Preston’s face lit up. “You don’t know about Aquaman?”
“Well, I know he’s not a real hero. Not like Superman.”
“Oh, yeah?” Preston’s mouth split into a beaming grin. He straightened his spine and threw back his narrow shoulders, gleefully accepting the challenge to enter into verbal warfare in defense of his hero. Ian watched as they tossed playful insults back and forth, ranking Superman’s extraordinary abilities against those of Aquaman.
The only passing shadow that darkened his enjoyment of their evening occurred when their waitress returned to box their uneaten pizza and collect dirty plates. She smiled at Chloe and Preston’s exchange, and then her gaze locked on the bruises on Preston’s cheek, his swollen lower lip. Her smile faded. She shot Ian a dirty look and left with her tray.
Ian tensed. He couldn’t help it. But he didn’t react, didn’t say a word. Still, he wasn’t sorry when, a few minutes later, Chloe suggested they call it a night. He was more than ready to leave.
If Chloe noticed his abrupt change of mood, she didn’t comment on it. They were barely underway, however, when she asked him to pull over at a bar a mile or two outside of town. A wooden sign, crookedly hung over the entrance, laid claim to the place as Charlie’s. Neon beer advertisements shone from the windows and the sound of country music echoed out over the parking lot.
“I’ll only be a minute,” she said as she slipped out of the car and went inside.
She offered no explanation, leaving Ian alone in the darkened car with Preston, the motor running. And because his life of late had been following a single mantra—if something could go from bad to worse, it naturally would—Preston immediately began to fuss and whine about wanting to get out of his seat and follow her inside. Ian explained that the bar was for grown-ups only, and that they couldn’t go in. That Chloe would be back in just a minute. Neither response pacified Preston, whose pitch quickly escalated into a full-blown tantrum.
Ian tightened his grip on the steering wheel in frustration. Unable to do anything to appease his nephew, he tuned out Preston’s meltdown and trained his ear on the music drifting from the bar instead. Kenny Chesney sang about going back to Cleveland. Not a bad solution, if you could get away with it: Just turn and walk away. Leave it all behind and start over. Obviously not an option for him.
The doors opened and Chloe stepped out. A man accompanied her outside. Ian straightened behind the wheel and peered across the darkened lot, more alert and interested than he had any right to be. He quickly sized up the man she was with. Shaggy blond hair, tall and lanky, with a loose stride and an easy smile. He’d seen plenty of guys like that before. Hired and fired them, too. Good-looking, charming and glib, great behind the bar. The kind of guy that always attracted women, but never settled down in one place long enough to actually get serious with one. The original Walkaway Joe.
The man’s hands hovered inches above Chloe’s ass—an ass that was particularly lovely, Ian thought, his gaze narrowing in on the woman’s backside for the first time that evening. Funny he hadn’t noticed it sooner. Delectably round and firm, perched up high and tucked into a pair of jeans that lovingly hugged her curves. An ass that was made to be cupped and squeezed. A surge of possessive irritation coursed through him as he watched the man lower his head to whisper something in her ear.
Chloe pulled back, considered whatever he said, and then smiled and shook her head ‘No’.
Good, Ian thought, his muscles unclenching. He hadn’t been aware he’d been so tense until that moment. Not that her personal life was any of his business, of course. It wasn’t. It was just that the woman deserved better.
Leaving the man behind, she crossed the lot and climbed back inside his SUV. She shot a quick look at Preston, who’d sunk into full tantrum mode and was still carrying on even though she’d returned. She gave Ian a rueful smile. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long.”
He waited for her to fasten her seatbelt, and then put the car in gear and slid back onto the road. “I didn’t realize you had a date tonight. You should have said something.” Stress and fatigue made his voice harsher than he’d intended.
“Not a date,” she countered easily. “Luke’s a friend, another trainer. A group from the camp got together to shoot pool, that’s all. You’ll meet everyone tomorrow.”
