by Maggie Wells
Incredulous, Harley gaped at him. “Are you expecting me to tell you?”
“No!” The answer came too quickly to be anything but knee-jerk. When Harley did a fast road check then turned back to him, Tarrington stiffened. “Okay. Fine. Maybe I am.”
“Christ, you really haven’t ever had to do anything for yourself, have you?”
“Go to hell.”
Harley laughed outright at the man’s lack of defense. “Well, okay then. I’d say sobering up, taking regular showers, and wearing clothes you haven’t slept in would be a good start.”
Tarrington looked down at his rumpled suit. “I didn’t sleep in these. Delaney brought them to me this morning.”
“And in the last twelve hours you haven’t even thought about changing?”
“I didn’t see the point.”
“Because you had a full day of meetings lined up?” Harley asked.
“Because I had pants on, and that’s all the law requires,” the older man snapped.
Harley nodded as if digesting the man’s wisdom. “Well, at least you have some criteria. I’ve heard most restaurants get kinda picky about the whole shirt and shoes thing, but you don’t look like you’ve been going out a lot, so...”
“I meant, I didn’t see the point in dirtying another set of clothes.”
“Water conservation. Gotcha.” He hooked a right onto the dirt road leading to the fishing cabin some Tarrington relative built eons before, probably figuring some worthless scion would blow the family fortune sky-high one day and need a place to crash. Lucky for old Brett previous generations of rich boys made sure their playpen had all the fancy stuff, like indoor plumbing and a wood stove to stave off the evening chill. “I’m saying sober, showered, and slightly less sloppy would be a good start.”
“Duly noted.”
“Then you need to start thinking about getting a job.” He cocked his head. “Tell me, you ever had to actually apply for a job?”
“You’re a real smartass.”
“I’m asking a practical question about real world experience,” Harley countered.
“I ran a multi-million dollar company for nearly thirty years.”
“Ran it straight into bankruptcy.” Harley grunted as the truck hit a particularly jarring rut. “I’d leave that part off the old résumé, if I were you.”
“Everyone knows,” Tarrington said glumly, shifting his attention to the branches scraping the sides of the pick-up. “There’s no point.”
“Of course there’s a point. Hell, are you even sixty yet? What are you going to do for the next twenty or thirty years, sit out here and wait to die?”
“What’s it to you if I do?”
Harley set his jaw as the truck jounced over another set of bumps. “It’s nothing to me,” he said stiffly, his hands tightening on the wheel as he slowed for a hairpin turn. “But I’m betting you doing better than draining a bottle a night means something to Laney.”
His phrasing caught the older man’s attention. “How much are you betting?”
A laugh burst from Harley’s belly before he could check it. Delaney might get her looks from her mama, but she clearly inherited her sly streak from her father. “I wouldn’t stake you enough cash to feed a parking meter.”
The man visibly deflated, shoulders sagging as he expelled a breath. “I’m betting you’re not the only one who feels the same way.”
Another bet Harley wasn’t stupid enough to take. The odds of anyone in Mobile offering any type of decent employment to Brett Tarrington hovered somewhere between slim and none, and they both knew it. On the radio, Blake Shelton sang about ending up somewhere south of Heaven. Suddenly, Harley heard and understood every word of a song he’d ignored a thousand times before. He’d nearly blown his chance with Laney when he chickened out in the fall, and probably put a few nails in the old relationship coffin by not coming clean with her about the house, but he wasn’t anything like her father. He’d be damned if he’d go down without a fight. And if making deals with the devil was what it took to make the woman he loved happy, well, he’d drive on over to Georgia and sell his soul to Charlie Daniels himself.
“You could come to work for me.”
Lucky for him, Tarrington took it on himself to block the desperation shot. “What? Why? Do you think I’m the type of guy who’s handy with a hammer and saw?”
