The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance)

by Laura Drake

  She pulled out her ring of keys and opened the iron-barred door, then flipped to the key for the metal door. Tonight she’d get Nacho settled—find places for his clothes and the stuff she’d brought from the apartment, then cook him dinner. It might even be fun. Imagining helping Nacho with homework at their small table, she unlocked the door and stepped inside. After turning off the alarm, she flipped on lights and got to work, prepping the bar for the day’s business.

  Two hours later, the usual suspects perched on stools at the bar. She’d found the patrons were an odd mix of regulars and strolling tourists. She was getting to know the clientele who stopped in for lunch every day. Compared to her past bartending job at a trendy hot spot, this was easy; the most exotic drink she’d been asked to make was a daiquiri.

  “Why so down, Barney? The Tigers won last night.” Priss polished a glass with the corner of her apron.

  The disheveled old guy slumped on his chair watching TV, nursing a Bud which, except for the mojito mistake that first day, was all he ordered. She’d learned he was a retired night guard, living check to Social Security check. She’d seen him count change for his bar tab but he always left her a tip. She’d refused it at first but it had hurt his feelings, so she now just thanked him for his generosity.

  He sighed. “My TV died yesterday, right in the middle of ‘Sports Beat.’”

  Beside him, Porter ate one of his martini olives. “I’ve gotta run a load to L.A. this week, but when I get back, I’ll come over, and we’ll see what’s what.”

  “What are you hauling this time?” Ian’s Scottish burr always got heavier after his second Guinness.

  “Taking washing machines to the city dwellers.”

  “Don’t bother, Porter. The TV’s a goner,” Barney said.

  Priss poured Patrón into the ice-and-mix-filled blender and hit the button. The growl of blades, chewing ice, made her miss some of the conversation. Once the drink was blended, she poured it into a salted margarita glass, added a wedge of lime to the rim, and set it at the waitress station for pickup. “If I’d known earlier, I could have brought you my mom’s TV from her apartment. It was rabbit-ears old but I think it still worked.”

  Gaby, the grumpy old waitress, emerged from the kitchen with a plate of nachos, walked over and snatched the margarita.

  Priss slapped on a smile, determined to win over the old hag. “How are you today, Gaby?”

  The woman just glared, turned and stalked to the booth.

  “What is her problem?”

  “Ah, she’s okay,” Porter said. “She’s got a soft side, once you get past the prickly outside.”

  Priss snorted. “I’ve seen softer thorns on a cactus.” She rinsed the blender pitcher in the sink of soapy water. Her stomach growled. “Anybody need a refill? I’m going to go make myself a sandwich.”

  Mesmerized by the rowdy game show on the TV, her customers just shook their heads.

  She pushed through the swinging door, stepped to the fridge and pulled it open. Trying to choose between ham and turkey, she heard the door open behind her.

  The “humph” of disgust announced that Gaby had followed her into the back.

  Priss chose the ham, pulled pickles and mustard from the door, and, arms full, kicked the fridge closed behind her.

  The old lady stood staring in an old-fashioned black rayon waitress uniform with support-hose sagging. Priss looked back. “What’s your problem? What have I ever done to you?”

  The woman shook her head and walked to the fridge.

  “Most people who dislike me at least give me the courtesy of knowing me first.”

  The woman pulled two burger patties from a towering stack, closed the fridge and dropped them on the grill where they spit and hissed. “I know you better than I’d like, Miss Priss.” Her mocking tone made the Priss sound like a spoiled-rich bitch.

  Priss didn’t have a response, so she slathered the bread with mustard, then topped it with the ham and pickles before slapping the sandwich together as fast as she could.

  Beating the hag with a ham sandwich would feel good, but it would get her fired. You need this job. You need this job because of Nacho.

  What the hell had she been thinking, anyway? What was a free bird doing with a kid? What was wrong with her lately?

  But she’d made a promise, and now she was in it.

