Her sister looked startled by the offer, but then waved her hand in a shooing motion. “No. You should go.”
With a nod, Becca turned toward the door, touched when Molly added quietly, “But thank you.”
* * *
BECAUSE MOLLY CALLED in sick to work Friday, everyone was home that night. The mood was odd—not tense, in Becca’s opinion, but unnaturally subdued. Marc was quiet through dinner; Lyndsay had admitted on the phone that she’d probably let the boys stay up too late. Molly had insisted on joining them at the table, as if it was some kind of penance, dining on weak tea and crackers without saying much. Sawyer was...
Actually, Becca had no idea what Sawyer was doing or thinking, because she’d barely allowed herself to look at him all evening. She was paranoid her smiles or glances would reveal too much, that anyone who saw them together would somehow know they’d been intimate. Ridiculous, yet she couldn’t quite shake the irrational fear.
It wasn’t until after dinner, when Molly retreated to her room and Marc took the puppy out, that Becca felt comfortable enough to address Sawyer directly. Even then, she kept her gaze on the dinner dishes she was scrubbing furiously, rather than make eye contact.
“I’m not trying to ignore you,” she apologized.
“I know.” His tone was amused, affectionate.
Still, she felt bad for giving him what a less understanding man might deem the cold shoulder. “This is all so new to me and I’m having trouble acting natural, but it doesn’t mean you’ve done anything wrong or—”
“I know, Becca.” He gently squeezed the nape of her neck, and she almost jumped.
She glanced back, meaning to smile at him, but frowned instead. “You’re taking this awfully well.” Because he’d had so many affairs he could be sophisticated and blasé about having seen her naked?
“I’m not taking it nearly as well as you think. I wanted to kiss you all through dinner, wanted to call you a least a dozen times today, and of course, there’s that kitchen table right there...”
She followed his gaze, her pulse quickening as she recalled his words this morning. She couldn’t remember ever having had fantasies about doing it on the table, but she was pretty sure there were some in her future.
“But,” he continued, “you indicated this morning that you needed a little time to adjust. The last time I backed off and let you come to me, it worked out very well.” He gave her a lazy grin that didn’t mask the predatory gleam in his eyes. “Gives a man hope.”
She smiled back, but knew that hope of his wouldn’t be paid off tonight. She was spending the evening with Marc and planned to stay close by if he needed her—no sneaking up to the attic. “You may have a little bit of a wait.”
His gaze darted back and forth, and once he’d ensured there were no witnesses, he ducked in for a lightning-quick kiss, over before it began, but still enough to make her tremble. “You’re worth it.”
When Marc came back inside, Sawyer made small talk with him for a few minutes and then excused himself, gracefully giving Becca the space she needed. He’s damn near perfect. Except for the pesky leaving-in-a week part. She decided not to think about it.
“Mama, when are we going to hear the TV lady sing?” Marc asked.
“You mean the concert? Day after tomorrow. Are you looking forward to it?”
Marc nodded, but he seemed more dismissive than excited. “Is Mr. Sawyer coming with us?”
“Yep.” She’d given him one of her VIP tickets.
“Maybe since there’s music, you should dance with him.”
She frowned at the uncharacteristic suggestion, trying to remember if she’d ever heard him mention dancing before. Where was this coming from? “I suppose it’s a possibility.” Maybe if she danced with a couple different people, so it didn’t look as if she was singling him out...
Did Sawyer like to dance? He was a rodeo champion, so he obviously liked physical recreation. And after last night, she could attest that he had a keen sense of rhythm.
“Did you and Daddy ever used to dance?”
This line of questioning was getting weirder; Marc rarely ever mentioned his dad. “We did at our wedding. Would you like to look at the photo album sometime?”
While she personally didn’t want to dwell on her romance with Colin, she didn’t want to erase Marc’s sense of having a father...even if Colin had been more a figurehead than a hands-on parent. He’d showed up to play proud dad at T-ball games and church choir concerts, had always smiled brightly in their family Christmas photo, but when it came to the nitty-gritty of their daily lives? Becca had run everything, from selecting the pediatrician to deciding Marc’s bedtime and extracurricular activities. In retrospect, she was ashamed that she had never pushed Colin to take a bigger role. Because she’d liked being in charge, it hadn’t bothered her. Colin worked long hours to support their family, and she’d thought the two of them were simply playing to their strengths. If she’d encouraged him to spend more time bonding with his child, would he have stayed for Marc’s sake?
Shaking off the past, she smiled brightly at her son. I’ll just have to love him enough for both of us. “Why the sudden interest in dancing? Want me to teach you how it’s done?”
He backed away, looking vaguely horrified. “No, I just thought you might like to dance. With Mr. Sawyer.”
Wait, was this her seven-year-old trying to play matchmaker? “I’ll ask him about it,” she said neutrally. If the concert were in a neighboring county where she didn’t know anyone, she’d like nothing better than to spend the evening in Sawyer’s arms.
But here in Cupid’s Bow? She’d been insisting to others that he was a tenant and nothing more; if she snuggled up to him publicly, she’d get some serious side eye. Well, except maybe from Amy Prescott, who’d probably just want to high-five her.
