Rescuing the Bad Boy

by Jessica Lemmon

  “I see you went with a Band-Aid after all,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Find what you were looking for at the quarry?” If she kept the conversation flowing while she finished this wall, she might stave off more inappropriate thoughts about his mouth.

  “Mostly.”

  Another one-word answer. He wasn’t helping her in the conversation department.

  “Want a beer?”

  She looked over her shoulder again. His black hair was wavy from the humidity today, his shirt covered in dust from the quarry. The man was sexy, tall, and made her think of sinning ten different ways. She should have gone with Faith and let the painting go.

  Shaking her head, she muttered, “No, thanks.”

  He turned for the kitchen.

  Adding alcohol to the equation would not do her any favors. Though it might dull the synapses snapping in her brain. At current, they were lobbing suggestion after suggestion at her, mostly about kissing.

  Kissing Donovan was fun in a way that made no sense other than physically. She thought about Faith’s proclamation to only have one-night stands, and then Sofie thought about the fact that, technically, she and Donny had already had a one-night stand. Then she wondered if they did it again, if it’d be a two-night stand.

  “Oh my gosh, brain, shut up,” she whispered.

  Crazytown had a population of one, and her name was Sofia Martin.

  Done with the area she could reach, she saw there was one more spot over the doorway she wanted to fill in before calling it quits for the evening. Her right wrist ached and pins-and-needles numbness prickled her fingers. She’d had a death grip on the paintbrush for most of the day in an effort to carefully trim around what seemed like acres of hand-carved wooden molding. Worth it, though. The molding stood out better against Pale Walnut Mousse than the dark, light-sucking red she and her friends had spent the day covering.

  She dragged the six-foot ladder to the wall and climbed the rungs. If she rested her left elbow on the top and reached out with her right hand, she could hold on to the small container of paint with one hand and touch up the spot above the doorway with the other.

  A little more stretching, a little maneuvering…

  The tips of the bristles were almost on the wall… Allllmost.

  Her plan would’ve worked if it hadn’t been for Gertie’s poor timing.

  A shrill bark rang out, startling Sofie and causing her to reel. Thankfully, her reaction time was quick. She slapped a hand onto the ladder, righting herself before she fell.

  Sofie swiveled her head to find Gertie smiling and panting up at her, tail wagging. Before she could breathe a sigh of relief she hadn’t fallen off the ladder, Sofie noticed paint sinking into the grooves of the ornate, hand-carved, antique door frame.

  “Oh no.” She pulled her shirtsleeve over her hand and wiped frantically at the smudge, all while trying to stay balanced on the ladder and not spill her paint.

  “Of course I’d ruin it at the end,” she grumbled. Not like she could replace the molding by making a quick trip to Lowe’s. This particular feature had come with the house.

  She nearly had it, all she needed to do was lean a little farther out on the ladder to scrub a spot just out of reach…

  The ladder tipped. And this time, Sofie couldn’t prevent the fall.

  Donovan took a slug of his beer and headed for the dining room. He was going to tell Sofie to wrap things up or else he was going to grab a paintbrush and finish for her. He got that she wanted to do this on her own, but there was no way he could stand by while—

  At the threshold, he stopped cold. The ladder rocked, Sofie on it, and before he could think, he’d slammed his beer bottle onto the dining room table and rushed to her. He caught her a millisecond later, his hands grasping her hips. The bowl of paint and the brush glanced off him. He barely noticed. His mind was more on her and the adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream than on paint stains.

  She grappled onto the top step of the ladder, backing her ass—her incredibly fine, round ass—directly into the center of his chest. He blew out a breath, teeth wedged together, hands still on her hips.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Vaguely, he became aware of paint oozing down his arm.

  “Let go of me!” She straightened, but he kept his hold tight. In a different scenario, he might enjoy her ass in his face. But her almost falling to her death and/or dismemberment pushed every ounce of lust from his brain.

  “Not a chance. Not ’til you’re down safely.”

  “I don’t need your help.” She glared over her shoulder at him. “I would’ve had it.”

  “And by ‘it’ you mean a concussion?” He let her go but stayed close in case she slipped again. “That’s all you would’ve had if I didn’t save your ass.”

  Her eyelids narrowed to slits. “Which you had no problem grasping with both hands, I noticed.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a complaint,” he growled. Not a single part of her, from top to toenails, had recoiled from him.

  She stepped down a rung, then two, but he kept his hands firmly on the rungs. Denim-covered thighs brushed his forearms. Still, she didn’t try to escape him.

  “You’re in this house, Scampi, you exercise safety,” he said, his voice raising despite her proximity. “You do not climb six goddamn feet into the air and risk a brain injury to paint the wall. I’m a foot taller than you are. Ask me.”

  “Ask you?” she snapped, taking another step down.

  He kept her caged with his arms until she put one foot solidly on the ground. Then and only then did he let go of the ladder.

  “You, who has been oh-so-approachable.”

  Fair point. Not that he’d admit it.

  “I need a wet cloth and paint thinner.” She left the ladder to poke around in her supplies.

  “Leave it.”

  She ignored him and continued rummaging. “Do you have paint thinner?”

