What Happens Between Friends

by Beth Andrews

  The Catholic university was one of a dozen or so colleges located in Pittsburgh, a forty-minute drive from Shady Grove.

  Sadie finally stepped into the room. “Yeah? That’s great. You must be really proud of her.”

  He was. Of course he was. If his mom wanted to get a college degree, to pursue a career in social work, then he was all for it. But it would mean changes. Adjustments. Not to their family life as much as to Montesano Construction. From the time Frank had started the company, Rose had managed the office. She planned on continuing in that capacity while she earned her degree part-time, but eventually, she’d leave to follow her newly formed dream.

  It just proved you were never too old to change course.

  Though James was too firmly entrenched—in his life, his father’s business, his place in his family—to even think about changing his.

  Why would he? he thought, flipping on the light on the tall dresser, then the one on the round table in the seating area. He was right where he was meant to be, working a job he was good at and enjoyed, surrounded by family and friends he loved.

  He was content.

  And how many people could truly say that?

  “Shower’s this way,” he said, walking into the large bathroom, Sadie following.

  “Oh, dear, sweet Lord,” Sadie breathed. She turned in a slow circle, her eyes wide as she took in the room. Dark woodwork, free-standing sinks on Italian marble, a separate area for the toilet, large whirlpool tub and walk-in shower. Not to mention the heated tiles beneath their feet and a closet the size of most bedrooms.

  James grinned. It was one hell of a room, one of Montesano’s best. They’d redone his parents’ master suite five or so years ago, completely gutting what had been a utilitarian bathroom and turning it into what his mother deemed her oasis.

  Women and bathrooms. He may not completely understand why they went so crazy over them, but he could appreciate their enthusiasm over a well-designed room.

  He leaned against the vanity as Sadie opened the door leading to the closet and peeked in at his parents’ clothes. She’d slipped off her sandals downstairs, had mud splattered across her bare, narrow feet and up her calves. Her bright orange top—one of those wide-necked ones with flowing sleeves that reminded him of something a gypsy would wear—was wrinkled, her yellow pants ruined.

  She was a mess. A walking disaster.

  She’d grown her hair out from the short bob it’d been three years ago. It reached past her shoulders, the wheat-colored strands streaked with thin stripes of pale blond. But even with it frizzing to twice its normal size, and mascara smudged under her eyes, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  For the past twenty years, he’d been wishing like hell that she wasn’t.

  Sadie pressed her nose against the glass-encased, walk-in shower.

  “Did you just whimper?” he asked.

  “It has three showerheads,” she said, turning her head to the side, her arms wide as if giving the shower a hug. “Three. It deserves a good whimper. Maybe even a moan or two. And this...” She stepped to the side, sat on the edge of the tub. “It’s huge. Big enough for a small family. Or a large dog.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “What’s not?”

  “You giving that dog a bath in my mother’s tub.”

  After drying him off, they’d left Elvis in the garage with blankets and a bowl of water and a plate of roast beef Rose had given them.

  “What is this world coming to?” Sadie asked, setting her bag on the floor. She bent to dig through it, her long hair falling forward, her top gaping, giving him a glimpse of her lacy, white bra, the curve of her breast. “It’s so a person can’t even think about something without getting shot down.”

  Straightening, James jerked his gaze up. “Trust me,” he muttered. “Some thoughts are better nipped in the bud before they can fully form. Besides, you can give the dog a bath when we get to my place.” He pretended great interest in rearranging the hand towel on the pewter ring next to the sink. “You have any idea how long you’ll be in town?”

  She set a pile of clothes at the end of the counter. “I’m not sure. A couple of weeks? Maybe a month. But no longer than that,” she added firmly.

  A chill swept through him. A month?

  Aw, hell.

  As they’d gotten Elvis set up in the garage, Sadie had asked if she could bunk with James. She often stayed at his place, preferring it over going home to her parents’ house—she and her mother got along better if they weren’t in constant contact with each other. But usually, Sadie’s trips home were a few days, a week at the most. Now he was stuck with her for only God knew how long.

