Stealing Home

by Harlow Cole

  I smirked softly. The thought of that old field softened some of the tension in my shoulders. “I’d love to. That would be fun.”

  He turned and motioned to a cute blonde behind the bar. She smiled at him and started filling a pint glass.

  “So, nice outfit. That thing loaded?” I asked, nodding to the gun holstered on his hip. “I always thought you’d end up in a uniform, but truth be told, I thought you’d turn into a priest, not the town deputy.”

  He chuckled and patted the shiny gold star pinned to his starched black shirt. The words St. Michaels Deputy Sheriff were etched just above his last name.

  “Decided freshman year I liked the law but had no intention of following Bobby to law school.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Got my associates degree in criminal justice and came back here. Sheriff Kincaid retires next year. Needed an heir apparent. Figured there were far shittier places in the world to hang your hat. ’Sides, the most action we ever see is busting up high school parties and drunk sunbirds wandering around town. It’s a fairly cake gig.”

  I nodded my head and smiled at the waitress as she brought his beer and offered us menus. I used the distraction to make a sweep of the room, checking to see if Ashley had come back inside. Her tables were all out back tonight, probably a ploy to stay far away from me.

  I finally caught sight of her talking to the hostess in the corner of the room. I turned back to see Dillan staring at me with an all-knowing look.

  Dude should’ve been wearing a collar.

  He could sniff out sins from a mile away.

  “She’s been through a lot. Too much,” he added defensively as he set his glass down and toyed with the corner of the cardboard coaster lying beneath it.

  My brow furrowed. I stared down at my bottle, running my thumbnail under the bottom edge of the label. “Yeah. I know about her mom. I’ve kept tabs on them every now and then.” I managed to keep my tone light.

  I sought her out again and couldn’t help but enjoy the view as she hefted a heavy tray, carrying it toward the back door. Her jean shorts were pulled tight across her ass. They rose up a little too high, showing off the creamy flesh at the backs of her thighs where I used to press my fingertips. I visibly exhaled and then turned back to see Dillan looking at the very same thing.

  Well, fuck me.

  Not exactly white-collar material after all.

  We exchanged a discerning glance and let the conversation die away.

  After we ordered food and more beers, we started running through a where-are-they-now laundry list of people I hadn’t bothered to care about in years. I kept watch for her on instinct—an old habit that slid right back on like a game-worn glove. She kept skirting around our table, maintaining a wide enough berth so she could pretend not to see me.

  Dillan and I weren’t the only ones who noticed her. A dozen eyes followed her around the room. She’d already squelched down the dreams of two fuckwit sunbirds seated at the end of the bar.

  They were lucky they still had their hands attached.

  She came in the back door right before Dillan got up to hit the head. Weaving his way toward the restrooms, he made an unexpected stop beside the bar. He approached her from behind, but she quickly spun around with a bright smile. Her arms flung out to greet him with an exuberant hug.

  The kind I didn’t deserve but would’ve begged for.

  He only returned it with one arm, but he pulled her in tight and held on a fraction longer than casual.

  “What the hell is this?” I murmured out loud.

  I couldn’t read lips, but I hated the way she bounced on her toes and talked to him with happy eyes. The thing stabbing me in the heart smelled a whole lot like fear.

  Five minutes later, he was back at the table, double-fisting new beers for us. He started to mention something about the game of the week playing out on one of the TVs.

  Chavez was throwing like shit again. The Sox were already six games ahead. Fucking chumps. If they won the pennant, while I sat on the disabled list, I’d never hear the end of it.

  I waded through our banter, waiting painfully long for a third out so they’d cut away to a commercial, and I could slide into a new topic of conversation.

  “You and Ashley certainly are chummy.” The last word came out with more bite than I’d intended.

  He eyed me in response. Studying me with an assessing gaze.

  Half-cop. Half-heavenly father.

  “She’s a sweet girl,” he finally said plainly.

  I stared at him with one raised brow.

  “What’s that look for?”

  “Just wondering if there’s something I should know about between you two.”

  His nostrils flared slightly. He swallowed a hard swig of beer and set his glass back down with a weighted thud. “I helped her with a project this week. Rebuilt some old dock benches. She was thanking me for offering to finish painting them this weekend.”

  He sighed and blew out a long breath. “Why the fuck am I telling you this? God, you’ve fallen right back into the old pattern, haven’t you? Sitting here, stalking her. Watching like you own her. At the ready to tear up anyone looking her direction.”

  I sat up taller in my chair as his voice grew angry. Angrier than I’d ever heard him before.

  “What gives you that right?”

  I didn’t respond. I started counting in my head. From ten, going backward. Forcing my chest to rise and fall. Anger Management 101 involved a lot of low-level math and deep breathing.

  “Why are you here, Brayden?” he asked, insistent.

  “I came for a beer,” I said, raising my bottle up and down. “And to catch up with an old friend.”

  A frustrated hand rubbed down the side of his face. “I don’t mean, why are you in this bar? I mean, why are you back in town? Why now? What are your intentions with her?” His eyes narrowed.

  That badge did fit him better than a white collar.

