Some Like It Hot

by Susan Andersen

  “I’m sorry, as well,” Gina Summerville-Hardin said with a quiet graciousness that chafed Harper’s conscience. “When you called that night I was in bed. I’m afraid it quite slipped my mind by morning.”

  Harper’s well-taught manners clapped their flippers together like the trained seals they were, barking their longing to apologize yet again. Your turn, they yapped. Tell her you’re sorry that she’s sorry. Abjectly distressed that you distressed her. Full of remorse regarding Grandmama’s grave whirling.

  Yet beneath that impulse lurked Bad Harper, and she had to fight that bitch to a standstill to bite back the words crowding her throat. Bad Harper cared for neither her mother’s nor Dead Grandmama’s concerns. She wanted nothing more than to snap, “Hey, it’s hardly as though I woke you from a sound sleep that night. Weren’t you the one who told me you were reading? And since when have you forgotten a single thing to do with the foundation?”

  She was disconcerted to realize that she didn’t quite believe her mother was telling the truth. Still, what was she going to do, call the very dignified, very upstanding Gina Summerville-Hardin a liar?

  “Hey, there,” a deep voice suddenly drawled behind her, and Harper barely stifled a guilty start. She wasn’t fast enough to prevent herself from instinctively hunching a shoulder against him to mutter hastily into the phone, “I have to go.” Her heart slammed against the wall of her chest—more with guilt than the usual surge of lust she felt whenever she saw him.

  “Is that Deputy Bradshaw?” her mother demanded, but Harper disconnected without replying. Sliding her phone into her purse, she turned to Max.

  “Hey,” she said so cheerfully it was all she could do not to wince. She could only hope that it didn’t sound as falsely perky to him as it did to her. If the piercing inspection he subjected her to with those all-seeing eyes was anything to go by, however, that was probably a futile wish.

  But when all else failed, deflect—that was her shiny new motto. And an idea she’d been turning over in her mind since seeing all the junk food in his cupboards suddenly solidified. “When’s your next night off?” she asked.

  “Wednesday.” He stepped closer. Heat radiated from his body as he plucked one of her curls between his thumb and fingers and pulled it straight, his mouth quirking when he released it and it immediately sprang back into its original spiral. Then he raised his gaze to meet her eyes, his own dark and intense. “Why? You wanna go on a date?”

  She blinked, startled. “Oh, God. I haven’t been on one of those since—” She shook her head “I can’t even remember when.” If the warmth spreading through her veins was anything to go by, however, her body was all over the idea. “Still, I suppose that’s what it would be—since I want to make you dinner.”

  He stilled for a second, then gave her a crooked little smile. “Yeah?”

  “Yes. A nutritional dinner that will taste so good it’ll knock your socks off and maybe change your world—or at least your way of eating. I’d have to cook it at your place, though—all I have in my cottage is a hot plate, fridgie and a micro. But I’d provide everything.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what it is with everyone and my diet, but I’ll tell you what. You bring the food. I’ll buy the wine. Red or white?”

  Yes! She eased out the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. “Do you like fish?”

  “I like cod, halibut and salmon. I’m sure there’s others, but I’ve only had those three.”

  “Then make it a Pinot Grigio or a Riesling. Or if you prefer red, maybe a Pinot Noir.”

  “I prefer a good Bud.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “You smoke marijuana?” For all that her voice practically cracked on the word, she wouldn’t have been shocked if she’d heard anyone else was smoking it. But Max? She was sure as hell stunned at the idea of him doing so. He was the ultimate Mr. Law and Order.

  He let loose one of his rare laughs, a deep, loud boom of sheer enjoyment that wrapped around her along with the hard, hot-skinned arm he snaked out to circle her shoulders. Hauling her to his side, he gave her a bone-cracking hug.

  Then he turned her loose and grinned down at her, all white flashing teeth and good humor. “I’m talking Budweiser beer, honey. The department frowns on its upholders of the law smoking weed.”

  Heat climbed her cheeks. “I knew that.”

