Marina Adair - Need You for Keeps (St. Helena Vineyard #6)

by Unknown

  “You couldn’t have known,” she said quietly, tightening her arms around him.

  “I didn’t have to know. That’s why there are rules.” They were clear and Jonah had taken an oath to uphold them. But he’d made an exception and three people died. “I send his mom a card every year on his birthday, to let her know I’m sorry. He would have been twenty this week.”

  Shay was quiet for a moment. “Does it make you feel better? Sending her a card?”

  Jonah laughed, because it didn’t. If anything it made him feel worse. But talking to Shay alleviated some of that guilt he was so desperate to cling to.

  “You gonna send her one next year?” she asked, and he knew what she was really asking: When was he going to finally forgive himself?

  “I don’t know,” he lied, because he knew he would.

  They both did, but instead of telling him to move on or giving him some lame speech like his family and his fellow officers did, she gave him a gentle kiss.

  “I bet she appreciates it. Ricky’s mom. I bet it makes her smile that you honor his memory that way,” Shay said, and Jonah wondered if she knew how much of herself she gave away when she looked at him like that.

  “I hope so.” A part of him always hesitated, afraid that his cards brought up painful memories for the woman, but he couldn’t stop sending them.

  As if reading his mind, she said, “When my mom died I remember feeling sad and alone. If someone sent me a card, letting me know I wasn’t alone in my loss, it would have meant the world.”

  He wanted to know more about her world, wanted to know what it took to be a fixture in it. From what he’d noticed, Shay didn’t let people in. Oh, she had a bunch of people fluttering around the periphery, but very few, if any, seemed to actually make it in—and stick.

  “A card isn’t much, but I don’t know what else to do and I need to do something.”

  “And one day, that need will become a want and then it won’t hurt so much.”

  “I hope so.” He was looking forward to that day.

  Shay put her arms around him and burrowed in as close as she could get. “I know so.”

  She ran a hand over his back, as if trying to offer comfort and ease some of the tension he felt building, to let him know she was there. Unable to help himself, he pressed his face into the curve of her neck, breathing her in, and doing his best not to notice how damn good she smelled—she felt even better.

  “Thank you for listening. And for sharing,” she said, sliding her hands in his hair and moving against him and yeah, she was ready for a change in topic.

  “Want to come in and share some more?” he said, and before she could answer his lips were on hers because he too was done spilling his guts. To prove it he gave her a little nibble.

  She groaned and her head tipped back, a clear “go” when it came to other forms of connection. He sucked and kissed all the way down her neck, taking his time and showing her just how ready he was.

  “I can’t,” she said, pulling back, her gaze running the length of him while indecision and hunger played across her pretty face. “I want to. Like really want to, but—”

  He placed a finger on her lips, because he could work with want. He could also work with the need he saw in her eyes. “Thank God, because I was afraid you were making up some reason to leave.”

  “I am.” Suddenly her hands were on his shoulders and she was stepping back, right out of his arms. Connection broken. Any hope he’d had for taking this into the bedroom—or to the nearest flat surface—was broken. “But it’s a really good reason.”

  As far as he was concerned it better have something to do with a speeding meteor or zombie invasion, because there was nothing that needed more immediate attention than what was going on between them—and in his pants.

  “I am supposed to meet Mr. Russell at his store in . . .” She looked at her watch. “Shit. Four minutes ago. You distracted me.”

  She sounded pissy, but if anything it made him flex his chest a little. He liked being her distraction, liked that he was good at it. He wanted to prove he could be even better if she stayed. So he slid his arms around her waist and pulled her against him so she could see what kind of distractions he had to offer. “Call him and reschedule.”

  “I wish I could.” This time her hands came between them, but they landed on his chest, which proved difficult for her, so she crossed them in front of her, creating a wall. “He’s willing to cut me a deal on renting his store. A store, Jonah, where I can bring all my animals.”

  “That’s great.” He wanted her to get a store. He really did, but he also wanted her naked and moaning beneath him. But she was already in rescue mode, and she wasn’t out to rescue him anymore.