  “Scampi, leave it.”

  “You don’t understand. There is paint on the molding and if I don’t clean it off it will—”

  “It’s not a big deal.” He could feel a headache forming over his right eye.

  “I want it to be perfect.”

  He rubbed the spot with two fingers.

  “Are you sure there’s not a container in the basement?”

  “It’s just a fucking house!” he bellowed, gesturing with one hand at the door frame. “I don’t give a shit about the molding!”

  Dog lowered her head and skulked out of the room. He could feel badly about yelling later. Right now, he needed Sofie to listen to him.

  She spun to face him, a look of alarm in her rounded green eyes. If he worried he’d scared her, he didn’t need to. She looked pissed. Hands propped on her hips, she cocked her head. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t give a shit about the molding,” he repeated. Calmly this time. “You know why I don’t give a shit about the molding?”

  “Because you don’t give a shit about anything?”

  Now? Now she was giving him hell?

  He unclenched his jaw, took a deep breath, and then blew it out through his nose. “When I was nine…”

  He swallowed past the bitterness in his throat. Not wanting to finish, but needing her to know the truth. The same way he’d needed Caroline to know the truth that long-ago night in the cottage. Needing to tell this story for the first time out loud. Needing to get it out. Let it out.

  Straight through.

  Taking another breath, he started again. “When I was nine, I had a rust orange 1972 Impala Hot Wheels. My favorite car.”

  He looked past Sofie at the chair railing running along three walls in the room, his gut churning with acid and stale fear that had no place in him anymore.

  “If I balanced the car just right, I could roll it on two wheels on the rail. Nearly made it the length of the wall once.” His smile faded. “Until my father caught me, and I quote, ‘ruining’ the wall.”
>
  He’d never forget the look of rage on Robert’s face. The way his lips pulled away from his teeth, the putrid smell of alcohol on his breath. Mostly, Donovan would never forget the brain-jarring slap to his face, the warm sliver of blood trickling from a small cut at the corner of his eye.

  Sofie’s face went pale, her hand lifted to her throat. “Oh my God.”

  Like that, she’d figured it out.

  “I only had to be told once,” he said with a hollow laugh. “Never did it again.”

  She took a step closer to him. “He… he hit you.”

  Hearing Sofie say it out loud made the truth uglier. Her eyes were wide and full of sympathy—his least favorite look on her. He didn’t want her to feel badly about anything, especially for him.

  Still, part of him drank in her sympathy. The fact that she cared—that anyone cared—made his chest ache. And reminded him how empty he was.

  “More than once,” he answered. “But that’s not the point. Point is, I don’t want you to worry about the molding being ruined.” Words came into his mind unbidden, slashing him inside, parting his hollow chest and spilling out dust. His father’s words.

  You don’t appreciate nothing. That’s why your mother left! Because you were an ingrate then and you are now. Little bastard. Get the fuck out of this room. No dinner or breakfast! You starve and think of what you did!

  His father had stomped the toy to pieces. Donovan had run upstairs and washed the blood away. He’d cried that night. He cried several times after, until he turned twelve and decided to never let Robert see him cry again. That was the year he threw a punch at his old man. Big thing for a twelve-year-old to attempt, but he’d had the element of surprise.

  Robert hadn’t been able to believe his son had hit him.

  Donovan hadn’t believed how much he liked feeling the skin of his father’s lip split open, or how satisfying it’d been to spill his father’s blood for a change. At the time, it made him feel powerful. Now, it tossed his gut.

  “I’m sorry.” Sofie took another step closer. Her soft touch landed on Donovan’s arm, and the anger shuddering inside him shifted into an ache.

  “Don’t be. He’s dead. And I hope wherever he is, he sees that”—he tipped his chin at the paint marking the molding—“and the bastard’s bones roll.”

  The air between them radiated enough heat to set him on fire. But like the fireplaces he built, he could handle it. He could handle the heat from her, not because he was impervious, but because he was strong enough to soak her in and not burn to ash.

  She swiped his arm where the paint was drying with one of her shirtsleeves.

  “Sorry about the mess.”

  “Don’t… I can…” Her soft touch rendered his brain useless. “There is a shower in the…”

  He lost his train of thought when emerald green eyes hit him. He lowered his face, watching those eyes grow dark and wide. Watching her chin lift and her delicate throat work as she swallowed.

  Heat.

  He wanted more. If only to test his own strength.

  He moved his lips gently against hers but resisted holding her to him. She held on to him, though, grasping his forearms with both hands, her fingers wrapped around his elbows. Then she pressed closer, her warmth fusing with his, her tits resting against his ribs.

  Hell, sounded like an invitation to him. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, deepening their connection, and reached around grabbing her ass in both palms. When he squeezed, she sucked in a breath.

  “Told you,” he rumbled against her parted mouth.

  “Told me?”

  “You weren’t complaining, Scampi.” He squeezed again. “Perfect.”

  A choked laugh left her throat. “Big.”

  Still moving his hands over her backside, he said, “First thing I noticed about you at the Wharf.”