  “How ’bout you tell me yours first?” I’d made it all the way to four, but my tone still had an angry edge.

  “Jesus,” he muttered before sucking in the sides of his cheeks and heaving out a breath.

  He stared back up at the TV long enough that I wasn’t sure he intended to answer.

  “Not that you deserve to know ’cause you don’t,” Dillan added emphatically as his eyes cut back to mine, “Ash and I are just friends. I can’t lie and say I haven’t thought about it a hundred times. Because she walks around town, looking like that”—he motioned in her direction—“and she’s one of the best people I know. She’s never left her brother’s side.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “But, no, there’s nothing going on. You dropped off the face of the earth, but going after her still felt like a major violation of bro code.” He sighed. His face softened. “I’m her friend, Brayden. And, trust me, she’s needed all the friends she could get the last couple of years. You have no idea.”

  His words held a bitter tone. They wiped away the nausea in my stomach, yet simultaneously left me feeling like the world’s biggest asshole.

  He was wrong, of course. I had every idea.

  Every fucking idea in the world.

  He set his beer down, so he could point a finger at me. “Don’t hurt her. She’s been through enough. She doesn’t need you coming down here, twisting her inside out, and then running back home to the big time.”

  “Dillan, the big time hasn’t changed who I am. I’m still the same guy you grew up with. And I still think of this as my home.”

  I chewed on my bottom lip to stave off the emotion that admission uncorked. My therapist would’ve marked that down as a giant step and sent me a bill with an extra zero.

  “And I think you know me well enough to understand that I would cut off my own nut sac before I ever hurt her again.”

  I gazed around the room, trying to decide if I wanted to show some of my hand. If I was ready to admit to more. Only three other people knew my whole plan. And that was only bec
ause I needed their help to pull it off.

  What-the-fuck-ever.

  A cop and a priest both love a good confession.

  “You want to know my real intentions? Fine. If anyone asks, I’ll say I’m here to escape the heat of the city. Needed to find a quiet hole-in-the-wall to get through my rehab without everyone breathing down my neck.”

  I licked my lips and stared him in the eyes with the same intensity I used against a batter standing at the plate.

  “But just between old friends? I’m not here by coincidence or because I decided I was overdue for a trip down memory lane. I’m here to fix the things I broke.” I briefly focused my gaze toward Ashley before turning back to face him. “And God help anyone who stands in my way.”

  “Yeah? Well, one of the things you broke can’t stand on his own two feet anymore. But you sure as hell better be prepared for him to get in your way.”

  4

  Painted Hope

  Brayden

  “So, what? Is carpentry your fallback plan if the whole baseball superstar thing doesn’t pan back out?”

  My brush paused mid-stroke as I swallowed down her sass. I dipped it back into the can, loading it down with more paint while pretending to ignore how close she’d just come to the mark. I started to casually smile up at her, but my chest seized as I was greeted with an eyeful of mile-long legs.

  Ashley stood above me, granting a whole new angle with which to fall in love. She had on those crazy, skintight bootie-short things girls always wear to the gym and a tank top that exposed enough plump cleavage to make me salivate.

  God bless the inventor of spandex athletic wear.

  The outfit highlighted just how much she’d changed since I’d been gone. Curves in sinful places. Less girl. More woman. As if my dick needed any more reason to stand at attention and salute her.

  I went back to work to hide my involuntary reaction.

  “At the risk of repeating myself, what the hell are you doing here?”

  She cocked an angry hip to the side, planting her hand against it. I tried not to smirk at how adorable it made her look. Or the way it made her left boob push up a little higher, gifting my eyes another quarter inch of lickable skin.

  “Most people call it painting.” My response came out cool and easy. Pretty much the exact opposite of everything happening below my waist.

  “I get that, genius. Why are you doing it? Dillan built these for me. He’s coming to help me paint them this weekend.”

  I knew that. He’d already told me. That’s why I was beating him to the punch. Saint Dillan, and his fucking one-armed hugs, could stay far away on Saturday. The job would already be done.

  Outwardly, I ignored her. Partially, because I didn’t want to explain myself. And partially, because I knew my silence would drive her nuts. I continued my work with long, even strokes, adding in a low, quiet whistle just to really get under her skin.

  If I couldn’t have her hugs, I’d take her ire.

  Anything beat the hell out of nothing at all.

  “Brayden.”

  “What’s that old cliché? Why put off till tomorrow what you could get done—”

  “I don’t want your help,” she said, with snapping impatience. “How many times do I need to say that? No one invited you here. No one asked you to do this. You’re trespassing.”

  I reloaded the brush once again and moved around to give the other side my attention. She stood and watched, hands on both hips now. She huffed out a few noisy breaths to make sure I knew she was good and pissed.

  “You’re not gonna just go away, are you?” she finally asked. “You can’t just leave well enough alone?”

  Without responding, I finished up the first coat and leaned back to survey my handiwork with pride. “Not bad, huh? Think I’d better do a coat of polyurethane when it dries.”

  I stood up, unfolding my frame until I towered over her. Her teeth were clenched so tight, it looked painful. I wanted to run my fingers down the side of her jaw to ease the tension. Or offer her other services I knew damn well would leave her totally relaxed.