  * * *

  PRISS OPENED THE apartment door, juggling an armload of groceries.

  Nacho jumped up from the couch. “Why didn’t you tell me you went back home?” The plastic container she’d brought from the apartment lay half-emptied at his feet.

  “Keep your voice down.” She pulled the key out of the door and pushed it shut with her butt. “I had to clean it out or they were going to charge me rent.”

  “Why didn’t you take me with you?”

  “You were in school at the time. Give me a hand, will you?” When he didn’t move, she schlepped the bags to the counter.

  “You had no right to go through our stuff!”

  “Yeah, I did. And stop yelling.” She set the bags down and dropped her keys with a clatter.

  Nacho stood, fists clenched, face red. “How’d you like it if I went through your stuff?”

  “Well, obviously you already have, because that—” she pointed at the bin “—was in the bottom of my closet.”

  He plopped on the couch. His bottom lip wobbled and he bit down on it.

  She walked over and looked down at the junk on the floor. Hardly personal. A few clothes, outgrown toys and generic jigsaw puzzles.

  But the hurt in his eyes seared her. It burned through her adult shell like a laser, leaving a smoking hole right down to the little girl in hated hand-me-downs. That girl knew what it was like to have nothing but junk—junk made precious by its scarcity.

  He looked at his hands in his lap. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

  “To that trashy apartment?”

  “No, to my stuff—my life.” His voice wavered, but his teeth were clenched. “It sucked, but it was mine.”

  She walked over and sat on the couch. “I’m sorry, Nacho, I didn’t think.” She wanted to touch him, to soothe the pain from his voice, from his fisted hands. From his past. But she knew she didn’t have that power, and he wouldn’t welcome it even if she did. “You did get to say goodbye to Mom—before she died?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was she...in pain?” A blade of regret slipped past her armor, stabbing close to her soft parts. Why ask, when she didn’t want to know?

  “What do you care? You didn’t come back, even when she was sick.”

  “I didn’t know—”

  “How do I even know you’re my sister?” He crossed his arms and tucked his fists under.

  Anger was probably easier for him than grief and she was the one in front of him—an easy target. “We have the same last name.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything. I never met you and I’m already ten.”

  She didn’t want to go back there—back to that time. She sat a moment, thinking then said it. “She smoked menthol cigarettes. Lit one right off the other.” Turning sideways, she leaned her back against the end of the couch. “She was a bad housekeeper, but could play a mean game of Go Fish, when it was rainy.”

  Nacho’s frown smoothed.

  “She was pretty, with her black hair and big eyes. When she went out, she always wore Shalimar perfume and a dress with a belt, to show off her tiny waist.”

  Bitter and sweet memories swirled in her, blending and hardening into the block of cement that was her past.

  Nacho nodded, a small smile at the corner of his lips.

  “And she always had to have a man.” She pushed away from the back of the couch. “Always.”

  Nacho said, �
�Yeah, I guess she was your mom, too.”

  “Yep, she was.” She tamped down the miasma of nostalgia and stood. “Now, what do you want for dinner?”

  An hour later, she left Nacho doing science homework at the kitchen table, stepped across the hall and tapped lightly on the door.

  “Just a moment!”

  Priss heard the squeaky walker approach before the door opened. Apparently she needn’t have worried that Olivia would be asleep. She stood in the doorway as perfectly coiffed and dressed as if she had a houseful of company.

  “I’m sorry to bother you—”

  “Why, hello, Priss. You’re not bothering me at all. Come in.”

  “I can’t. I have to keep an eye on...” Priss looked back at her own closed door.

  “Your brother?”

  Priss whipped her head back. She should have known Adam would be on the phone with his mother right away, warning her of her felonious neighbor. “Yes, Ms. Preston. I just wanted you to know, he won’t be a bother to you. I don’t know what your son said, but—”

  Her smile didn’t look afraid. “Don’t be silly. I look forward to meeting—Nacho, is it?”

