by Debbie Mason
And he looked like he wanted to thump his head on the steering wheel. “How long is she staying?”
“Umm, looks like it might be for a while.”
“A while as in a couple of days?”
“More like weeks.” She sighed when Gage groaned.
“Oh, Skye, I didn’t see you there. What are you talking about? I’m thrilled to bits to have you here. See you when you get home, sugar. No, I’m not nervous. I don’t know why you’d—” They heard her say before she disconnected.
“So, who’s the houseguest?”
“Madison’s best friend, Skylar Davis. Sweet girl, but kinda crazy. Bleeding-heart liberal with more money than God. You don’t want to get her in the same room with Ethan.” Gage grimaced as he turned onto Main Street. “I hope she’s gone before he comes home.”
“They don’t like each other?”
He snorted. “The night before we got married they liked each other just fine. It was once they sobered up and started talking instead of making out that we had a problem. They nearly ruined our wedding.”
“Sounds like you’re going to have your hands full, Sheriff.”
“You’re telling me.” Gage pulled in front of the bakery. “Go work things out with your wife.”
“I’ll do my best. Thanks for the ride and for looking after little Jack. To think yesterday I thought my biggest problem was getting my kid to like me.” He gave his head a weary shake as he got out of the Suburban. “Tell Madison I’ll be over—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll bring him home. Gives me an excuse to get out of the house. I have a feeling I’ll need one.”
At the sight of the basket lying on the ground outside the purple door, it took some effort for Jack to smile. “Thanks.”
“Good luck.”
“I think I’ll need it,” he said as he closed the door of the Suburban and walked over to pick up the basket. Halfway up the stairs, trying to figure out what to say to his wife, he spotted his black duffel bag outside the apartment door.
He’d need a lot more than luck. He’d need divine intervention.
Chapter Thirteen
If these two were his divine intervention, someone upstairs had fallen asleep on the job. “I’m good, boys,” Jack called back to Fred and Ted, who stood on the sidewalk loudly voicing their doubts about his tree-climbing abilities.
The older men sauntered down the lane between the two buildings, coming to stand beneath the oak tree Jack’s great-grandfather had planted eons ago. Situated at the back corner of the bakery, its leafy branches brushed up against his old bedroom window—his son’s now. Grace should know better than to think a locked door and unanswered calls would keep him away. And damned if he was going to let her kick him out because of a stupid misunderstanding. He loved her and only her. He wondered if she’d believe that after he told her what he had to.
Shoving his doubts aside, he jumped and grabbed hold of the low-hanging branch.
Fred scratched his whiskered chin. “Little old to be climbing trees, don’t you think?”
Jack pulled himself up and swung his leg over the nearest branch. “Thirty-three isn’t old.” He grunted, then realized he wasn’t thirty-three. He was thirty-five.
He pushed down the anger at the time the bastards had stolen from him with the reminder that he was one of the lucky ones. Look what the kid, Stu Thomas, had come home to. At least Grace hadn’t given up on him, hadn’t moved on with her life. She sure as hell had more reason to do so than Stu’s wife. Yeah, Jack was one of the lucky ones.
“Seem to remember you falling out of this here tree a time or two when you were a young whippersnapper. You’re old now, might not bounce back as quick as you did then,” Ted observed.
“I’m not old,” Jack repeated as he climbed higher. He pulled himself onto a branch. It creaked under his weight. Shit. He wasn’t old, but he was considerably heavier than he’d been back then.
“What’s that you said?” Ted asked.
“Turn your hearing aid up,” Fred told his friend then returned his attention to Jack. “So, you and Grace doing that role-playing thing we hear all the young gals talking about these days? Who are you supposed to be, Romeo?”
Role-playing. Nope, he wasn’t going to touch that one and latched on to the branch over his head instead.
“The girls weren’t talking about Romeo, Fred. They were talking about that Christian Grey character in those dirty books they’re all reading. You know, the one Nell had her nose buried in the other day.”