  He laughed again. “Uh-huh. You stick with that.” He grazed her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. “You’re such a convincing liar.”

  “Funny guy.” She stepped back. Made a production of checking her watch. “I have to run. I have a Kickerama for preschoolers scheduled in half an hour.”

  “What the hell is a Kickerama? No, wait.” He looked at his own watch. “You’ll have to tell me Wednesday night. I’m starting a shift soon, and want to grab a shower before I clock in.” He stepped close again and looked down at her. “So, I’ll see you then, right?”

  “Absolutely. I have to check my schedule, but if anything interferes I’ll talk to Jenny about getting someone to fill in for me. So, say, six o’clock?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  To her, as well. But recalling his silly, and specious, no-sex-until-marriage rule—and, okay, maybe to get a little of her own back for the dumb marijuana misunderstanding—she paused at the door to shoot him a look over her shoulder. “In the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you that I’m not doing this strictly from the goodness of my heart.”

  His thick level brows arched. “No?”

  “Heck, no. I have big plans for you.”

  “Yeah?” He stepped back into her space, his dark-eyed gaze skimming her gauzy blouse and cargo shorts as if it possessed X-ray vision. “Tell me.”

  “Well, you do understand that when a girl goes to all this trouble for a guy, she expects a little something in return, right?”

  “A little something like, what? We’re not talking engagement ring, are we? Because that’s kind of a steep price for a good meal.”

  “No!” Okay, maybe that came out a bit strident. But just the idea of something so...permanent sparked tiny flares of panic. If her father’s death had taught her nothing else, it had taught her that you stop moving, you die.

  Then she got a grip, because really, like he was serious? Clearing her throat, she said lightly, “That is, you think? It’s our first date, Bradshaw. Althoooough...” Dragging the word out, she blinked up at him in faux innocence. “It’s gonna be a very good meal.”

  He snorted. “What are we talkin’, then? You gonna make me sing for my supper?”

  “Do you have a good voice?” she demanded as if that were an actual consideration, but didn’t await an answer. “Actually, I have something in mind that I’m ninety-nine percent sure you are good at.”

  Max twirled a lazy hand as if to say, “So let’s hear it, already.”

  “My apologies if I’m holding you up,” she said loftily. “I didn’t mean to turn this into such a production.”

  “And yet here I stand, still clueless as to what it is you want for this allegedly fine meal.”

  “Fine.” She sighed. “If you’re going to be all say-your-piece-and-get-out-of-my-way about it, I thought you’d be so overcome with gratitude after eating a delicious meal that’s actually—and I know this is a radical concept—good for you that you’d...put out.”

  His big frame froze, and Harper saw the arrested look that leaped in his eyes before he slowly lowered his thickly lashed lids to block it from sight.

  When in the next instant they rose again, his look was hotter than hell. So blistering, in fact, that she almost took a step back.

  But his sage nod and dry “Ah. Screw for my supper, then” nailed her in place.

  “I wouldn’t have put it quite so crudely,” she murmured. “And of course you don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.” She allowed her gaze to slide down the black T-shirt that hugged his muscular shoulders and the hard curves of his biceps, skimmed hi
s pectorals, then hung straight to the fly of his jeans.

  When her gaze reached the latter, she sucked in a breath at the hard length pressing against the worn denim. Okay, clearly he wasn’t that discomfited by the idea. She looked back into his eyes.

  “And, as I said, it will be a very good meal.” Then she waved a hand. “But I repeat myself. The bottom line is that come Wednesday night? We play it my way.” She wanted him. He wanted her. It was past time they moved things to the next level.

  Besides, that was a pretty dandy exit line. Shooting him a final sultry glance over her shoulder, she sauntered out the door.

  * * *

  WHAT ON EARTH were you thinking? she demanded the following Wednesday evening as she climbed Max’s front porch and tapped the door with a sandal-clad foot, because her arms were full of groceries. Talk about putting pressure on both of them. God, Harper. You couldn’t just spring a seduction on him instead of setting up all kinds of crazy expectations?

