardly. There are six of us.”
He gave a low whistle. “You said you could relate to my putting distance between me and my family, but that’s a lot of family.”
Hence the distance. “I love my brothers and sisters. I just didn’t want to be bogged down by them.” She sighed. “Is that selfish?”
“You’re probably asking the wrong guy. I do what I want and go where I want and barely remember to call my mom on Mother’s Day. But given how much you care about Marc and this whole town? Selfish is the last thing I’d call you.”
Until he said it, she hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear the reassurance. “I’m glad I rented you the attic.” She grinned at him. “Despite my original misgivings, you’re not completely terrible.”
“Thanks. I think.”
* * *
MARC SAT ON the kitchen floor, trying to pull up the bright blue socks; they were tight, because of the built-in shin guards. This was taking too long. His cereal was going to get soggy. He hated soggy cereal. One time, at Kenny Whittmeyer’s house, Mrs. W let them have cookies for breakfast. She’d said cookies probably weren’t any less healthy than doughnuts. Marc loved his mom, but no way would she ever serve cookies for breakfast.
“Morning.” Mr. Sawyer walked into the kitchen, pausing on his way to the coffeepot to ask, “Whatcha doing down there?”
“I have to put on these socks.”
“You sure those are socks?” Mr. Sawyer filled a coffee mug and took a sip without stirring in all the extra stuff Mama used. “They look long enough to be pants.”
“They’re special. For soccer.” Suddenly, Marc had an idea so excellent that he forgot all about soggy cereal and how he couldn’t kick the ball too good. “Do you wanna come to my game? You can cheer for my team, the Unicorns.”
“The Unicorns?” Mr. Sawyer didn’t say anything mean, but Marc could tell from his expression that he thought the team name was kind of dumb. “Was that your mother’s idea?”
“No. Everyone on the team had to suggest an animal, and then we voted. I said T. rex, but Jodie Prescott wanted unicorn. I guess unicorns are okay. They’re just like horses ’cept with sharp horns they can use to stab their enemies.”
“I don’t know much about soccer, but I think stabbing the other team is a foul.”
Marc grinned, climbing up from the floor to sit at the table with his new friend.
“Afraid I can’t make the game this morning,” Mr. Sawyer said. “I promised to help Brody on his ranch before the day gets too hot. Do you have another game soon?”
“Oh, yeah. Tuesday.” Marc had almost forgotten that he had to play a makeup game for one that got rained out. “Horse riding Sunday, piano on Monday, soccer on Tuesday.” Every Wednesday, they had dinner and choir rehearsal at the church.
“Sounds like you have a pretty full week.”
“Yep. On Thursday, we have soccer again. Practice, not a game.” Marc dipped his spoon in the cereal. Maybe it would rain on Thursday. Practice could get canceled. Mama would just reschedule it.
Mr. Sawyer frowned at him. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic. Do you like soccer?”
Marc glanced at the door to the garage; Mama had gone out to the extra refrigerator to get bottl
ed water for the team. She would be back any second. “It’s fine, I guess.”
“Want to try that once more with feeling?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” He followed Marc’s gaze toward the door. “Do you not want your mom to know how you feel?”
“I...” Marc didn’t want to complain about Mama. At school, there had been an assembly where the principal talked about bullying. She gave them a list of mean things they should never do, including talk “behind someone’s back.” Was that what he and Mr. Sawyer were doing? Marc got out of his chair and carried his bowl to the sink.
“Sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset.” Marc smiled over his shoulder, the same kind of smile he gave adults when they talked about his daddy and Marc didn’t want anyone to know he was sad. He didn’t want to be called a crybaby; getting called Shorty was bad enough. Even though Kenny Whittmeyer was Marc’s best friend, sometimes Marc got mad at him for stupid reasons—like being taller, even though Kenny couldn’t help it. And not having any lessons after school. Kenny used to take a karate class, but Mrs. W made him stop when he kept karate chopping stuff at the house, including his big brother, Coop.