Ian could have argued the point—the other man’s sexual interest in Chloe was glaringly obvious—but he kept his opinion to himself, concentrating on his driving instead. Just as well, as he would have had to shout to make himself heard over Preston’s racket. After a few more tortuous minutes of fussing and crying, the steady rhythm of the car lulled Preston to sleep. The ensuing silence blanketed the car’s interior like a comforting mantle. An unexpected gift.
Although the rain that had soaked him earlier had stopped, the air remained damp and heavy. Clouds obliterated the moon and stars. A light wind blew, causing thick droplets to fall from the trees and randomly splatter the windshield. He took the unfamiliar roads with caution, braking sharply when he caught a raccoon in his headlights. The mama raccoon lifted one paw in silent alarm, then scurried across the road with her young brood trailing close behind her.
Ian let out a breath. Amazing the number of narrowly averted disasters that filled each day, both seen and unseen. He shot a quick glance in the rearview to ensure the abrupt motion of the car hadn’t disturbed Preston. His nephew slept on. Reassured, Ian eased his foot on the gas and continued.
After a bit, he found his senses drawn to the woman sitting beside him. She wore a light floral scent, which when combined with the damp air, held an appealingly musky undertone. Something earthy and subtly feminine. She didn’t force conversation. Like him, she seemed to enjoy the inky stillness of the night, the soft breezes and dancing shadows, the slash of headlights across the darkness. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, and to Ian’s mind, their lack of small talk was as enjoyable as any words could have been. He drove on.
“Turn left here,” she said after a few minutes, directing him onto the road that led to the camp.
“Should I drop you somewhere?” he asked.
“No, all the trainers live on-site.” Chloe glanced over her shoulder at Preston, who was soundly asleep. “Besides, I think you might need a hand tonight. Why don’t you get him into his pajamas while I make the bed?”
Ian frowned. He’d noticed earlier that the sheets and blankets were neatly folded and placed at the foot of the beds, but he’d forgotten all about it. He wasn’t accustomed to needing help, and while he didn’t like it, there was no denying that an extra pair of hands would definitely be welcome.
“You don’t mind?” he asked.
“Not a bit. I’m happy to help the first time around. After that, you, Preston, and your new mutt are on your own.”
He shot her a glance, sure she was kidding. “A dog can help make a bed?”
“Of course. That’s a fairly simple task, actually. All a dog has to do is pull one end of a sheet toward each corner. Simple.”
Ian shook his head. “Simple? I never knew a dog could do that.”
“We try to make the cabins here as much like home as possible. Our guests have four weeks to accustom themselves to having their dog assist them make the bed, cook dinner, do laundry, open doors, retrieve dropped objects, turn lights on and off… whatever chore they might need assistance with. Of course, some people need help bathing and dressing, as well.”
“Incredible.”
A note of pride crept into her voice. “You’ll see. The dogs you’ll meet tomorrow aren’t anything like the family pet you grew up with.”
“Actually, Barb and I always wanted a dog, but it just didn’t happen.”
“Barb?”
“My sister. Preston’s mother.”
He regretted the words the instant they left his mouth. He hadn’t meant to open that door. He felt his shoulders stiffen as he braced himself for all the prying questions that typically foll
owed. Where is she now? What happened? Oh, my God, how awful…
Instead, Chloe simply said, “We’re here.”
He parked in front of his cabin and gathered Preston in his arms, carrying his sleeping nephew and half the bulky bags inside. Chloe lugged in the remainder of their newly purchased clothing and toiletries. While she made Preston’s bed, he slipped his nephew into a pair of pajamas, then led the bleary-eyed boy to the bathroom and coaxed him into going pee. Brushing his teeth could wait until morning.
After Ian tucked Preston into the unfamiliar bed, he stood there for a minute, hovering over the boy’s fragile form, his heart gripped by a mixture of love, anxiety, tenderness, and loss. But most of all, he was overwhelmed by powerlessness and guilt. Every night as he watched Preston drift off into sleep, the burden of responsibility felt especially heavy.