  The door opened, and her heart, which had begun tripping with performance anxiety, quieted at Max’s easy posture.

  “Hey there,” he said, as if he didn’t expect anything at all. His shoulders were relaxed and his gaze steady as he smiled at her, reaching for the two sacks she hugged to her chest. “Let me take those.” Big, competent hands reached out to relieve her of her burden, then he stepped back. “C’mon in. I’ve been looking forward to being wowed by your cooking all week.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to it, myself,” she said as he ushered her into the kitchen. “I like to cook, but since I’m hardly ever home I rarely get the opportunity.” She’d been exhausted after her last job, all the coming and going and living out of a suitcase finally catching up with her. Part of the appeal of taking the job at the inn had been that she would have more than two full months in one spot instead of the usual in and out in a week. She’d needed a break.

  Max dumped her groceries on the plywood counter at the same time that Harper squared her shoulders defensively. It wasn’t like she was settling down or anything. Once she caught her breath, she’d be more than ready to go back to her travels.

  “What do we have here?” Max started pulling items out of the sacks. “Salmon, romaine, tomatoes, butter, lemon, balsamic vinegar.” His brows drew together as he held up a produce bag of purple-veined green leaves. “What is this?”

  “Swiss chard.”

  “Huh.” He gave her an I’ll-try-it look but the last thing Max could be called was a prevaricator, so his doubt about actually liking it came through loud and clear.

  She patted his forearm. She’d intended it as a there-there gesture, but the heat saturating her palm and crisp hair tickling it made her abort that mission. She pulled her hand back. Good God. Down, girl.

  She cleared her throat. “I think you’ll like it,” she assured him. “But don’t worry. I brought some fresh peas as well, just in case.”

  “At least I know what those are,” he said with a self-deprecating shrug and an off-kilter little half smile. Circling the plywood counter, he hauled a stool up to it to perch a hip against its seat and braced one foot on its crossbar, the other against the floor. “I gotta watch and see how you do this. You want a glass of wine?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  He flashed her a smile so full-blooded she blinked. “What?” she demanded.

  “‘Lovely.’” He shook his head. “I love the way you talk.” He plucked a wine bottle off the end of the counter and presented it to her. “This okay? Mary Bean at the General Store recommended it.”

  Her hands full of ingredients, Harper leaned in to read the label. “Oh, that’s a nice one.”

  “Good. She sold me some wineglasses as well, so you don’t have to drink it out of a Wile E. Coyote jelly jar.” Leaning over the counter, he retrieved a corkscrew from the work surface beneath it, then sat back and went to work on opening the bottle.

  Harper watched his hands, large, rough-skinned and competent. They were a bit nicked up and wouldn’t have looked out of place on a carpenter, which come to think of it, considering all the work he’d done on his house, he was. She had the impression he could do just about anything. His hands were übermasculine, yet deft as a sommelier’s as he dealt with the cork.

  He looked up suddenly and caught her staring. An unexpected white noise suffused Harper’s mind, making it go momentarily blank—an occurrence so rare she couldn’t even remember the last time she was at a loss for words. But as she fell into his level yet heated gaze, her mind was one big void.

  Then she remembered the conversation she’d been wanting to have with him. “The day I interviewed for a volunteer position at the Village, Mary-Margaret raved about how good with the boys you are.”

  He gave her a pleased look. “Yeah?” The cork pulled out with a little pop.

  “Oh, yes. She thinks you’re the best.” Harper inspected the glasses he’d brought to see if they should be washed before they used them, since men rarely thought of the niceties. They looked fine, and, passing two to him, she added, “She mentioned that you totally get them because you had a rough childhood yourself—and they respond to that.”

  His hands stilled for a moment, then he set one of the goblets aside and poured wine in the other. He handed it to her without a word.

  Okay, not real encouraging. She took a sip for courage, studied his blank expression...and plowed on. “Would you be willing to tell me a little about that?”

  * * *

  HELL, NO!

  Okay, probably not the thing to say out loud, but...shit. Max faked concentration on getting the cork back into the wine bottle to give himself a minute.