  Stuck with having her underfoot. With her warm smiles and nonstop chatter and the way she hummed all the freaking time. With her floral scent following him from room to room, with her barefoot in his kitchen, using every clean dish he had just to make scrambled eggs and toast, her lithe body in nothing but a tank top and shorts.

  He’d be insane in two days. Three, tops.

  Something major must have happened to have her staying in Shady Grove for so long. He’d suspected that out in the driveway when she’d clung to him. Sadie wasn’t the clinging type. She didn’t let mistakes or failures slow her down, let alone get her down.

  He wanted to ask again what was going on with her, but he’d wait. He had a party to get back to and she was wet and probably cold, though she hadn’t complained. There would be plenty of time for her to tell him what was wrong. Why she’d come back.

  If she meant what she’d said about staying for a month, there would be plenty of time for him, too. Time for him to get used to having her around again. And to prepare himself for when she left.

  He stepped to the door, held on to the handle. “I’ll let you get cleaned up. Towels are in there,” he said, nodding toward the narrow linen closet to his left. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  She stopped him with a hand to his forearm, her long fingers cold, her short nails painted a sparkly dark blue. “Thanks, James. For everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said, her voice soft and unsteady, her gaze sincere. “You’re a good guy and a really good friend.”

  Unable to speak, he nodded, forcing his lips into the semblance of a grin. It wasn’t until he’d slipped into the bedroom and shut the bathroom door behind him that he let his mouth flatten. He tipped his head back and exhaled heavily.

  A good friend. That was all he’d ever been to her. All he ever would be.

  It was his own damn fault he wanted so much more.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHARLOTTE ELLISON HAD a life plan.

  She’d thought this through in its entirety, had weighed the pros and cons, dissected each aspect, considered all the consequences and any and every possible outcome. This wasn’t some flighty whim of fancy or a childish fantasy. This was real. Important. Possibly the most important thing she’d ever done.

  She applied soft brown eyeliner in the small bathroom off the Montesanos’ kitchen, capped the liner and tossed it into her small makeup bag. Leaning over the sink, she swiped on mascara. She was nothing if not pragmatic. Realistic. Centered and grounded. From the time she was sixteen she’d known exactly what she’d wanted out of life. She’d written it down, then had broken those goals into smaller, manageable steps—just like all the gurus preached. Over the years she’d changed or adjusted those steps accordingly.

  She’d already achieved so much. Valedictorian of her high school class? Check. Admitted to the University of Pittsburgh’s school of nursing, graduate at the top of that class and gain employment at Shady Grove Memorial? Check, check and check. Buy her dream home by the time she was twenty-five? She had her eye on an adorable 1920s cottage that had an awesome kitchen, a view of the river and plent
y of potential for the extra bedrooms and playroom she’d need once she had her three kids.

  A boy and two girls—God willing—all twenty to twenty-four months apart, the first coming along sometime between Char’s thirtieth and thirty-second birthday.

  She slicked on a pale peach gloss, rubbed her lips together. Straightened to study her reflection. Sighed. There wasn’t much she could do about the sprinkling of freckles on her nose and across her upper cheeks, the ones that went with hair that was as bright red as her father’s.

  The ones that had doomed her to a life of being cute and adorable when all she’d ever wanted was to be sexy and beautiful.

  And her hair—dear, sweet Lord, her hair—could have used some serious time with a heavy-duty conditioner, blow dryer and flat iron. That was what she got for coming here straight from work. After a ten-hour shift and that summer storm, the smooth waves it’d taken her an hour to achieve that morning were now back to their original form. Wild, springy, frizzy curls.

  She would pull the whole mess into a ponytail except, call her crazy, she didn’t think passing for a sixteen-year-old would help her cause.

  At least the rest was acceptable.

  Her favorite dark jeans made her legs seem endless, and the emerald-green top she’d splurged on last summer, but had never worn until now, brought out her eyes and clung in all the right places, making it seem as if she actually had a curve here and there. Not an easy feat.