A ceaseless stream of questions hammered his brain. What else could he do that he hadn’t done? Were the meds working? Did they need to see a different doctor? A different specialist? Was Preston happy? Stronger? Healthier? Were things getting better or worse? Would he have a seizure tonight? Tomorrow? What could he do to help him that he hadn’t already done?
He heard movement in the other room and realized Chloe was still there, waiting for him. He’d expected she would let herself out once she’d finished with the bed. But then, nothing the woman had done or said all night had been expected. He returned to the living room and found her standing before the unlit hearth.
“It’s late,” he said abruptly.
“Yes. It is.” If she was at all put off by his inadvertent rudeness, it didn’t show. “I thought I should make sure you have everything you need before I left.”
“Thanks. We’re all set.”
“All right, then.”
Feeling strangely formal, he walked her to the door. There he hesitated. “Listen,” he said, “Preston’s a good kid.”
“Yes. He seems like it.”
“I mean… about tonight’s tantrum. That’s not normal for him. They say it’s a side-effect of the medications, especially when he’s tired and cranky.”
She tilted her head to one side, considering his words. “It might be the medication,” she allowed after a moment. “It might also be that he’s a seven-year-old boy, he’s had a big day, and it’s late.”
He didn’t miss the none-too-subtle message. Not everything that happened was directly connected to Preston’s seizures, or the medications he was taking. Sometimes a tired kid was just a tired kid.
“In other words, don’t worry about it,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it,” she echoed with a soft smile. “Really.”
“Good to know.” He could have stopped there. Said goodnight and let her leave. With someone else, he might have. But no matter what she might think of him, he wanted this… this ridiculous dog thing to work. And there was something else. After months of going it alone, he sensed that Chloe Edmonds might just be an ally—if he didn’t totally screw everything up and push her away. And so he forced out the words. “Also…” he hedged uncomfortably, “yesterday morning Preston had a particularly bad episode. When he fell, he landed face first.”
Puzzled, she searched his gaze for a moment, and then understanding dawned. Her expression softened. She nodded and leaned one slim shoulder against the doorjamb, regarding him steadily. “We once had a client here,” she said, “a forty-year old woman who suffered from seizures. She would black out, collapse. Often her face or arms would be bruised as a result. Her husband adored her, but he couldn’t always be there to catch her when she fell. When they went out together in public, well-meaning strangers would pass his wife flyers about domestic abuse, or slip cards in her pocket with phone numbers of crisis hotlines.”
Ian felt his chest tighten. “Christ,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. Yet he wasn’t sure which reaction was stronger: the sympathy he felt for the woman’s husband, or his selfish relief he wasn’t that he wasn’t the only one who strangers silently judged a monster.
“People mean well. They just don’t understand. Like the waitress tonight.”
So Chloe had noticed the dirty look.
“You could have corrected her,” she continued. “Let her know that her assumption was mistaken.”
“And embarrass Preston by discussing his condition with a total stranger?” He leaned against the doorjamb, unconsciously mimicking her posture. “Better to just leave a tip and forget about it.”
“A generous tip, as I recall.”
He shrugged.
She studied him with an expression he couldn’t define. Just quietly considering his words, mulling things over. He didn’t rush to fill the silence, wanting instead to know what she was thinking. Something about Chloe Edmunds alternately irritated and intrigued the hell out of him.
After a minute she continued, “My guess is, Preston was given a helmet to wear when he was initially released from the hospital. But he hates wearing it. It’s uncomfortable, and the other kids make fun of him when he has it on. His seizures weren’t occurring with enough frequency for you to insist he wear it everywhere, so it simply seemed punitive, especially on top of everything else he’s going through. But every time he has a seizure and gets hurt you blame yourself, revisit that decision, and wonder if it was the right one.”
Exactly right. Spot on. Ian shook his head. “What can I say? I’m impressed.”
“You should be. I have a degree in nursing from the University of Pennsylvania and a Masters in pediatric trauma from Johns Hopkins.”
He felt his lips curve in a sheepish grin. “I assume that’s a response to my asinine comment about taking your advice when it came to dogs, but leaving Preston’s medical care to the professionals.”