  In place of the dirty thoughts, I couldn’t share, I settled on continuing to taunt her.

  My index finger tapped lightly on the end of her nose. She didn’t have on a stitch of makeup. A light dusting of summer freckles danced across sun-kissed cheeks.

  “No time to chat, Soot. Got eight more to go.” I motioned to the other work ahead of me.

  She groaned and stomped off toward the office, hips angrily swaying and hair flouncing behind her in the breeze.

  I couldn’t contain my grin.

  “Mission accomplished.”

  * * *

  Working with my left hand made everything feel backward. The whole job took twice as long as it should have. By mid-afternoon, my back was baked by a cloudless sky, and my throat resembled fine-grit sandpaper.

  It was time to give in and see the warden.

  My knuckles rapped lightly on the door left open to the office. She sat behind the desk, looking the part of a sexy headmistress. Her dark hair was piled up on her head in a messy bun held in place by a pencil she’d shoved through it. A few rebellious tendrils framed her face. Papers lay scattered all around her as her short red fingernails angrily hunted and pecked their way across the keyboard.

  A small grunt accompanied my entrance. Her eyes briefly shot in my direction. I motioned toward the water cooler in the corner.

  She just poked the keys harder.

  I filled a cup, greedily sucking it down while I studied the photographs lining the wall. They’d all been taken during happier times.

  My eyes lingered on one of Mrs. F. She stood at the helm of Net Profit, hair blowing in the sea breeze, with full-fledged laughter spread across her face. My hand clutched against my chest, pushing against the familiar pang of grief.

  Not a single photo showed the three of us. I felt certain there’d been many at one point. The reminders must’ve all been purged. I fought back that old, customary feeling of rejection.

  Earning a punishment fair and square didn’t make living through it any easier.

  Clipped up next to the photographs was a sheet of scratch paper with a hand-sketched map. Squares and circles mixed with arrows and words. The top was labeled Master Plan.

  “What’s this?” I asked, tipping my head sideways to read the scrawled print.

  Her pecking stopped briefly. “My mother’s last scheme. Her pipe dream for revamping the whole place.”

  My eyes squinted as I studied it closer. “Does that say pool?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. What are these things? These rectangles?”

  “Guest quarters. She wanted to build a little inn, so people could book a slip and decide to come and stay in a real bed. There’s on-site storage and a convenience area, too. Small groceries, laundry, business center. The works.”

  “Your mom was a visionary.”

  She let out a tired sigh. “That’s the way everything is going now. People don’t just want a beat-up old dock and a place to pump out and refuel. They want the whole resort experience. They opened that same basic scheme in Kent Island almost two years ago. Sucked away all our business. Right about the time we found out she was sick.”

  I turned back to the cooler for a refill. I had to choke down the idea that Mrs. F had to forfeit her dreams, too. Some things, I was too late to save.

  I adjusted my hat back and forth on my head, getting myself back in check.

  Her keyboard pecking resumed for a minute before she paused and called out to me, “I’m surprised that hat still fits on your head.”

  She meant it as a dig, but her continuing to send any words in my general direction felt as good as locking up a game in October.

  I turned back to see her hands hovering over the keyboard, eyes trained on my faded St. M cap. I’d hunted it up like long-lost treasure within minutes of first entering Grams’s house. I’d left it behind all those years ago, plucked from my s
uitcase and abandoned on a shelf. Part of me had known I wouldn’t be able to handle the reminder. The other part had secretly hoped, if I left a little sliver of my old self, I would have a reason to come back and retrieve it.

  The thing still fit like a glove.

  “Some things, you never outgrow.”

  She’d apparently never outgrown her ability to show major fucking attitude with a simple eye roll. She blew out a breath and tugged at the pencil, letting her hair cascade down her back. Frustrated fingers combed through it as she returned to staring at the paper in front of her.

  “How bad is it?” I asked, growing serious. I took a few steps forward to snoop.

  “How bad is what?” she asked, not bothering to look up.

  “I thought we weren’t playing games. I have eyes, Ash. Half your slips are empty. And the dockside benches aren’t the only things needing replacement or repair. Just how much business have you lost?”

  “Things are . . . difficult right now.”

  Difficult. Interesting word. It didn’t come close to describing the dire reality I already knew she wouldn’t divulge to me.

  “My dad is taking a trip. He went down south to find some winter work and—”

  “I heard.”

  Her brow raised in question.

  “Joey told me.” One more tally in my string of lies. I was getting used to the sour taste of my own half-truths.

  “He’s down there, working—”

  “Is that what we’re calling it?”

  Her face fell a little. “He just needed some time. Losing my mom so suddenly, on top of everything with Nathan . . . she was his other half. You know how they were. He’s broken without her. He had to get away for a while before we could sit down and form a new long-term plan. He’s coming back soon. I think,” she muttered the last part under her breath.

  “I get it. He’s trying to numb the pain.” I crushed the paper cup in my palm and tossed a sinker into the trash can five feet away. “Been in those shoes. Never works out well.”

  She blinked. Her face softened with pain I immediately felt guilty for putting there.