If he had his hands free, he’d stuff his fingers in his ears. The last thing he wanted to think about was Nell McBride reading a “dirty book.” Now, Grace… He smiled at the thought.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Jack,” Fred yelled up, “if you want to spice up your love life, forget Romeo, pretend you’re that Grey fella from… What’s the book called?” he asked Ted.
“Hang on a sec. I’ll text Nell. You want me to ask her to loan you the book, Jack?”
“No. My love life’s fine.” It had been until today. He swore under his breath when he spotted Murray limping up the alley toward them. Could he not do anything in this damn town without drawing a crowd? If Fred and Ted were his divine intervention, Murray was hell’s response.
“Not from what I hear, it isn’t, boy-o.” The old man scowled up at Jack. “You get down from there right now. I know what you’re up to. You leave that girl be. I told her she should’ve let the town cut down that tree when they wanted to—never know what kind of vermin’s going to climb up it.”
Jack ignored the bane of his teenage existence and tested the branches that came closest to the window, looking for one strong enough to hold him.
“What are you talking about, Patrick? The boy’s wooing his wife. Making up for lost time,” Fred defended Jack.
Murray snorted. “A lot you know. He was messing around with another woman, and Gracie caught him at it.” He looked up at Jack. “You broke Libby’s heart, and I’ll not be letting you do the same to Gracie. You get yourself down here now.”
Before Jack could tell Murray to go to hell, Ted piped up, “You got it all wrong. Me and Fred were there. He wasn’t messing around with the girl. He was looking out for her. Poor thing’s having a hard time of it. Jack’s honor bound to be there for her. She might be a civilian, but over there she was one of his.”
Just what he needed to hear. Now Jack felt guilty for abandoning Maria at the hospital. She was in good hands, he reminded himself. And as much as he wanted to deny it, Murray was right. Grace was hurting, and that was on Jack. He should’ve told her about Maria instead of putting it off.
“Ted’s right. You were never in the military, Patrick. You don’t know what it’s like. Me and Ted do. We look after our own.”
“I look after my own, too,” Murray said with a smirk in his voice as he whipped out his cell phone.
“Women like chocolate, Jack. Might help soften Grace up. I’ve got a box in my truck. They’re from Valentine’s Day, but they should still be good. How ’bout I go get them for you?” Fred called up.
“Appreciate the offer, Fred, but I’m good. Thanks,” Jack said, testing the last branch with the bulk of his weight while he kept a wary eye on Murray. Jack didn’t like the self-congratulatory expression on the old man’s face.
“I’m going to text Nell and get you that book, Jack. Patrick, why don’t you help him out and cut some of them lilacs Grace likes so much?”
“I’ve got a better idea. I’m gonna make sure Jackson here gets exactly what he deserves,” Murray said.
“Good idea. Go get your ladder. That branch he’s on doesn’t look like it’s going to hold out much longer,” Fred said to Patrick Murray’s retreating back.
On the off chance Fred was right, Jack quickly shimmied along the branch. He grabbed the ledge, then pushed on the bottom of the window frame. Releasing a gratified breath when he got it open, he eased it higher. With both hands now gripping the ledge, he
started to pull himself through the window. As he did, the branch cracked.
“Jack!” the two men yelled.
He turned his head to tell them to relax when the branch gave way. “Watch out,” he shouted as it crashed through the tree and onto the pavement. Jack worked his elbows onto the ledge. The muscles in his arms quaked, belying his reassurances to Fred that he was okay. Anchoring his feet between the wooden slates, he got his head and shoulders through the window. He grabbed on to the edge of the change table and pushed off with his feet. The momentum sent the table crashing to the floor with him following after it.
Jack lay flat on his back on the Thomas the Tank Engine area rug. He wondered if he should yell, “Honey, I’m home.” Taking in the broken table and jars scattered across the dark hardwood floor, he had a feeling his wife wouldn’t be amused.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot. The sheriff’s on his way.”