  He’d been plating up a chicken scaloppini when the manager walked in to show around a few new servers. Two he couldn’t remember, and Sofie. Bent over the plate, he’d peeked between the metal shelves framing that perfect ass. He’d stood to get a better look, and she’d pegged him with those moss greens.

  “Second thing I noticed was your eyes.”

  Her lips parted into a small smile.

  He kissed that smile. Couldn’t help it. She tasted incredible.

  “And the third thing?”

  “The first time you talked to me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And what did I say?”

  She didn’t think he remembered. She was wrong.

  “ ‘Can I get a side of cock?’ ”

  Laughing, she shook her head.

  He grinned, unable to help himself. “Then you cleared your throat and said, ‘cocktail sauce.’ ”

  “Worst abbreviation ever.”

  “Kitchen guys are immature.”

  She blinked up at him, studying him, like she was trying to piece him together. He didn’t want her to. Once she pieced him together and had the whole picture, she wouldn’t like what she saw.

  He kissed her again, deep and slow, moving his hands gently on her body.

  “Are you testing my boundaries?” she asked, her tone teasing.

  “Mine,” he corrected.

  She bit her lip. “I don’t date much.”

  “Me either.”

  At all, actually.

  She hummed, more in thought than in argument. “I don’t think I have any boundaries with you.”

  He was beginning to think he had none with her, either. So far since he’d been back in the Cove, he’d stormed into her office, backed her against his kitchen counter, bullied her date out of a restaurant, and was now holding her ass in both hands and refusing to let go.

  Keeping his palms where they were, he tugged her closer until her breasts were smashed against his chest again.

  “You know the best way through a bad situation, Scampi?”

  She shook her head.

  “Straight through. Straight through all the crap.”

  Slender brows met over her nose. “Is that what you’re doing? Going straight through?”

  “Yes.”

  She raised a hand, playing painted fingers along his collar. “Is that what I should do?”

  For a second, he didn’t get her meaning. Then he did.

  She means me.

  He was her straight through. He was her bad memory. He was the one who had robbed her of something precious.

  Donovan knew that. He’d known that. This… kissing her, and if he could get lucky enough to have her under him again, would relieve the simmering ache throbbing in his dick now but wasn’t going to make anything better for her.

  He hadn’t earned her the first time, and he sure as hell hadn’t earned her this time. But that’s what penance was. Paying for the past and not getting what he wanted.

  One good thing about practicing penance, he’d gotten good at not getting what he wanted. Practically a pro.

  He let go of her and promptly backed away.

  Drying paint tangled in the hair on his arm. That, he could focus on. That was a mess he could clean up. A goal with a finite timeline.

  “Gonna wash this off,” he told her, ducking his head and pointing for the kitchen. “Try not to kill yourself while I’m gone.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  That was intense.

  Sofie stared blankly at her sleeve, covered in Pale Walnut Mousse paint. She wiped her fingers on her jeans, but instead of getting paint off her hand, it came back covered.

  Covered in paint because she’d been covered in Donovan a few short moments ago.

  How had it happened? One minute she’d been falling, the next being rescued, the next being kissed.

  Maybe the better question was, how could it not happen? Where they were concerned, neither of them was very successful at avoiding the other.

  Then he confessed a past she’d begun to suspect. Abuse. At the hands of his father. Donovan had told her one story. One. How many more were there?
/>   He… he hit you.

  More than once. But that’s not the point.

  Sadness left a residue on her skin, a film on the roof of her mouth. A similar film coated the walls. No, not the walls. The molding. Her eyes went to it now, to the paint drying in the grooves.

  She pictured a nine-year-old Donovan with his toy car. His father, large and angry, bearing down on him. She shut her eyes and bristled.

  When she opened them her vision narrowed at the paint smudge on the door frame.

  He was right. Who cared? Who cared about preserving what he was beaten for when he was a child? Right about now she wanted to get a crowbar and pry every damn piece of antique molding from the wall.

  This house was possibly the worst location to host a charity dinner for abused children. What had Gertrude been thinking? Was this her way of apologizing to a grandson she should have stood up for? By extending an olive branch alongside this dinner, which was nothing less than an example of utter hypocrisy?

  Sofie thought back to how angry Donovan used to be when they worked at the Wharf. Or so she’d thought.

  Beneath that veil of anger was sadness. So much sadness, in him, in this room, she could feel the emotion clotting in her throat.

  But there was also something else. The confusing spark of electricity between them. Inescapable. Palpable. Electricity they were powerless to resist.

  Why were they trying? Maybe one more night together would be cleansing. Straight through, right? That’s what he said. Maybe lying skin-to-skin with him would help him. Would help her. Would give them another chance to be together without any secrets between them.

  Thinking back to that night, she realized how prematurely they’d acted—as if sex required nothing more than two people and a wild amount of attraction. But she hadn’t truly known him—at all, as it turned out. And he’d been so angry with her… she thought because she was a virgin. But maybe there was something else? Some hint of self-loathing. Because he believed he’d taken something from her? The only thing she’d been able to see or feel that night were her own haphazard emotions. By the time the Jeep ride ended at the restaurant, she’d built enough steam to—

  My God.

  She’d hit him. Like his father had before her, she’d slapped Donny right in the face.