  Twisting, she rose onto her toes and checked out her butt. Pursed her lips. Not bad. Not bad at all. Possibly even better than top-notch.

  Resolutely turning away from the mirror, she dropped her lipstick into her purse before opening the door and stepping into the short hallway. Voices, laughter and music drifted to her from the living and dining rooms. She turned right, away from the party and majority of people, her back straight, head held high, steps determined.

  She was on a mission here. Because while she fully realized some things were out of her control, there was still plenty she could do to make her dreams come true. And if she wanted to be married by the time she turned twenty-seven—after a year of dating and a two-year engagement, thereby enabling her plenty of time to plan the perfect wedding—she needed to get a move on.

  And let the man of her dreams know she was interested, available and, most important, ready to be in a serious, long-term relationship.

  The first thing Char had done when she’d arrived was to seek out Rose Montesano—best to get on her future mother-in-law’s good side right from the start. When Char had heard that her prey was in the kitchen with his brother, she’d quickly excused herself to freshen up.

  She was as ready as she’d ever be. Had psyched herself up about this ever since she’d received the party invitation two weeks ago. In mere minutes, what was destined to be a lifelong love affair would have its beginning.

  Her steps slowed. She pressed a hand against her roiling stomach. There was no need to be nervous. No need at all. All she had to do was walk into the kitchen. Make idle chitchat. It wasn’t as if she’d never spoken to the man before. They’d had plenty of conversations, had known each other for, well, her entire life, practically.

  Char rubbed her fingertips against her palms. Inhaled a deep, calming breath, blew it—and all the tension and worry she held—out.

  Sending up a prayer she would be successful, she stepped up to the doorway.

  James and Leo Montesano were the only two inside. Could she really be blamed if she stood there, just out of sight, and took in the sight of two tall, dark, handsome men? If her heart sighed at knowing one would, soon enough, be hers?

  They both had on jeans, but while James was dressed for the party in a blue button-down shirt, Leo had on a black V-neck T-shirt that clung to his muscular frame. James leaned against the counter near the stove, his arms straight, his fingers curled around the curved edge. At the sink, Leo—tall, broad-shouldered and handsome as sin with his floppy dark hair and sexy grin—was up to his elbows in soapy water. James said something and smiled as Leo laughed, the sound deep, masculine and enticing as all get-out.

  Warmth bloomed in her chest. Glancing up, she mouthed thank you for her prayer about to be answered.

  “Need any help?” she asked, making sure her voice was light and bright.

  Both men glanced over. And being pinned with those dark eyes made her mouth go dry.

  “Hey there, gorgeous,” Leo said, rinsing a large tray under the running water at the sink. “How do you feel about washing dishes?”

  Char smiled widely—the better to show the dimple in her left cheek to its full potential. “I’ve got nothing against it.”

  Leo gave a masculine whoop, quickly dried his hands on the towel tucked into his waistband and crossed to her in a few long strides. Before she realized what was happening, he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her as if she weighed no more than a five-year-old and spun her around. Laughing, she gripped his shoulders, the muscles bunching and flexing under her hands.

  “You’re an angel,” he said in his husky voice. “The answer to my prayers. A—”

  “Guest,” James finished. He scowled. “Quit twirling her around like a rag doll and stop trying to weasel your way out of your chore.”

  Leo stopped and set her back on her feet, but her head still spun. “I don’t mind,” she said breathlessly.

  Leo slung his arm around her shoulders, pressing her against his side. “Yeah, she doesn’t mind.”

  “She might not, but Mom will,” James said.

  Leo winked at Char as his pager beeped. “Unlike birthday boy here, I’m not afraid of my mother.”

  “Better come over here,” James told her, wrapping his fingers around her upper arm and tugging her to his side as Leo read the pager’s screen. “It’s only a matter of time before lightning fries his lying ass.”

  “Three-car accident on Jefferson Street,” Leo said, grabbing a set of car keys from the windowsill. “Who’s on tonight?”