Oh, come on. He understood her being mad, but this was ridiculous. He decided she must be joking, but couldn’t be sure since the crib and his position on the floor blocked her from view. All except her bare feet and hot-pink-painted toes.
“Drop your weapon,” she ordered in a no-nonsense tone of voice, one that reminded him of her father and made him rethink his position.
“Grace, it’s me.” He shoved the basket of diapers and bath toys from his legs and levered himself up. Through the rungs of the crib, he saw her. She looked like an avenging angel standing there in a white robe, her hair a golden cloud around her face as he stared down the barrel of the gun she pointed at him. Jesus, she looks hot was his first thought, followed quickly by Shit, she looks like she knows what she’s doing and she’s not kidding around.
* * *
“Ah, Grace,” her rat bastard husband said as he slowly came to his feet, “a gun isn’t something you want to fool around with. Why don’t you give it to me?”
She rolled her eyes at his condescending tone. She didn’t need instruction from him. Eyeing her warily, he slowly came around the crib. At the sight of the tear in the knee of his well-worn jeans and the scratches on his arms, she swallowed the biting retort she was about to make. She drew her gaze from his well-defined biceps and noticed the bruising and the cut at the corner of his mouth. “What happened?” she asked, fighting the urge to touch his mouth. “You’re bleeding.”
He rubbed his jaw. “Sawyer,” he said, then looked down at himself with a rueful twist of his lips, “and the tree.”
As she was getting into her bath, she’d received a text from Madison about the fight on Main Street and Sawyer and Jack’s brief stay in jail. She hadn’t mentioned they’d been hurt, though. Whatever sympathy Grace might have felt vanished with the memory of why they’d been fighting. “There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom. You can clean up before you leave.”
He moved closer and reached for the gun she’d yet to lower. “I’m not leaving. I know you’re mad, princess. But we have to talk about this.”
“This as in you making out with another woman in front of half the town, is that what we have to talk about?” She jerked the gun away.
“Be careful with that thing.”
“It’s not loaded. I only had enough time to unlock the case after receiving Patrick’s text and hearing the crash. I have a precocious—”
“What do you mean, Patrick’s text?”
“He texted me that an armed intruder was climbing through little Jack’s bedroom window and that he’d called the sheriff.”
“What the hell was he thinking? He could’ve gotten me killed.”
Jack was right. Patrick was protective of her, but this time he’d gone too far. Still, she felt the need to come to his defense. “He knows I don’t keep the gun loaded.”
“You don’t need a gun.”
“Yes, I do.” She eyed him pointedly. “You never know when someone’s going to climb a tree and break into your home.”
“If you would’ve answered the door or your phone, I wouldn’t have been forced to.” He smoothed his rough hand down her arm. Her skin tingled at his touch, at the feel of him standing so close, and her mind sort of blanked out. He took advantage of her moment of inattention and removed the gun from her hand. His eyes lingered on her chest. She blew out an annoyed breath and closed her gaping neckline, meeting his heated gaze as it drifted back to her face.
“If I were an armed intruder, what good is an empty gun?” he asked in a low, raspy voice. Twirling the gun on his finger, he looked at her as though she was a helpless female who didn’t know how to take care of herself.
“He wouldn’t know that. And if the gun didn’t stop him, I’d push the crib at him to throw him off-balance, then run to the bedroom, lock the door, and load my gun,” she said, repeating the scenario she’d gone over in her mind as she’d hurried to unlock the case in her closet.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Good plan, but now that you’ve got your gun loaded, what do you do when he breaks down the door?”
“Shoot the gun out of his hand.” She scowled as a smile spread across his too-gorgeous face and took back her gun. Striding from the room, she said, “Laugh all you want, Jackson Flaherty, but I’m an expert marksman.”
He followed behind her. “Since when?”
“Since someone broke into the bakery and the apartment.”
He took her arm and turned her to face him. “When?” His expression was fierce and pained. She knew what he was like and hadn’t intended to tell him. He’d feel guilty for not being there to defend his family. “Tell me, Grace.”
