Best Man for Hire

by Tawna Fenske

  Far from it, babe.

  His gut clenched. Part of him wanted to run. The rest of him was already forming a plan.

  “Look, here’s what we’re going to do,” he said, keeping his voice as soothing and upbeat as he could. “I’m going to run inside and see what I’ve got for gear. I did some jungle combat training at Camp Gonsalves in Japan. We learned to climb palm trees there.”

  Anna eyed him dubiously. “With an angry cat in your hands?”

  “With an M4 carbine with a collapsible stock. Probably not much different.”

  “Good point.”

  “Anna, can you hang out here with Mrs. Stein? Keep an eye on Rumpymuffle, and yell if he starts moving. I’ll be right back.”

  He bolted into the house, his brain working on warp speed. He wished like hell he had some climbing gear, but he hadn’t had much use for that on Kauai. Gloves, he thought, sprinting for the garage where he found a pair of bright gold work gloves with rubber grips on the palms and fingers. He started to grab for his work boots, then changed his mind. His feet were toughened from running on the beach, and he’d have a better grip without shoes.

  He spotted a sturdy carabiner in his toolbox and grabbed that, his brain working through the logistics of climbing down with a squirrely cat in his arms.

  Helmet, he thought, and frowned at his bike helmet. Not enough protection from falling coconuts, and there’d been several big ones in the tree. He sprinted back into the house and down the hall to the office where he found his grandfather’s old McCord MI helmet from World War II. He grabbed it by the webbing and fastened it on, grateful Gramps had taken damn good care of his equipment. It might be an antique, but it still felt sturdy. He fastened it snug with the chin strap and knocked twice on the top to make sure it was solid.

  He moved down the hall toward the bedroom, trying not to let his brain take a detour when he remembered Anna bent over the bed inspecting the carved headboard. Her ass had been pert and perfectly round, the short dress riding up to expose the tops of her thighs.

  Don’t think about that now.

  Instead, he grabbed a laundry bag printed with bright yellow ducks. His sister had given it to him as a housewarming gift, and it had a sturdy drawstring at the top. He turned and yanked the top sheet off his bed and sprinted back outside. Mrs. Stein was at the base of the tree talking sweetly to Rumpymuffle, who showed no sign of moving up or down. His tail twitched a little, which seemed like a good thing though what the hell did Grant know about cats?

  A few feet away, Anna stood with her cell phone to her ear. “Hang on, Mrs. Stein. I’m calling my friend, Kelli. She’s a veterinarian. Maybe she’ll have some suggestions.”

  Good thinking, Grant thought, wondering why it hadn’t occurred to him to call Mac’s new wife first thing.

  Because you want to be the damn hero. You need to save the day.

  He shook off his inner voice as Anna turned to face him. “No answer,” she said, looking glum. “I forgot she and Mac were going to the movies tonight. She’s probably got her phone off.” She bit her lip and looked back up the tree. “Mrs. Stein says Rumpymuffle takes special medication for a thyroid condition. He’s already a couple hours past when he’s supposed to take it. She’s worried he’ll get weak and won’t be able to hang on much longer.”

  “We’ll get him down,” Grant said. He held out the bedsheet. “Here, take this.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “This wasn’t what I had in mind when I imagined myself getting familiar with your bedsheets.”

  “Later for that. You and Mrs. Stein can hold the corners and use it as a sort of rescue net.”

  “For you or for Rumpymuffle?”

  “For the cat.” Grant gave her a feeble grin. “If I fall, I’m pretty much on my own.”

  She bit her lip. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  “No, but do you have a better one? The sun will be going down in a matter of minutes.”

  And I won’t be, Grant thought, trying not imagine himself with his face buried between Anna’s thighs.

  She frowned, then shook her head. “I already tried the fire department. Apparently they’re busy dealing with an actual fire.”

  “Okay then,” Grant said, looking up the three. “Commence operation cat rescue in three, two, one—”

  “Nice helmet,” she said. “It goes great with your shoes.”