  “I need a favor.” She looked at the carrier and Jonah had a sinking feeling that he was about to get screwed—and not in the way he’d been hoping. “Kitty Fantastic needs his meds and to eat dinner and I can’t get him out of his cage. And I can’t bring him with me.”

  “Oh no,” he said, backing up, because from the growling emanating from the cage, Kitty Fantastic needed a complete attitude adjustment. And Jonah wasn’t the guy to do it. “I don’t have it in me to take care of a cat tonight.”

  “You just need to give him his meds.” She picked up the carrier and handed it to him. He noted that it had a little squirt bottle hanging off the side. “Plus, he’s here to take care of you. Thanks, Jonah,” she said, making her way down his front steps, leaving him no way out. “See you later.”

  A paw came through the cage, claws out looking for blood, and swatted at his leg. Jonah walked farther onto the porch, nearly tripping over a dozen cans of food, a litter box, and a twenty-pound bag of litter. “When is later?”

  Shay turned around to face him but didn’t stop walking. “I think it’s right after ‘anytime.’”

  Carrier in hand, Jonah shut the door behind him, the low hiss the only warning before five razor-sharp needles tore into his hand.

  “Not cool.” He lifted the cage and looked the cat in the eye, letting him know just who was in charge. “You have nails, but I have a squirt bottle.” He held it up to show him just how serious he was. The cat yawned. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll pull out the hose. Got it?”

  A little uncertain, the cat sat down in his cage but didn’t sheath his claws. “Now, for the house rules. No scratching me or my stuff, no peeing anywhere except the box I will put out for you, and no shedding. On anything. Understand?”

  “Make sure you tell him about your coaster rule. The one you get all menstrual about.”

  Jonah looked up to find another stray in his house and swore. Adam must have come in the back door—never a good sign—because he was sitting on Jonah’s couch watching ESPN. His feet on the coffee table, making himself right at home, and drinking Jonah’s beer—the one Shay gave him. No coaster in sight.

  He set the carrier on the table, gave the cat one last hard I mean business look, and opened the cage door. The cat licked his paw as though not intimidated in the slightest.

  Satisfied that he’d set the boundaries, Jonah snagged Adam’s beer and sat in his recliner.

  “I was drinking that,” Adam said, sounding put out.

  “Funny since it was in my fridge.” He took the remote and flicked it from baseball to soccer.

  “I brought a six-pack. It’s in the fridge,” Adam defended, grabbing for the remote. Jonah held it out of reach.

  “Good. Then go grab it and take it home.”

  “You’re in a mood.” Adam stood, making one last play for the remote. Jonah stopped him with a single glare and he gave up and walked into the kitchen.

  “See that,” he said to the cat. “He’s twice your size and knows not to screw with me.”

  When he looked back up, Adam was standing there smirking at him for talking to the damn cage. Jonah shot him the finger, and Adam sat down with enough chips, salsa, and beer nuts for ten. The beer, though, was one bottle—not the six-pack.

/>   Adam set the spread on the table, then his feet, then the beer—no coaster. Jonah picked up the water bottle off the side of the carrier, aimed, and fired. “Off.”

  Adam sprang up. “What the hell?” He wiped his arm over his face, pouting the whole time. “What did I tell you?” Adam said to the cage. “Menstrual.”

  “I thought you were going home,” Jonah said.

  “Can’t.” He pulled a coaster out from under the coffee table and obediently set his beer on top. “Frankie’s camped out on my porch, waiting to chew my ass out for missing Blanket’s first birthday last night.”

  “That was last night?” Jonah sat up to look out the window, checking for his sister’s car.

  “Yup.” Adam leaned back, this time sprawling his long body across the entire couch.

  Jonah watched as Adam dug into the bag of chips, raining little crumbs all over his leather couch. He held up the squirt bottle and Adam obediently cupped his hand under his mouth as he finished chewing.

  “So you came here?”

  “Snuck in the back. Figured if we stuck together we stood a better chance.”