“No, the thought never crossed my mind.” But the minute he confessed to making what was essentially a baseless offer, another idea grabbed hold. “You actually have to have some skill to be considered skilled labor, you know.”
“I never was the hands-on type,” Laney’s father said, a wry smile giving the words a twist that made it clear any wound they made was intended to be self-inflicted.
“I’m thinking more along the lines of a kind of lobbyist sort of thing.”
“Lobbyist?”
“You know, not in the political sense, but in more of a business sort of way. Hell, I bet you’ve got secret handshakes with at least half of the city council. You could have a little fun pitting your banker pals against each other, see who climbs up and over another’s back for the chance to do business with you—”
“With you, you mean,” Tarrington interjected.
“Yeah, with me, but with you as my...” He glanced over and was gratified to see a gleam of interest in the man’s expression. “What was it they called the representative guy in all those mob movies?”
“Consigliere?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Harley grinned as the nose of the truck pushed through to the clearing and the headlights spot-lit the cabin the man beside him now called home. “Consigliere,” he repeated, letting the word roll off his tongue with wicked relish as he lifted his foot from the gas.
“You do realize it’s usually that guy who ends up embezzling a billion dollars, then turning state’s evidence against the boss man,” Tarrington said with a pointed look.
“Good luck trying. My business is strictly legit, and I’d never in a million years let you near my bank accounts.” He pressed the brake and the truck rocked to a halt. “It was just a thought.”
“You think giving her old man a job is going to help your case with Delaney?”
Harley shrugged. No sense in trying to sugarcoat the obvious. “Can’t see how it would hurt.”
Tarrington studied the darkened cabin. His voice was bleak when he spoke at last. “You’d be surprised how much damage I can do.”
“Most of the guys I hire are either fresh out of school or straight out of county. I believe in giving people a chance to show you who they really are before making snap judgments.”
The older man’s head whipped around so fast Harley nearly flinched. “And I suppose that makes you the better man?”
“Yeah, I think it does,” he answered bluntly. “It also means it takes a lot to shock me.” He held the older man’s searching gaze. “Think about it. If you decide you want to do something useful with your life again, you know where to find me.”
“In my house.”
“My house,” Harley corrected without heat or rancor.
Tarrington reached for the door handle, then paused, pursing his lips as he stared at the empty cabin. “Maybe I wouldn’t mind learning to build stuff. It seems all I’ve ever done is tear things down.”
Harley chuckled as the older man opened the door and the dome light came on. He made no comment on the slightly unsteady landing or the feeling that the man seemed almost reluctant to go inside. But Brett Tarrington’s fears weren’t his business, nor his battle to fight. Instead, he reached behind his seat and groped through the box of miscellaneous tools he kept handy until he came up with an old hammer with a worn grip and an LED flashlight he’d gotten free with some other purchase.
“Here,” he said, tossing them both onto the seat Tarrington had vacated. “In case you want to practice.” Laney’s father snorted and started to close the door, but at the la
st second, he leaned in to snag the tools. Harley cranked the wheel, cutting a wide circle. He paused at the front of the cabin, frowning at the defeated slump of Tarrington’s spine as he trudged up the shallow steps. With the press of a button, the passenger window lowered with a whir and he called out a brusque, “Hey!”
The older man glanced back over his shoulder, clearly annoyed and perhaps a little wary. A twinge of sympathy marked Harley a sucker, but there was no help for it. Seeing such a proud man so beat down was disturbing.
“Remember, sometimes you have to do a helluva lot of demo before you can get to the good stuff.”
Tarrington simply nodded stiffly, then turned to make his way into the cabin.
Harley flexed his hands on the steering wheel. Today, he’d put a pretty sizable dent in his relationship with Laney. Now, he had to figure out if they needed to be torn down completely for them to have a shot at building something that would last.