She sighed. He wouldn’t let up until she did. “A couple of months before I moved in with Jill.” Just as she suspected, guilt shadowed his eyes. It wasn’t his fault. “After that, Jill took me to the shooting range every day for a month. So you better be careful, Flaherty. I’m a really good shot,” she said, as a way to show him she hadn’t been traumatized by the break-in, twirling her gun as he had.
“Don’t make light of it. Were you or little Jack hurt?” His fingers tightened on her arms.
“No. We were coming home from dinner at Patrick’s, and I noticed a couple of chairs were out of place in the bakery. I was going to go in and straighten them when I saw that the display case had been smashed. I called Jill and waited for her at Patrick’s.”
“I should’ve been here.” He tenderly stroked her cheek, and for a second, she forgot how angry she was.
Then she caught a whiff of a musky feminine fragrance. Earlier, he’d been touching that woman in exactly the same manner. Grace jerked away from him and turned to head into her room. “I’ll get you the first aid kit.”
She went into the bathroom and opened the cupboard below the sink. Kneeling, she reached past the cleaning supplies for the white plastic container. She stood up, catching sight of Jack in the mirror. Her jaw dropped. He’d stripped off his T-shirt and was unbuttoning his jeans.
He looked up and gave her a dangerously sexy smile. “I’ll just grab a quick shower. Get rid of the dirt before you fix me up.”
She stood staring at him like an idiot when he stepped out of his jeans, then his boxers. “I…” She couldn’t tear her gaze from his incredible physique. “I’m not…” Her voice trailed off as he walked into the shower. The view from the backside was as mouthwateringly gorgeous as the front. Forget it. She’d tell him to see to his own injuries once he was dressed and she’d regained the ability to speak.
Closing the bathroom door, she hurried to her dresser. She placed the first aid kit on top, then pulled a pair of lacy beige panties and matching bra from the drawer, keeping her ears peeled for the sound of running water. If he thought her ogling him meant he could simply seduce her into forgiving him, he was wrong.
She strode to the closet and removed her robe, tossing it on the bed. She stuffed her legs into her panties, then put on her bra. As she pulled a sundress from the hanger the door to the bathroom creaked open.
She turned. Jack leaned against the doorjamb, water drip
ping from his hair and rolling down his powerful chest and his hard, flat stomach to disappear beneath the towel wrapped around his narrow hips. He was impossible, she thought, clutching the dress to her chest.
A desperate squeak escaped her parted lips when he started determinedly toward her. “You’re wet. Go dry off before you track water across the floor.”
Ignoring her, he smiled, revealing his strong white teeth, and kept coming.
“No, I’m serious, Jack.” She scrambled to pull the dress over her head. His warm, damp hands clamped on either side of her waist. Jerking the fabric from her face, she said, “No, you can’t come in here and think you—” Her helpless moan swallowed the rest of the words as he trailed the tip of his finger along the edge of her panties.
He leaned in—his damp chest brushing up against her—and whispered in her ear. “Think what?”
Overwhelmed by the heat from his warrior’s body, she was tempted to give in. She wished she could, wished she hadn’t seen what she did. She’d just gotten him back. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. She pulled away and pushed him, angrily stuffing her arms in the capped sleeves of the floral sundress. “Don’t.”
He waited her out, then took her hand and brushed his lips across her burning cheek. “I’m sorry. Come here.” He led her to the bed, sat on the end, and tugged her down with him.
Her gaze flickered to the parted towel, the muscled thigh that lightly touched her leg. She cleared her throat. “Can you put some clothes on, please?”
“Sure, but I thought you packed everything I owned.”
He made it sound as though her request amused him, but there was another emotion in his voice besides humor. She wasn’t sure what it was. And there was nothing amusing about the situation, at least not to her. She went to the open closet and tugged his robe from the hanger. He took it from her, dropped the towel, and shrugged into the white terry-cloth robe as he held her gaze.