Satisfaction flashed through her eyes. Her chin came up just a notch. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Lucky you. I wish to hell I could say the same.”
She smiled at that. “Goodnight, Mr.—” She stopped abruptly, catching herself. “Goodnight, Ian.” She moved to go.
“Chloe.”
She turned. Her lips were slightly parted, traces of her smile still evident. She really did have a lovely mouth. A highly kissable mouth. Wide and generous, graced with even white teeth and lush berry lips. A mouth that was almost guaranteed to taste as delicious as it looked.
Their gazes met. Held. A current swept through him—something primal and intimate, a heady mixture of heat and desire that headed straight for his groin, struck hard and resonated through his body in waves, like the hammering of a gong. Ian sucked in a breath.
Well, shit. Didn’t that timing suck? He hadn’t been attracted to a woman in months. Maybe even longer than that. He’d had sex since the accident, but those had been brief, aggressively hollow interludes. Sex with nameless, faceless partners as a way to burn off rage. To channel grief. Eradicate guilt. To exhaust him enough to allow him to sleep, if only for an hour or two.
This—whatever it was he felt toward Chloe—was jarringly different. But he dismissed that thought as quickly as it formed. Raw, naked need, he told himself. That’s what this was. All it was. Unexpressed gratitude twisted together with base desire for physical contact.
Bottom line, the sensation, however he defined it, was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Wrong place, wrong time. Just flat-out wrong. Definitely not something he had any intention of acting on. He thrust his hands into his pockets.
“Why socks?” he asked. “Why didn’t you buy something everyone could see?”
Surprise showed. She thought for a moment, and then shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I prefer practical beauty.”
Practical beauty. The words echoed through his mind as she turned and walked away. He would have escorted her to her cabin, but he didn’t want to leave Preston alone. So he simply stood where he was, listening to the lonely cry of a dog howling in the distance. As he watched, Chloe’s slender form was swallowed by the darkness of the night.
A thought sudde
nly occurred: was that friend of hers—that Walkaway Joe—waiting for her back at her place? Or was she on her way to see him? Would she slip into his bed? Curl her warm, soft body against his? Press those lovely lips against his chest?
Ian clenched his fists, pushing the unsettling image away. None of his business. Definitely not his business. Still. It was late, dark. He should have walked her home. Next time he would, even if it meant carrying Preston with him.
He stepped back inside the cabin and closed the door. He glanced around the living room, reconsidering the space. It wasn’t as awful as he had first thought. The sofa, the drapes, the rug—rustic perhaps, and not his taste—but clean, serviceable, and appropriate to the setting. Not bad at all.
He leaned against the doorframe as restlessness surged through him. He needed to make his own bed, but that could wait. He wouldn’t sleep. Not for a while, and only then lightly. Preston might need him. He didn’t want to sit down. Reading or watching TV didn’t interest him. He had plenty of work waiting for him on his laptop. Emails to answer, bids to review. But later. It could all wait. So now what? He felt Chloe’s absence more keenly than he’d thought possible.
He studied the empty room. “Well, Barb? What do you think of her?”
Heavy silence answered him.
Not surprising. They were a long way from New York City. And of course, Barbara was still dead.
Chapter Seven
At nine o’clock Monday morning, the Hudson Valley Canine Assistance Camp officially began. Chloe and Sara, plus five additional trainers, twenty dogs, and six clients—along with various friends and family members—gathered together in the easternmost training ring.
Morning sunshine had burned away the previous night’s storm, leaving behind a brilliant sapphire sky. Foliage shimmered at its autumn peak, setting the hillside ablaze with vibrant reds, russets, and gold. A soft breeze carried the earthy scents of wood fires and newly mown hay. Horses from an adjacent farm had been let out to graze in a fenced pasture. The scene was spectacularly lovely, but no one gathered in the training ring seemed to notice, much less appreciate, the beauty of the setting.
Courting Chloe (Hudson Valley Heroes Book 1) Page 6