Chapter 11
Okay, so Laney might have overreacted a bit, but as a whole, the morning had been a lot to take in. Dealing with the panic and frustration of getting her father dressed and to the closing on time was a craptastic way to start the day. Then there was the whole “would he sign/wouldn’t he sign” debate. By the time she actually saw the ballpoint pressed to the page, it was all she could do to hold back tears. Relief. Grief. They felt too much alike these days. Someone would have to cut her open like a frog to dissect the emotional mess in her head—an activity she would be sure to never mention to Brian Dalton. Given the way she’d treated Brooke’s fiancé back in school, she worried old Bri might lunge at the chance to grab a scalpel and get to work.
Not that Brooke would let him. And Harley would probably beat him to a pulp if he tried. A smile twitched her lips as she contemplated the match-up. Brian may have been a geek back in the day, but he’d filled out nicely in the decade or so since graduation. He could probably hold his own against a guy Harley’s size for at least a minute, maybe two. Then again, who was to say Harley’d even lift a finger for her after the hissy fit she’d pitched.
He certainly hadn’t come after her.
Or even called.
The day hadn’t improved from there. Her decision made and notice given, Miss Jeanette veered away from the idea of selling the boutique at the end of the year and plowed straight into the idea of selling the quaint storefront as soon as possible. All day long she prattled on about the best strategies for liquidating inventory at maximum profit margin. While Laney was in the back unpacking a shipment of the most adorable sundresses, she overheard the older woman’s hushed conversation with one of her independent buyers. They were haggling over fall and winter ready-to-wear. Miss Markham wanted to cancel the orders set to ship over the summer months. Sassafras would be hot and heavy into closeout sales by summer, and by fall, Delaney would be on the job hunt.
This made getting Dignity Designs up and running as fast as humanly possible her top priority. She was already regretting giving Harley his money back. Not that she wanted the extra strings and entanglements, but he could spare the cash and she could not. If this thing between them kept on going, Harley being Harley and she being who she was would complicate it enough. The two of them were like those fighting fish the pet store kept in individual bowls. Except, when they got near each other, they could never quite decide whether they wanted to duke it out or do the dirty.
So they did both.
And, frankly, fighting Harley was starting to be more exhausting than exhilarating.
Sighing, she checked the time on her phone. She’d been waiting for him for over thirty minutes. Hanging around outside his door like some kind of pathetic penis-whipped puppy.
She could have called, but she needed to see him face-to-face. Look into those impossibly clear eyes as she tried to explain. Possibly apologize. Okay, probably apologize, she determined with a stern nod to herself. She should apologize. Harley was a businessman. He didn’t become a successful businessman by turning down jobs like Tarrington House. Sure, he’d made most of his fortune on flipping smaller, more profitable properties, but he’d made his reputation on helping to restore some of the most beautiful homes in the South. He’d never let a competitor swoop in and steal the Tarrington House job out from under his nose, no matter what entanglements they might share.
She squared her shoulders and pressed her head against the wall, refusing to think about all the times she’d found him lurking about whatever event she was attending, or the times he happened to be driving by Sassafras and remembered it was his mama’s birthday, retirement anniversary, or the third Thursday of the month. She kind of missed his trumped-up excuses and the whole innocent act he’d put on whenever they ran into one another. She missed having him crowd her in already-crowded rooms and the way his broad shoulders seemed to deepen the shadows in every dark corner he maneuvered her into. His lips were crazy soft, his hands work-roughened but breathtakingly gentle.
She closed her eyes and tried to conjure the scent of his skin. Heat, soap, and only the tiniest splash of cologne or aftershave. She smiled at the last, knowing down to her toes even that small girlification was an insult to his inherent masculinity. One he endured for her sake. Humming softly, she swore to herself she’d tell him not to bother. She liked him fine the way he was.
Most of the time.
Shouldn’t he be home by now?
Almost all of the time.
It’s been dark for a couple hours. Even if he went out for a beer with the guys at the end of the day, he should be home by now.
Far too much of her time was spent fretting over Harley Cade.