  “His given name is Ignacio, although he’s offended when people call him that. He’s really not a bad boy. He’s had a rough time of it lately and...” She shifted to her other foot. “I just don’t want you to worry about living across the hall from us.”

  Olivia laughed. “You’ll have to excuse my son. I think this broken hip of mine made him realize that I’m mortal and now he’s treating me as if I’m fragile. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I was a college professor for years, but prior to that I taught junior high. It would take a lot more than a ten-year-old to frighten me.”

  Priss felt a rush of gratitude. At least there was one person in town who wouldn’t judge her and Nacho. “Ms. Preston—”

  “Olivia, please.”

  “Olivia, is there anything I can do for you? Pick up some groceries? Run errands?”

  “I’m grateful to have many friends, and of course, Adam, who are seeing to my every need, but thank you.”

  “Oh, well, then...”

  Olivia studied her a moment. “You know, I’d love to go out for coffee sometime. You and I could get to know each other a bit better. Would you like that?”

  Yes. And no. Priss would love to have a philosophical discussion with Olivia. But watching the woman’s bright sparrow eyes, Priss knew Olivia would want to know more about her new neighbors—much more.

  Imagining that conversation made Priss want to scuttle across the hall, slam the door and lock it.

  But she couldn’t afford to offend her landlord’s mother. Especially since Olivia seemed inclined to make up her own mind, in spite of God knows what her son had told her about her neighbors. So instead, Priss lifted the corners of her mouth. “Um, sure.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  ADAM BLINKED SWEAT from his eyes and, arms shaking, bench-pressed the bar onto the standards. The clang of weights hitting metal and the grunts of other gym rats blended with the irritating techno beat pulsing from the speakers overhead. He rested a moment then sat up and wiped his face with a towel.

  “Are you ready to kick some Santa Maria Marlin butt next weekend, Preston?”

  Adam looked up at the gruff voice of the owner of the local gas station, who doubled as the Grove’s bookie. “Arm’s feeling pretty good, Willie.”

  “Glad to hear it. Maybe I’ll change the odds.” He walked away, mumbling to himself.

  Adam glanced at the clock. Lunchtime over, he stood and walked toward the locker room. As usual, his feet paused in front of the towering climbing wall. Before he could stop it, his gaze lifted and his stomach plummeted like an elevator with the cables cut, free-falling to the floor of his pelvis.

  At the lip near the top of the wall, Roger Maloney, the son of Adam’s second baseman, hung suspended by only his hands and a slack safety rope, seemingly contemplating his next move.

  Adam’s stomach rolled over and whimpered. Fear scrabbled and clawed the inside of his chest. Scrubbing his hands on the back of his shorts, his eyes followed the rope to the pint-size, inadequate balayer on the ground.

  Go help. Fresh sweat popped on his forehead. He pushed himself to move but there was a shout from above, flash-freezing him midlean.

  “Falling!”

  Roger fell, back first, arms and legs relaxed. The belayer was jerked off his feet and pulled into the air. Both Roger and his anchor person laughed like they were on an amusement-park ride.

  Insane. Shaking his head and breathing like a buffalo, Adam tottered to the locker room on weak knees. So he had an issue with heights. And closed-in places. And the unexpected. He’d built a life that avoided those risks—well, as much as possible.

  So he’d taken the easy way and become a pharmacist because his father had been one. But the career suited him. Prescriptions were black and white. The doctor specified a specific drug, and a fifty-count didn’t mean forty-nine, or fifty-one. Black and white were the demarcations of his world and he didn’t venture too near the edges.

  So what if his life was a bit...boring? It was safe. And there was a lot to be said for safe.

  But the memory of his tenant’s flashing dark eyes drifted through his mind, tempting him, inviting him to come out and play.