  “Thanks,” he said, moving barefoot across the grass toward the massive palm. He pulled the carabineer out of his pocket and knotted the cinch string from the duck-printed laundry bag around it. Pulling it tight, he hooked the carabineer through his belt and clipped it shut.

  “Wait,” Mrs. Stein said, wriggling out of her pink chambray work shirt. You’ll scratch your arms if you don’t have long sleeves. Try this.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Please,” she insisted, thrusting the shirt at him. “It’s the least I can do. Please hurry.”

  Seeing no point in arguing, Grant shrugged into the shirt. There was no way it would button around him, but he didn’t need it to. He just needed protection for his arms. The oversized fit of it, coupled with the fact that Mrs. Stein probably outweighed him by forty pounds, meant the garment actually fit his shoulders pretty well.

  “That’s definitely your color,” Anna said, managing a weak smile. “Between the gold gloves, the bare feet, and the helmet that looks like you stole it from a museum, you’ve got a head start on your next Halloween costume.”

  Grant offered her a mock salute and turned back to the tree. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to pose for the next issue of Cat Rescuer magazine.”

  He stood at the bottom of the tree and stared up, trying to remember what he’d learned in jungle training. No one was shooting at him, which was a plus, but doing this without any sort of climbing gear was probably not much safer.

  “Are you sure about this?” Anna asked.

  He turned to look at her, surprised by the look of concern in her eyes. Mrs. Stein sniffled and wiped a tear from her cheek.

  “Yep,” Grant said, and pulled on his gloves.

  He turned back to the tree, eyeing the tree scars ringing the thick trunk. He reached around the tree and placed one palm behind it. He moved the other hand around the front of the tree at chest level, hugging the tree as tightly as its girth allowed.

  He flexed his legs on either side and coiled himself to jump. He leaped up, the soles of his feet landing on either side of the trunk. He anchored his feet against the bark, his palms pressing tight from opposite directions, his feet doing the same from below.

  Coiling his muscles, he sprang up with his legs, using them to push himself up the trunk frog-style. He squeezed the tree between his feet, extending his upper body up to find the next handhold. The tree bark bit into his palms, and he was grateful for the gloves as he clenched the tree between them. Hell, he was grateful for the stupid pink shirt, come to think of it.

  Keeping his upper body affixed to the trunk, he used his legs to frog-hop upward again. He glanced beneath him, expecting to see more distance between himself and the ground. Six feet below, Anna gave him a timid little wave. Hell, she could probably jump up and grab his foot if she wanted to.

  Don’t think about Anna grabbing any part of your body right now, he commanded himself. Focus.

  Grant turned his attention back to the tree trunk and leaped again, moving his hands upward. His legs followed, feet crawling slowly up the tree. The bark was biting into his knees, but he had a good grip. He hugged the tree tighter and moved up two more feet.

  Don’t lose your grip. They’re depending on you.

  He leaped again, finding his rhythm now. It had been years since jungle training, but the movement was feeling familiar. Not easy, and his wrists would be scratched to hell where the shirt was too short, but this was doable.

  He was ten feet up the trunk now, and Rumpymuffle’s fuzzy butt was in plain view above him. “Hang on, big guy,” Grant called, trying
to sound calm. “I’m coming for you, buddy.”

  Mew.

  The kittenish sound gave Grant a sharp pang in his chest, and he hopped again, gaining another couple feet. He kept going, closer now, nearing the top where the branches split into leafy green fronds.

  He could almost touch the cat.

  Mew.

  Rumpymuffle glanced over his furry shoulder, took one look at Grant, and skittered farther up the tree.

  “Dammit,” Grant muttered.

  “Are you okay?” Anna yelled from below.

  “Never better,” he called.

  “Please be careful.”