  Christ on a stick. Everyone and their brother in this burg knew his story, and he really liked that Harper regarded him through eyes untainted by his old garbage. But here she was, looking so pretty and crisp in slim white pants and an ultra feminine little white top splashed with blue and purple watercolor-like flowers, asking to hear all about it. Her sincerity shone like a flipping beacon from her gold-shot olive-green eyes.

  And, dammit, as much as he’d rather simply admire the smooth upper slopes of her gorgeous breasts rising above the top’s squared neckline, he just couldn’t say no to those eyes. He blew out a breath. “My dad dumped my mother and me for Jake’s mom when I was just a toddler.”

  The blade of the knife she held poised over several green onions froze midchop as she gazed at him, all sympathy. “Aw, Max, I’m sorry. That had to be tough, having a father only on alternate weekends and holidays.”

  He couldn’t prevent the cynical laugh that escaped. “There were no weekends or holidays. Once he left us for the second Mrs. Bradshaw, we didn’t exist. I grew up watching him being a dad to Jake, but he looked right through me.”

  “The bastard!”

  Her prompt outrage on his behalf warmed him. He knew it shouldn’t. Hell, he’d come to terms with his father’s dysfunction years ago. Still, her support was...nice. He liked it.

  “I’m glad you at least had your mom.”

  This time he swallowed his snort, but the warmth faded. “Sure,” he agreed neutrally. “At least I had her.”

  She paused in the chopping she’d resumed to study him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing—” But he couldn’t lie to that straightforward don’t-kid-a-kidder gaze. “Mom was...bitter.”

  Harper’s eyes narrowed. “How bitter?”

  “Pretty damn,” he admitted. “I don’t think a day went by that she didn’t remind me of what Jake and his mother had stolen from us.” Was it hot in here all of a sudden? “Hand me one of those beers I brought, wouldja?”

  She grabbed a Bud out of the little dorm-sized fridge, twisted off the cap and passed the bottle across the bare-bones plywood counter. “Wow. It’s a wonder you and Jake are as close as you are.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s new. We hated each other’s guts growing up. And that was my fault.”

  “Sounds more to me that
it was your father’s.”

  “Oh, Charlie’s fathering skills sucked, no doubt about it.” Then he corrected himself. “Well, not entirely, I guess. Up until he left Jake and his mom for the third Mrs. Bradshaw, they only sucked with me. He looked like he was a really good dad to Jake. And it wasn’t the old man who bullied him.” Jesus, dude, shut up! What was she, a fucking truth serum? She hadn’t demanded every single detail; what the hell was he doing providing them anyway?

  “Max Bradshaw, did you pick on your little brother?”

  His shoulders crept up. “Yeah.”

  “How old were you?”

  “When I started? I dunno, maybe eleven?”

  “So you were a little kid.”

  “I was old enough. And nobody knew better what it felt like to have a father who no longer considered himself your dad. I knew exactly how crappy Jake felt and I was happy about it!”

  “And this surprises you?” she asked gently, wiping her hands on a towel and reaching to graze her fingertips across his knuckles. Until he felt her touch he hadn’t realized he’d curled his hands into fists on the temporary countertop. “After spending all those years seeing your father being ‘a really good dad’ to your little brother while he pretended you were invisible?”

  He pulled his gaze from where her fingers rubbed his to meet those warm eyes. “It was wrong.”

  “Yes.” She straightened, her fingers sliding away. “But you know what was a lot worse? A father who was all or nothing with both his sons. A mother who wouldn’t let you forget an injustice she should have been shielding you from.” She shot him a crooked smile. “And you can’t tell me Jake didn’t get his licks in.”

  For the first time since she’d started this conversation, he felt a smile tug up his lips. “No, can’t tell you that. Jake wasn’t shy about fighting back. Guy’s got a mean right hook—and a knack for drawing blood with words.”

  “So it wasn’t as one-sided as you’d have me believe. And maybe things really do happen for a reason. Because, just look at how good it’s made you with troubled kids. You always seem to know exactly what to say to them.”