  * * *

  “WHAT CAN I GET YOU?” Jesse stood at the edge of the table, looking from Priss to Olivia, then back again. “I would not have guessed that you two knew each other.”

  Olivia smiled across at Priss. “Priscilla and her brother are my new neighbors over the drugstore. I’ll just have tea, Jesse. Some of that nice lavender I had last time, please.”

  Priss played with the edges of the menu. “I’ll have coffee—the regular stuff, not that sludge you stock for the yuppies.”

  Jesse just stood there, unmoving, hand on hip. “Well? Did you get the job?”

  After Adam’s reaction, the last thing Priss wanted was to discuss her new job in front of Olivia. But Jesse wasn’t going anywhere until she got an answer. Priss frowned. “I got the job. Thank you for the tip.”

  Jesse dusted her hands with a smug smile. “Wow, it is not easy to be this good.” She sashayed to the counter for their drinks.

  “Where are you working, dear?” Olivia asked.

  Priss had known that going to the café with Olivia was a bad idea. But Nacho was stuck doing detention after school today. She’d taken a chance and knocked on Olivia’s door, half hoping she had company and wouldn’t be available. No such luck. Her neighbor had been delighted by Priss’s invitation.

  After ripping apart her closet to find something appropriate to wear, Priss had decided to stay in her dress pants and fitted button-down shirt she’d worn to work.

  Olivia was cultured, a college professor no less. Priss was so far out of her league that she was playing ball on a different planet.

  She had no illusions. If Olivia didn’t approve, Priss and Nacho would be on the street. Adam was looking for an excuse to be rid of them.

  But Olivia had taught philosophy and was an avid reader—two of Priss’s favorite things. Living across the hall from her was like the siren’s call of the sea—and Priss was a sailor.

  But there were rogue waves to consider.

  And one such wave pulled back revealing a strange lump on the beach of her awareness. You care what she thinks of you.

  Priss caught herself squirming and tautened to stillness. Hell, Adam had probably already told his mom anyway. Holding her face in studious lines as if it would dress up the truth, Priss said, “I’m the daytime bartender at Bar None.” She rushed on. “I’ve worked it out so I can be home for Nacho in the evenings and the tips will help buy him some extra things. You know, things he probably hasn’t had before.” Shu
t up. Just. Shut. Up.

  “How wonderful that you found a job that enables you to care for your brother.” Olivia’s smile held no judgments.

  The muscles next to Priss’s spine unlocked, allowing her to lean against the back cushion. “It’s only temporary, until I can find an administrative job.”

  Jesse returned with their drinks, dropped a wink at Priss, and walked away.

  Olivia sipped the tea and sighed. “Lady Grey never disappoints.” She set her cup down. “Adam tells me you came to us from Colorado.”

  “I lived in Boulder. I had a job as an office manager.” Oh, yeah, like you’re going to impress a college professor with management experience and your associate’s degree.

  “And you gave that up to come here and care for your brother.”

  “Don’t make me out to be a hero.” Her face heated. “I didn’t come here for him. I came to settle my mother’s affairs, such as they are. I didn’t know Nacho’s father was in prison. I had no intention of taking on a ten-year-old.”

  Olivia tipped her head, like a bird spying something worth investigating. “Then why did you?”

  “I couldn’t leave him to Social Services. I tried. I didn’t get ten miles out of town.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. She sipped coffee to keep her lips occupied and considered what to say next.

  Olivia gave her a sweet grandmotherly smile.

  Priss felt sweat gathering in the dip between her breasts. “I was in foster care for a time when I was young.” She glanced up in time to see Jesse walk into the kitchen. No cavalry to save her. Knee bouncing under the table, Priss heard her throat click as she swallowed. “Could we talk about something else?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry dear, I didn’t mean to pry.” Olivia looked as if she’d just trod on someone’s blue-ribbon tulip beds.

  “No, I’m sorry.” Priss watched her hands fidget with her cup. “I can be a bit...abrupt.”