“Honey, you know that Mr. Sawyer isn’t my...boyfriend, right?” No, definitely not a boyfriend, just my secret lover. Guilt suffused her. Was she a terrible mom for sleeping with a man she’d known only a week?
Marc didn’t answer. “I’m going to get the checkerboard. You said you’d play after dinner,” he reminded her.
She nodded, glad they weren’t playing anything more mentally taxing. Her thoughts had been jumbled all day, and now she had new worries. She was glad her son thought so highly of Sawyer, but she didn’t want to give him false hopes. He’d already been abandoned by his father; if Sawyer broke his heart, the kid might end up needing therapy.
Thinking of her conversation earlier with Molly, about their childhood and whether or not their mom had loved them, Becca sighed inwardly. Frankly, we could all benefit from a little counseling. Maybe they could get a group discount.
* * *
“HATE TO SAY I told you so,” Brody said with faux sympathy, “but I don’t think your landlady likes you. At all.”
“Is that so?” Sawyer tipped back his straw cowboy hat and pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe the sweat off his face. This morning’s sun, though warm, had been bearable; the afternoon temperatures weren’t playing so nicely. Oh, this would be nice enough weather for fishing on the shaded bank of a river or napping in a hammock—preferably with Becca cuddled against him—but the last few hours of assembling booths and makeshift stages for the festival had been grueling manual labor.
Brody put down the toolbox he’d carried over from the other side of town square. “Well, she’s bossing all of us around—it’s Becca way—but she really seems to have it in for you.”
Sawyer grinned inwardly, thinking of how flustered she’d been that morning when they’d had their customary encounter by the coffeepot. She’d started to admit that she’d had a dream about him last night, but had abruptly cut herself off, cheeks reddening. She likes me just fine. In fact, he’d love to tell his friend about what had happened—no
t because he wanted to brag about going to bed with her, but simply because she hovered in his thoughts constantly. Being unable to share any of those thoughts was stifling.
Before the two of them had left the house that morning, Becca had reiterated that it was important everyone see them as platonic, for Marc’s sake. Recalling how vulnerable the kid had seemed when he’d asked if Sawyer was going away, Sawyer had readily agreed to play it cool in public.
Becca, however, was overcompensating. She was an all-or-nothing woman, and acting casual was clearly not in her repertoire. First there’d been her refusal to so much as glance at him at dinner. Now she was going out of her way not to show him any favoritism, even though he was the only nonlocal who’d volunteered to help set up the festival. Last night he’d been amused by her terrible show of feigned indifference. Today, he was...oddly aroused. Turned out there were times he could appreciate a bossy woman, especially when he vividly recalled her climbing atop him two nights ago.
Besides, her determination to keep him busy made him feel like part of the inner circle. The longest break he’d had all day was the last thirty seconds, which was akin to how she ran Molly’s and Marc’s lives. She meant well, trying to keep Molly out of trouble and wanting Marc to be well-rounded with his music lessons and sports and junior civic duties. It was hard to fault her intentions, even if Sawyer didn’t particularly agree with her methods. In her own manic, she-should-probably-cut-back-on-caffeine kind of way, keeping people active was how she showed she cared.
Now, if only the rest of the town realized that.
While Brody’s heckling about her was more of a running joke than a real accusation, some of the other volunteers were grumbling about how hard Becca was working them.
An hour later, waiting for his turn to fill a cup of water from the cooler, Sawyer tried to defend her. “She has a fun side,” he protested.
A bald, burly man in a Cupid’s Bow Fire Department T-shirt raised his eyebrows. “Who are you, again? And how do you know Becca?”
“Sawyer McCall.” He shook the man’s hand. “I’ve been renting a room from her for the past week.”
“Ah. Maybe she’s more relaxed at home,” the man said skeptically, “but my cousin worked at the community center last summer, said Becca is a total perfectionist.”
“That would be a good quality in a mayor,” Sawyer said. “You know she’d never do a half-assed job.”
“But a big part of the job is being able to work with others. If she alienates everyone, how will she get anything done? Assuming she can even win the election.”
“It’ll be close.” Manuel Diaz, who’d introduced himself to Sawyer that morning, reached for the paper cups stacked next to the ice water. “But she has my vote. Sierra’s been telling all of us at the hospital what a great job Becca will do. It may come down to the small business owners—they’re the backbone of the town’s economy, and Truitt’s been wooing them with grand promises. I hope they keep in mind on voting day how few of those promises he kept this term.”
The bald man grinned. “Damn, Manny, didn’t realize you were so interested in local politics. Maybe you should be on the town council.”
Manuel chuckled. “Sierra and my girlfriend both say that, too.”
After that, conversation turned to local gossip and Sawyer walked away with a polite nod, sipping his water and thinking over everything he’d heard. He wouldn’t be in Cupid’s Bow much longer, but maybe he could do some good while he was here.