A snake, no lessons and cookies for breakfast. That was the life.
From behind him, Mr. Sawyer said, “Tell you what, I will definitely come to your game on Tuesday.”
“You will?”
“Just let me know what time, and I’m there. Go, Unicorns!” He waved his hands in the air.
Marc laughed. This had been the best week since his birthday. First, Mr. Sawyer showed up. Then Aunt Molly, with her cool hair and bubble gum. If exciting surprises kept happening, soon Kenny might be jealous of him.
* * *
BY THE TIME Sawyer returned midmorning, the rain was coming down in horizontal sheets. Cupid’s Bow might be well east of the infamous Texas Tornado Alley, but the town was subject to major storms that rolled in off the coast. He’d been at Brody’s for only a couple hours before both men realized ranch work would be impossible today. Sawyer had decided to return to his room and work on an article, leaving the newlyweds free to enjoy their rainy afternoon.
He parked in the driveway and sprinted for the front porch, rather than go all the way around the house to his private entrance. Becca had given him keys that would work for either door. He was removing his boots beneath the wooden roof when her van pulled up alongside his truck. The driver’s door opened, and a navy blue umbrella blossomed like some mutant nylon flower.
She hustled Marc beneath the umbrella, concentrating her efforts on shielding her son rather than herself. The brief distance from the van to the porch left her as soaking wet as Sawyer was. He’d been considering taking off his damp shirt and leaving it on the porch swing to dry. Not an option for Becca, whose sodden polo shirt was clinging to the lacy bra beneath. Trying not to leer, Sawyer lowered his gaze...but then stole a peek from beneath his lashes.
Damn, her curves were sexy. He’d struggled against noticing last night, when she’d been braless beneath the thin material of her pajamas, but it was impossible to miss with her clothes plastered to her lush body. Turning away, he wrung out the hem of his shirt and tried to think appropriately G-rated thoughts. She had her kid with her, for crying out loud.
He cleared his throat. “Some weather, huh? Did your game get canceled?”
“No, we had time to finish before the rain started,” Marc muttered.
“We won,” Becca said cheerfully. “Six to four.”
“Because of Jodie Prescott,” Marc said. “She made most all of our goals.”
“Yep, Jodie’s quite a talent,” Becca agreed.
Mother and son didn’t seem to be having the same conversation. Becca was radiating pleased pride; Marc sounded as if he’d be happy to never see a soccer field—or Jodie Prescott—ever again. Surely Becca had noticed that her son wasn’t interested in being the next David Beckham? None of my business. Maybe Becca had overruled his objections because the exercise and fresh air were healthy. Marc might not like broccoli, either, but there wasn’t anything Sawyer could do besides shrug sympathetically. And make himself scarce from the dinner table on broccoli nights.
Becca knelt down to untie her son’s shoes and help him out of his shin guards. “You change into dry clothes as fast as you can, and I’ll see if we have the ingredients for hot chocolate. Not a typical drink for May, but this isn’t exactly ‘typical’ weather.” She rose, reaching for the door. “Actually, this storm is an excellent opportunity.”
Sawyer stared skeptically at the rain. “For what?” Turning the streets into canals and attracting tourists with gondola rides?
“Well, you and Brody can’t get any ranch work done in this.”
“Definitely not. Which is why I came back to—”
“And on the day I rented the attic to you, we agreed that occasional babysitting would cover your meals here.”
“True. But—”
“And my sister is in desperate need of a job. The sooner she starts applying, the sooner she’ll find one.”
“You want to go running around town now? I hope you have a boat in the garage.”
“Her willingness to seek employment in this weather will make a good impression. It demonstrates tenacity and a strong work ethic.”
Molly’s “willingness”? Somehow he didn’t think the young woman was going to get a choice in the matter—much like Becca wasn’t giving him any. Then again, he did agree to periodic babysitting. “Sure. I can watch Marc for a few hours.”