  The concern in her voice gave Grant the energy he needed for another surge up the trunk. He leaped again, just a foot from the frilled top of the palm. He let go with one hand and finessed his arm up through the palm fronds. Tugging a lower branch, he realized it couldn’t possibly hold his weight. He stretched his arm higher, sweat pooling on his brow and dripping down his arms. His feet were killing him, and a boulder-sized coconut swayed dangerously over his head. His fingers found another branch and gripped it hard. Tensing every muscle in his body, he pulled himself upward through the branches.

  Mew, said Rumpymuffle, glancing at him again.

  “That’s it, big guy. I’ve almost got you.”

  Grants legs were shaking with exertion now. His left foot slipped—probably from all the damn sweat—and he heard Anna gasp below him.

  “Everything’s fine,” he called, regaining his grip and pushing himself higher. “Almost there.”

  Mew, the cat said again.

  “That’s right,” Grant coaxed, letting go of the branch with one hand. He reached behind him and yanked on the mouth of the laundry bag, making sure he had a nice, wide opening. He grabbed hold of the branch, steadying himself, regaining his strength.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Stein called. “Do be careful. You’re so high up there.”

  Grant wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or the cat, but it didn’t matter. A fall from this height would be pretty fucking painful for either one of them.

  Don’t fall, he commanded himself.

  He let go of the branch and stretched up, his fingers brushing the cat’s soft fur.

  “Shit, I need a few more inches.”

  He could’ve sworn he heard Anna mutter something beneath him, words that sounded a lot like, “Not from what I could tell,” but he was probably imagining things. The damn heat was making him dizzy. He flashed on the memory of Anna’s hand stroking him through his shorts, her knuckles grazing the head of his cock as she pressed his face into those beautiful breasts.

  Dammit.

  A hard-on was the last thing he needed right now. He took a steadying breath and reached for another branch. He tugged hard, making sure it could support his weight.

  Thunk!

  A falling coconut smacked hard on the top of his helmet, bouncing off and tumbling toward the ground.

  “Watch out!” he called.

  “Caught it!” Anna yelled. “Come down in one piece and I promise to make you my famous coconut-lime pie.”

  “Deal.” Grant shook off the ringing in his ears and stretched upward again.

  Still gripping the trunk between his feet, he pushed himself up once more. He caught another branch in his left hand and yanked. The branch held, and no coconuts came raining down. He pulled himself up and let go with one hand.

  “Let’s try this again,” he murmured to the cat. “On three. Ready? One, two—”

  He stretched his fingers up and gripped the cat’s scruff between his fingers and palm. “Three!”

  He pulled back, peeling Rumpymuffle’s claws off the trunk with an audible scritch. The cat yowled in protest, but didn’t struggle. Thank God for small miracles.

  “Here we go,” Grant cooed, shoving the cat behind him into the bag. He couldn’t see what he was doing, but he felt one set of claws snag in the fabric. He glanced over his shoulder, relieved to see Rumpymuffle’s head had cleared the top of the bag. He let go of the cat and yanked the drawstring, cinching the bag shut.

  Mrwow!

  Twenty feet below, Anna and Mrs. Stein stretched the sheet out between them, holding it open like a net.

  A net he probably hadn’t washed for a couple weeks. God, if he made it down alive, he needed to seriously reevaluate how often he washed his sheets.

  Don’t think about that now.

  Behind him in the bag, Rumpymuffle squirmed and hissed and sank a set of claws through the fabric. They connected with the back of his thigh, and Grant gave a yelp of pain.

  “Dammit, cat. I’m trying to help you here!”

  Slowly, cautiously, trying not to think about rabies shots, he began his descent down the tree. He slid both hands around the backside of the tree, hugging it tight as he released the pressure on his lower legs. He slid downward, letting his hands move with him. The cat was wriggling in the bag, making it tougher to balance.

  He kept going, dropping faster than he probably ought to, but too damn eager to be back on solid ground.

  Mrwow! the cat screamed again, sinking its fangs through the bag and into his right butt cheek.

  “Shit!” Grant snapped, fighting the urge to unclip the carabineer from his belt and just let the cantankerous creature drop. “I mean shoot.”