Where is he? Who is he with? Surely he wouldn’t dare see some other woman the very day he was swashbuckling around my childhood home like some kind of over-fed, over-amped Johnny Depp with a tool belt. Damn, he could wear a tool belt.
Rubbing her damp palms over her jeans, she wondered if he had a hard hat as well. Realizing her thoughts had taken a decidedly male stripper turn, she thunked her head against the wall. “Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip,” she chanted in time with her present form of self-abuse.
Annoyed, agitated, and the tiniest bit aroused by the way the dirty rat bastard had the balls to turn the tables on her, she yanked her cell from her pocket and pulled up her call history. His number filled her screen. Call after call, day after day. Every day but today. The day she’d walked away from him again.
True to his word, he hadn’t followed. So, here she was, making a fool out of herself.
Jabbing one of the entries with her thumb, she waited until the call connected. Endless seconds passed before the phone rang in her ear. At the same time, the opening verse of AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” drifted out from the elevator shaft. The singer was extolling the virtues of a woman who kept her motor clean when Harley’s raspy baritone cut in.
“Delaney?”
Inching closer to the polished nickel doors, she strained to hear over the hum of the elevator rising. “Are you here?”
“Am I where?”
The bell dinged and the doors slid open, revealing one tired, dirty construction guy with a super-fancy phone pressed to his ear. “Home,” she clarified, then ended the call. “Hi.”
Those clear green eyes narrowed warily as he stepped out of the car. She glanced down at the steel-toed boots he wore. Today, he’d climbed over every inch of her life. Part of her wanted to slap him for the intrusion. But more, she wanted to bury her face in his chest and ask exactly what he planned to do. About everything. The house. Them. If there even was a them. But she couldn’t think those kinds of thoughts. She wouldn’t let herself. She was here. She’d come to him. Those were his terms. Now it was his turn to do...something.
“Laney, sugar, I don’t think tonight is a good night to talk.”
“But I—”
He held up a hand to stall her. “I don’t want to fight.”
“I don’t, either.”
“You sure seemed to be spoiling for one earlier,” he said in a deceptively mild tone. Lord, didn’t the man know how aggravating he was? “If you’ve come by to go another round or two, let’s get it over with. They’re rerunning Voyager episodes on the Earth Channel this week, and I think tonight’s the night old Brian goes for a dip with the Polynesian pearl diver chick.”
His flippant attitude startled her, but she recovered quickly. “Don’t be an ass.”
“I figure it’s my turn, sugar.” Keys jangling in his palm, he stepped past her to his door. “So unless you’re here to show me yours, I suggest we go to our separate corners. We can come out swinging tomorrow.”
“Are you kidding me?” She gaped at him as he twisted the key and the deadbolt retreated with a snick. “You’re going to act like you’re the injured party here?”
A corner of his mouth ticked up in a smirk. “Well, you did slap me pretty hard.”
She did. And he deserved it, damn it. She’d come back to say what she thought would be a quiet goodbye and found him and his hammer jockeys crawling all over the place like ants. He had to have known how hard it would be to say goodbye to her family home, and still he’d betrayed her. Sauced or not, maybe her daddy’d been right about him all along. Men like Harley were the lowest of the low. Bottom feeders. A catfish. He was certainly too big to be called a shrimp, no matter how much scorn one put behind it.
He stepped across the threshold without sparing her another glance, so she launched her last missile. “I hate you.”
Her words wiped the smirk right off his face, but Harley remained calm and composed as he turned to face her. “Liar.”
Damn, she hated the way he could do the cool, detached thing with his tone. But this wasn’t her first time in the ring with this man, and the heat flaring gold in his eyes told her it wouldn’t be their last. Tipping her chin up a notch, she held his gaze. “You’re right, I don’t hate you.” Not nearly ready to throw in the towel, she stepped into the open doorway, crowding him the way he liked to trap her. “But I wish I did.”