“I was hoping you’d see things my way. He’s not a picky eater, so lunch can be whatever’s simplest to make. He’s allowed one soda, as long as it’s not caffeinated. Thank you, Sawyer.” Becca beamed at him, her smile so approving that for a split second he felt like a hero. He would have agreed to almost anything she asked. Thankfully, instead of making more requests, she turned and went inside.
When he’d moved in, he’d told himself he could charm his disapproving landlady into liking him. But he had underestimated her charm. If Becca ever realized the true power in her smiles, he might end up wrapped around her manicured little finger.
Nah, no reason to panic. He hated being told what to do. That hadn’t changed. It was just damned difficult to say no to a beautiful woman in a wet shirt.
Chapter Six
The storm had not let up in the hour since Becca had loaded her scowling sister into the minivan, both of them in raincoats. If anything, the wind had increased and the thunder was growing louder. Sawyer stared out the window, trying to ignore just how uncomfortable he was with the idea of her out driving. Since when are you a worrier? He used to have casual conversations on the sidelines of rodeo arenas while his friends risked life and limb on the backs of fifteen-hundred-pound bulls. Becca had done just fine taking care of herself before he came along, and she didn’t need his concern.
Another thunderclap rattled the house, and he turned toward the sofa, where Marc was supposedly reading a book. It had been ten minutes since he’d last turned a page. They could both use something productive to do.
“Want to help me look for candles and flashlights?” Sawyer asked. “In case the electricity goes out.”
The kid frowned, his tone perplexed. “Even if the lights go out, we don’t need candles. It’s daytime.”
True. Becca had said she’d be back by four, or would call if Molly had a strong lead and needed more time to interview. “You’re right. Guess I’m just...” Worried? Preoccupied by your mother? Hoping that raincoat keeps her dry so no SOBs are leering at her in wet clothes? “Bored. Want to play a video game or something?”
“We don’t have a console. Kenny Whittmeyer has an Xbox. Even Jodie has a PlayStation.”
“Maybe you can ask for one for Christmas?” Sawyer
suggested sympathetically.
Marc flopped back on the couch. “That’s what Mama said, too. Do you know how far away Christmas is?”
I’ll be an uncle by then. It was a surreal thought. He and Charlie used to torment each other with stupid pranks. Hard to believe that the obnoxious kid who once stuck a frog in Sawyer’s boot was going to be someone’s father.
Thinking about those pranks, Sawyer felt a pang of nostalgia. As much as he and Charlie had plagued each other, they’d both adhered to the unspoken rule of no tattling. They’d relied on creative revenge rather than running to their parents—and woe to anyone outside the family who messed with either of them. They were a united front against perceived enemies. We were partners. Equal in worth, if not age. That had changed when Charlie went to college and became the first McCall to finish his degree.
“What about a board game?” Sawyer asked. “Or cards?”
“Do you know how to play checkers?”
“It’s been a while, but yeah. Want to play at the kitchen table and finish off the key lime pie?”
Marc’s eyes went wide. “That’s a bad idea. Key lime is Mama’s favorite.”
“Don’t worry, buddy, I was only kidding. But I could rustle up a snack if you’re hungry.”
He shook his head. “Can we play out on the porch? I want to see the rain.”
“The thunder doesn’t scare you?” Sawyer was impressed; that was some significant weather out there.
“It used to. But Mama and I watch the lightning from the porch swing sometimes.”
“Sounds good to me.”
As Marc scampered off to get the checkers board, Sawyer found himself imagining what it would be like to share that swing with Becca, her soft curves cuddled against him as the two of them marveled at the pyrotechnics of a Texas storm. Except it wouldn’t be the two of us. Becca was a package deal—and even if Sawyer’s life were stable enough that he felt comfortable dating a single mom, it was difficult to believe Becca would voluntarily snuggle up to him.
The Cowboy Upstairs Page 6