* * *
SAWYER SAT BEHIND the steering wheel, watching through the windshield as Becca finished talking to an elderly lady in a Houston Astros shirt, and a short bearded man. Even though Sawyer was tired and ready for a shower, he didn’t mind the wait—not when he had this view of sunlight shining on Becca’s red-gold hair or the sway of her body as she gestured. But then she turned toward the truck, and he dropped his gaze so that he wasn’t caught staring.
“Sorry I took so long,” she said as she climbed in.
“No worries. You did warn me, after all.”
When he’d suggested riding into town together, she’d originally declined, pointing out that, as festival chair, she might have to stay longer. Wanting time alone with her—even if it was just the fifteen-minute ride back to the house—he’d told her he’d wait if necessary. He’d eventually cajoled her into agreeing, teasingly reminding her that one vehicle was better for the environment than two, and she had voters to impress.
Speaking of which... What was the best way to tell her about the brainstorm he’d had earlier?
Her head fell back against the seat. All day, she’d projected an image of being in charge, reassuring people who came to her with problems, and “motivating” would-be slackers to get the job done right. Now she sighed, her expression showing hints of vulnerability. “I’m exhausted.”
Oh, boy. That might make tonight a less-than-ideal time for the houseguests he was about to spring on her. But it was still early evening. “Think you have time for a nap before dinner?”
She stifled a yawn. “If I lay down now, it would be too hard to get back up.”
“I worry about you running yourself ragged.” It was almost enough to make him feel guilty about that third time they’d had sex Thursday night, and how little sleep she’d gotten. Almost.
“Things are just crazy right now, with the centennial and the mayoral campaign,” she said. “I’ll catch up on my rest after the election.”
He snorted. “After the election, you’ll be too busy running the town.”
“Then I’ll delegate someone on my staff to take naps for me.” She reached over to squeeze his hand, and he wanted to stop the truck and kiss her. “You really think I’m going to win?”
She would if he had anything to say about it. “You know how you’ve said I should feel free to use the common areas?” She’d told him to make himself at home in the living room and kitchen, so long as he cleaned up after himself and respected her policy about grocery inventory.
She frowned at the non sequitur. “Sure.”
“And you meant it, right?”
“Yes.” But she said it warily.
“Great—because I invited a few people over tonight.”
“Tonight?” Her voice was shrill, one might even say edged with panic. She took a deep breath. “How many is ‘a few’?”
“Four or five. Enough for a rousing game of poker at the kitchen table.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “And it had to be tonight? The festival kicks off tomorrow, and I’m trying to prepare for the debate on Monday.”
And he wanted to help. If tonight went well, maybe there’d be a few more friendly faces in the audience at that debate. “I promise my motives aren’t selfish—they’re political.”
She laughed. “Cynics would say those usually go hand in hand.”
“You know Manuel Diaz, right?” At her nod, he added, “He thinks some of the local business owners could be very important in this election. But you have a certain...reputation in town. For being...”
“Controlling? Bossy? This is Sierra’s posters all over again,” she muttered.
“Whose what?”
“My friend Sierra. She works with Manny in physical therapy at the hospital. You wouldn’t believe what she wanted to put on the campaign posters.”
“Becca Johnston for Global Domination?”
She rolled her eyes. “Vote for Our Favorite Control Freak. As I told her, there’s nothing freakish about being organized.”
“You are not a freak of any kind. You’re smart. And determined. And funny. And bighearted.” He could name a dozen more things he loved about her—but it wasn’t his good opinion she needed. “But it’s possible some people in town haven’t had a glimpse behind the public image yet, at the real you. So I invited Manny, who
’s already on your side, and a few men in town he thinks are influential.”
“Just men, huh? I’ll have you know, women can be excellent poker players. In college, I won enough one semester to pay for all my textbooks.”
“For the record, I also asked two women, but neither of them could make it on such short notice. Thank God you play, because this will work a lot better if you join us.”
“Why would anyone decide to vote for me just because I play a couple hands of poker with him?” She clenched her jaw. “If you think for a second I’m going to let someone win—”
“Nah, I would never ask that of you.” And he wouldn’t respect her half as much if she stooped to that kind of manipulation. “Be yourself. Just don’t gloat too much if you kick our asses.”
“I make no promises.”
Chapter Twelve
Manny rose from his chair, looking toward the dealer. “Count me out this round—I have an early morning.” He flashed a teasing smile. “Plus, I’ve lost all the money I can afford to for one night.”
Becca checked her watch. “I actually have to leave to pick up Molly in about fifteen minutes, anyway.”
As people stood around the table, Sawyer allowed himself a self-congratulatory smile. Tonight had turned out even better than he’d expected. Not financially—he was down nineteen bucks—but for Becca. He watched her now, as she joked with the editor of the local newspaper, the Cupid’s Bow Clarion. She looked relaxed and happy...and thirty dollars richer. Conversation had centered around the festival and some good-natured trash talking.
As a scowling Roger Sands approached Becca, however, Sawyer realized that the town councilman was getting less good-natured by the moment. “A Johnston taking my money,” the balding man growled. “Just like old times.”
Becca stiffened. So did everyone else, eyes on her as the men in the room waited to see how she responded. Manny took a step closer to Becca, as if preparing to intervene on her behalf.
The Cowboy Upstairs Page 15