  Their sister didn’t have kids, she had alpacas. A family of them, with their own luxury habitat complete with a playroom, splashing pool, and library. Frankie was also a straight-up ballbuster—with impeccable aim and a mean streak as wide as the valley. And when it came to her newest baby, Blanket, she could get a little intense. Which was saying a lot for a woman who had kneed her own husband in the nuts twice before getting around to telling him she loved him.

  “I’m good,” Jonah said. “I sent a present and a card last week on Blanket’s actual birthday, so you can leave and face Frankie alone.”

  “Aunt Lucinda sent that present. Picked it out, too.” Adam smiled, slow and smug, because he knew what Jonah knew. Frankie was a master BS detector. She had to be, growing up with three older brothers who dragged her into their schemes, then left her holding the bag.

  If she thought for a second that Jonah didn’t pick out Blanket’s present, which he did not, and passed it off as his idea, which he had, then he’d better start wearing a steel cup when he left the house.

  “Total Dad move by the way,” Adam said, and Jonah wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “He used to have Aunt Luce pick out all of Phoebe’s presents.”

  After Jonah’s mom passed away, his dad quickly remarried the free-spirited Phoebe, hoping to fill the void in his own life as well as his sons’. Phoebe was fun, whimsical, and a much-needed breath of fresh air for Jonah and his brothers.

  His dad, not ready to let go of the anger of losing his true love, never accepted Phoebe’s passion for life or forgave her for it. David wasn’t a bad guy, just misdirected, and normally Jonah didn’t mind the comparison, but in this case he did.

  “I’ll send her something else.” Maybe he’d even stop by her house and visit. Frankie’d like that. Ever since she married into the largest Italian family in town, she was all about sibling bonding, throwing BBQs, and all the things that made Jonah’s eye twitch.

  “Let me know how that works out for you,” Adam said, then pulled out his cell and started swiping.

  A few seconds later he flipped it around and there was a picture of Frankie with Blanket. They were standing in front of a HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner. The alpaca was making mincemeat out of the book Jonah had gifted the weed-eater, and his sister was wearing a black T-shirt and the finger.

  Jonah grabbed the phone to get a better look. The finger was a no-brainer, Frankie was just saying hi in her own special way. The shirt, however, looked like it had—

  Jonah sat up. “What the hell is she wearing?”

  “A WARREN’S GOT BOOTY tank top,” Adam said, flipping back to the baseball game. “They’re all the rage. Saw two ladies jogging in WARREN’S GOT BOOTY shorts on my way here.”

  “Look, I don’t care about who the women of St. Helena have on their butts,” he said. He just cared who Shay wore on her butt, and wondered if she was voting for Warren like she’d said a few weeks back.

  “You better check Facebook before you say that.”

  “I’m not on Facebook.”

  Adam froze, his expression going completely serious. “Don’t admit that, man, it makes you sound old. What’s your personal e-mail account again?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m making you a Facebook account. Never mind, I remember it,” Adam said, picking up his phone, his fingers flying over the screen. “I will even friend you, but don’t go posting pictures of your cat on my wall. It’s not cool.”

  “It’s not my cat.”

  “Whatever you need to tell yourself.” Adam looked over the screen of his phone, long and hard. “And cat pictures are never cool, got it?”

  Jonah gave him the whatever the fuck you need to hear, bro shrug.

  “Your password is BarneyFife82, as in how old you pretend to be.” He hit a final button and smiled. “As for what women have on their butts, you should always care. Especially if you want to win the election.”

  “People aren’t going to vote for Warren because he looks good in a calendar.”

  A few swipes to the phone later and Jonah actually cared who women had on their butts. Because lots and lots of women were sporting WARREN’S GOT BOOTY merchandise, and what had looked like a sheriff’s race slam-dunk for Jonah seemed to be shifting—in Warren’s favor. Not enough to make Jonah scared, but enough to have him taking notice.

  “What’s that?” He pointed to a link on Nora’s timeline that read “Which Sexy Candidate Fills Out the Uniform Best?”