  “You’re almost to the ground,” Anna cheered, her voice closer now than it had seemed minutes before. “Great work.”

  Grant inched his hands down again, leaning back a little as he slid his feet down the trunk again. The instant his feet touched the grass, Mrs. Stein was on him.

  “Oh, baby! Oh, sweetie, Oh, honey, my precious little muffin.”

  Grant let go of the trunk and unclipped the bag from his belt, hoping like hell she was talking to the cat and not him. Mrs. Stein grabbed the bag and hugged it to her chest, tears streaming down her face as she began to loosen the knot at the top.

  “You might want to wait till you’re safely inside to let the cat out of the bag,” Anna said. “I don’t think Grant’s going back up that tree if Rumpymuffle gets loose again.”

  “How can I ever repay you?” Mrs. Stein sobbed. “You saved my baby.”

  Grant smiled in spite of himself and tried to subtly rub the bite mark on his butt cheek. “Just doing my part to help out,” he said. “I’m glad he’s okay.”

  “Just let me get my checkbook. I owe you—”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Grant insisted, his voice a little harsher than he meant it to be. “Just get that cat inside and give him a can of tuna. And a rabies shot.”

  “If you like, I can have my friend Kelli come take a look at him when she’s free,” Anna offered. “She makes house calls for friends.”

  “What would I do without the two of you?” Mrs. Stein sniffed again, while Rumpymuffle yowled from inside the bag. “Thank you. I mean it.”

  She turned and waddled back to her house, leaving Grant standing there in her pink shirt with a throbbing bite mark on his rear. When he turned back to Anna, she was studying him with an expression he couldn’t read. It was either admiration or dismay, or some bizarre mix of the two.

  She shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

  “What?”

  “You’re amazing. A true fucking Boy Scout.”

  He grinned and peeled off the pink shirt. He’d wash it later, fold it neatly, and return it to his neighbor. For now though, he had other things on his mind. He leaned close to Anna, his lips brushing her ear.

  “In that case,” he murmured. “Don’t you think I deserve a merit badge?”

  The flash of heat in her eyes made Grant forget all about the scratches on his wrists, the pain in his feet, the throbbing bite mark on his ass.

  “You want a merit badge, huh?”

  “Or something else.”

  She smiled. “The fact that your fly is already undone should facilitate the something else.”

  He looked down, appalled to realize she wasn’t kidding. “What
the hell?”

  “Sorry, my fault.” She grinned, not looking all that sorry. “I’m the one who unzipped it. I noticed when you started up the tree, but I didn’t want to distract you.”

  Grant fumbled with the zipper, then stopped. “I don’t suppose leaving it undone would be effective foreplay?”

  Anna laughed. “I do want to get your pants off, but maybe not for that reason. Cat bites are vicious. You seriously need to have that looked at. Are you current on all your shots?”

  “I can’t vouch for Rumpymuffle, but the Marines keep me pretty up-to-date on my physical,” he said. “Of course, it might not hurt to have you check it out.”

  She grinned and took a step back. “Tempting though that is, don’t you think this is a bad idea?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “The photography thing,” she said, licking her lips. “If we might be working together, hooking up could make things awkward.”

  “Photography,” he repeated, a little thrown to realize he’d completely forgotten the reason he’d invited her over.

  Well, one of the reasons.

  “I haven’t even gotten to see your photos yet, but I’m sure they’re amazing,” she said. “Pretty much everything you do is flawless.”

  There was a slight edge to her voice now, a sound he hadn’t heard before when she was purring in his ear. Grant studied her, trying to understand the sudden change.

  “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” She shook her head. “God, I sound like such a bitch. I guess I’m just a little discombobulated by you.”

  “Is discombobulated the same as turned on?”

  She laughed, but the laughter didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re a little hard to believe, you know?”

  Grant felt something sharp lodge in his throat. He tried to swallow it down, keeping his expression impassive. “What do you mean?”