  Char worked in the E.R. and saw Leo, a firefighter and EMT, often. Most firefighters had their favorite and least-favorite doctors. At the bottom of Leo’s list, she knew, was Dr. Nathan Hamilton.

  Hamilton, an obnoxious, sexist creep, was at the bottom of most people’s list, including hers.

  “Wertz was there when I left,” she said, “but Goldberg is taking the night shift.”

  Nodding, he slapped James on the back. “Gotta run. Happy birthday, bro.” He sent her another devastating grin. Her knees went just a little weak. Hey, she was human after all. “See you around, gorgeous.”

  “When did you get here?” James asked as Leo went out the back door.

  She crossed to the sink. “A few minutes ago.”

  A few minutes. Twenty minutes. What was the difference? Had he been waiting for her? Looking for her? Could she get that lucky?

  “None of that.” This time he encircled her wrist and led her to the island. “You are not doing the dishes. Don’t let Leo sweet-talk you into...anything. Ever.” He squeezed her hand, his touch leaving tingles of sensation against her skin. “Now, let’s get you a drink. Wine?”

  Since speech was impossible, she nodded. When he turned his back to pour a glass of deep red wine, she rubbed the pad of her thumb over the area where he’d touched her, could have sworn she still felt the heat of his fingers.

  “Leo’s a flirt,” she finally managed to say, “and he doesn’t discriminate based on looks, age or marital status. All the women in the E.R. are half in love with him.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “All?”

  Was he jealous? She could only hope. “Maybe not all,” she said huskily, sending him a look from under her lashes.

  “Good.” He handed her the wine, didn’t seem to notice her sexy tone or seductive look. She would have to work on them. “You
’re way too good for my brother. Don’t ever forget that.”

  She wanted to giggle like a schoolgirl. Wanted to swear to James—as in, cross her heart and hope to die—that she had absolutely zero interest in becoming the next woman to warm Leo’s bed. “I won’t.”

  It was an easy enough promise to make. Sure, Leo had that whole charming, playboy thing going on, and he resembled a Roman god with his sharply chiseled face and dark eyes. But he wasn’t the kind of man a woman could count on. Wasn’t the type of man Char wanted to spend the rest of her life with. She wanted a husband who was smart and responsible and successful. A man who would be there for her and their kids, who would be committed to his own career and supportive of hers, and active in the community they both loved.

  James Montesano was going to make the perfect husband.

  “I hear you’re looking to buy a place of your own,” he said.

  She sipped her wine, hid a grimace. Yuck. She couldn’t stand the stuff. No matter what kind she tried, it always tasted like cough syrup. But if James drank wine, then she’d drink it.

  And wish it was a beer instead.

  “I’ve had enough of renting. It’s time I had something that’s mine, you know? A home, not just an apartment where I happen to sleep. And with Jenn getting married next spring, it seems like the right time.”

  “Your roommate’s getting married? Isn’t she a little young?”

  “She’s my age, so not so young.”

  “Your age is plenty young,” he said, as if he was ancient.

  Char pretended to take another drink. She’d wondered if the age difference would bother him. While she couldn’t say it thrilled her to have him think she was a little young, at least she now knew where she stood. And knowing was half the battle.

  “You sound like Daddy.” As she’d hoped, he frowned at being compared to a middle-aged man. Good. Maybe that would help him realize he was still in the prime of his life. And having a wife ten years younger would only help keep him young.

  “He wants me to move back home,” she continued, “which is so not going to happen.” Holding her glass with two hands, she let out a very put-upon-sounding sigh. “I just wish it wasn’t so hard finding a decent house. The last two I looked at in my price range were horrendous. I swear, I thought they were going to fall down around my ears. Luckily, I found one I think will work, but I have no idea if it’s worth the asking price or how much I’ll have to put into it. The real-estate agent said it needed a new roof, but what if there are other problems, ones that aren’t as easy to spot? The building inspector said he couldn’t get to it for at least a month and there’s no sense asking my dad.” She gave an exaggerated eye roll. “He’s no help whatsoever.”