  “A Facebook poll that Nora is hosting. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, yes, the guys at my station are going to give you so much shit when they see you next.” Adam laughed and then scrolled down. “You have the Boy Scout and Quick Draw categories in the bag, but Warren is smoking you in the Does Boot Size Matter?, Best Booty, and Where’s the Beefcake? categories.”

  “Where’s the Beefcake?” Jonah sat back in his recliner, no longer concerned. They couldn’t be serious.

  “Yeah, whenever a sheriff hopeful is spotted around town, making connections and securing votes, people snap a photo and post it here.” Adam held up the phone and scrolled slowly, showing Jonah a continuous stream of photos—all of Warren in his uniform, while he was on duty, shooting the shit with citizens all over town.

  Jesus, no wonder why response times had gone up. The prick was using county time to patrol for votes.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Couple days,” Adam said, putting the phone away. “So if you want this job, then you need to loosen up a little. Maybe call that hot girlfriend of yours. It’s too late to get in on the calendar, but maybe she could put you on her blog.”

  “First off, I am running for sheriff, not for most popular in the class yearbook.”

  “Aren’t they the same in this town?”

  “And second, Shay isn’t my girlfriend.” Sure, they kissed, and if the cat hadn’t sounded his alarm they would have done more. But that was a far cry from being his girlfriend.

  “Thank God,” Adam said, his eyeballs on Jonah. “Because I’ve been thinking of asking her out, and it would be weird to sleep with some hot chick that my brother is secretly picturing naked.”

  “Fuck off,” Jonah shot back, but Adam just laughed. “And we’re just friends. She asked me to cat sit Kitty Fantastic.”

  “Kitty Fantastic?” Adam’s lip twitched. “Is that some kind of new slang, because last time I checked, when a chick stuck her tongue down my throat like that, friend wasn’t the F word she was looking for.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Well, then let me uncomplicate it. You’ve been walking around all summer with your dick on your sleeve. And people are talking.”

  That got Jonah’s attention. “About me and Shay?”

  Adam snorted and grabbed a beer—Jonah’s beer. “The only person in town who doesn’t know there is something going on between
you and Shay is you. So do us a favor and invite the girl over for a pillow fight. In your bedroom.”

  Shay cursed her sandals as she ran up Main Street toward the old barbershop, wheezing as if she was about to go into cardiac arrest. She was only nine minutes late, but Ida had a gun—and who knew if it actually held water or bullets—so nine minutes could be the difference between life and death . . . for Mr. Russell.

  And for Shay getting that storefront.

  Shay burst through the front door of the shop, the bell jingling wildly in her wake. Bending over to catch her breath, she noticed there was no Mr. Russell in sight. However, there was a gun on the counter of the first station—water, thank God—and a set of red leather cuffs dangling from the barber’s chair.

  Shay had either missed her chance—or the grannies were hiding the body. Either way, she wouldn’t get the shop, which was more upsetting than she’d anticipated because even though it smelled vaguely of mothballs and hair tonic, the place was perfect. The deep bay windows lining the front of the shop would lend themselves to the vintage pet-shop feel Shay was going for. It was easy to picture her kittens wrestling in newspaper strips while families stood on Main Street and looked inside.

  The crown molding and abundance of natural light filtering in through the beveled windows made it feel more like a home than a shop, and the two stations and barber chairs were visible from anywhere in the store. Shay could groom her animals before sending them home to their families—a little glamour station of sorts where they would don their kitty couture and doggie allure . . . all of which she would make available to customers for purchase. And if she tore out the shelves on other side of the room, it would make it wide enough to have animal-friendly cages spread around the store so her babies wouldn’t be stacked on top of each other and people could interact with each animal individually.

  “Ida?” Shay called out, her voice bouncing off the walls. “Mr. Russell?”

  “Back here,” Ida returned.

  Shay followed the sound into the back room, which would make the perfect meet-and-greet area, and down a narrow hallway that led to—