Making It Right

by Kathy Altman

  “’Cause you’re dumb enough to let your only child believe you don’t love her anymore.”

  “Well, that...that’s not true,” he blustered. He moved deeper into the living room and stared down at a half-empty bottle of beer on the coffee table. Which he’d protected with a ceramic coaster, she was gratified to see.

  He gave a harrumph, and crossed his arms. “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to. You’ve showed her, over and over again.” She braced a hand on the back of the sofa. Damn the man for his ability to sap the starch right out of her knees.

  “And she sent you to tell me this?” His breathing roughened. “So you are working against me.”

  Slowly Eugenia pushed upright. Coming here had been a mistake. She was only making Harris more suspicious of his daughter.

  “You know what?” Absently she twisted a button on her jacket. “I did it again. Inserted myself where I don’t belong. This is between you and Kerry. But think, Harris. Please think about the message you’re sending by refusing to see her.”

  He snatched up his beer, took a swig and shook his head. “She’s here for another charitable contribution, not a reconciliation. I know my daughter, Genie.”

  No, he didn’t. Not anymore. Now all Eugenia could do was keep her fingers crossed that he would give himself the chance to.

  “All righty, then,” she said stiffly.

  He tipped his bottle in silent invitation and she shook her head. She missed him, God help her. His strength, his solidity, even the stupid cinnamon smell of his chewing gum. If she didn’t get out of here soon, she’d find herself bawling into that horrible flannel shirt. She marched back to the door. “I won’t bother you again.”

  “Genie?”

  She stilled, her hand on the doorknob.

  “There’s a difference between dead and dormant. That tree on my porch. It’ll come back. You think I killed it, but I didn’t.”

  Eugenia squeezed her eyes shut. Harris Briggs was far from the beat-around-the-bush type. The last time they’d talked...the things she’d said... She’d made him tentative.

  “I knew you loved me, Harris,” she said. She touched her palm to the smooth coolness of the door. “Just not enough to compromise. On pretty much anything.”

  “That was all up to me, was it?”

  Wearily she faced him. “I didn’t come here about you and me. I came about you and your daughter. But it was a mistake and I apologize.”

  Harris gave a strained chuckle. “This is payback. That’s what this is.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You asked me to marry you. I said no. That’s when our troubles began.”

  “Our troubles began when you refused to include your daughter in our lives.”

  “She made that choice, not me.”

  “Bull crap,” Eugenia said crisply.

  Amusement flashed across his face. “You never did give me a chance to explain why I turned you down.”

  “This isn’t about that.” The remembered pain of his rejection knifed into her lungs. “This is about your daughter and how much she needs you.”

  His nostrils flared and he turned a disturbing shade of red. “What about how much I needed you? How do you think I felt when I walked into Snoozy’s today?”

  “Harris.”

  “You know what?” He pressed a palm to his chest. “I’m not feeling up to this tonight.”

  “Harris,” she repeated, unable to keep the alarm out of her voice.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered. “Don’t go gettin’ your dress over your head.”

  “You’re not the one I’m worried about.” Abruptly she dropped a hip onto the little table beside the door. Something was wrong. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart beat too fast as she tugged at the neckline of her sweater. Did he have the AC on? She really needed some AC. “I think you’d better call 911.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ON THE WAY up to his apartment over the store—a big selling feature, Valerie Flick kept insisting, if only he’d call it a “loft”—Gil tripped on one of the narrow steps of the wrought iron staircase. In an ungainly attempt to avoid hitting his head, he twisted his body. His solar plexus connected with the railing and punched the air from his lungs. Son of a bitch.

  Hand pressed to his chest, and with one long, drawn-out wheeze, he jerked sideways and slid onto his ass. The cold metal chilled his spine.

  He dropped his head back and sucked air, finally opened his eyes and stared up into the thick black sky, awash with twinkles. The stars seemed friendly. Gil could use friendly. In fact, if it weren’t already fifty degrees and falling, he’d be just as happy staying on these steps all night. And if he’d tossed back as many beers as he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t have cared about the temperature at all. But it wouldn’t have been worth the hangover, especially since in the morning he’d get right back to worrying about what his asshole brother might be up to, and whether Cooper’s Hardware would survive another quarter. That second mortgage he’d taken out six years ago to cover the shortfall his brother’s scheming had created was taking a toll on the store’s bottom line.

  He’d be in better shape if he hadn’t had to shell out for a new roof last year. And yeah, okay, if he hadn’t let a few people slide on their tutoring tabs. But those students had recruited others who had managed to cough up the fees, so Gil had chalked that up to clever marketing.

  His knee started to pulse. He didn’t remember banging it, but no surprise that he had. He rubbed absently at the ache. Damn, he was tired.

  A breeze pushed past, dropping off a tiny yellow bloom and the scent of grilled hamburger. His stomach heaved a wistful sigh and he hoped to hell he had something edible in the fridge. He hadn’t lingered at the bar long after Kerry had dropped that glass. He’d jumped up to help, then realized how asinine that would look. Anyway, she seemed to have it under control. He didn’t know what the hell had happened, but as soon as Sheriff Suazo had walked in, crash.

  “Damn it,” Gil muttered. It had taken him long enough to get over his last girlfriend. Why would he consider angling for another? Especially one so obviously out of his league?

  When his stomach rumbled, he smacked a hand down on the step digging into his ribs. Turkey. He had deli turkey in the fridge. Swiss cheese, too, and the soft rye he liked because the crusts weren’t too dry.

  And beer. He had plenty of beer.

  But what he was really hungry for had long, thick brown hair gathered into a ponytail and big, green, wary eyes. The wariness intrigued him and though he didn’t know her, it concerned him, too. Her curves were generous, and ridiculously tempting, and despite seeming more nervous than a novice driver during rush hour, she carried herself with a mesmerizing grace.

  Unlike you, asshole. Stop daydreaming and get moving.

  He pushed himself up and continued climbing. Let himself in and tossed his keys at the table just inside the door. They missed the basket, rattled across the polished wood and landed on the floor. “Nice shot,” he muttered.

  No need to turn on the light—the floods on the outside of the store provided plenty. He rounded the table and bent to scoop up his keys, and spotted the mobile alarm clock he hadn’t been in the mood to chase that morning. With the two oversize rubber wheels on either side of a small white plastic body, and two buttons positioned like eyes, the thing reminded him of Princess Leia. It chirped and beeped like an overcaffeinated R2-D2.

  “There you are, clock-bot.” He reached under the table and snatched it up. “Why are you hiding? Tell me you didn’t eat my turkey.”

  His cell rang, and he frowned at the unfamiliar number on the screen. “Hello?

  “How’s it hanging, G?”

  Gil swallowed an oath. He lurched at the wall and slapped around until he fou
nd the light switch. The inside floods did their thing and he blinked in the sudden brilliance.

  “I understand you’ve been talking with Valerie Flick,” Gil said tightly.

  “She’s been trying to negotiate a deal with me since she got her real estate license. You know what kind of commission she’d get for handling the sale of Cooper’s?”

  “No surprise the bottom line is all about your bottom line.”

  Gil stalked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Damn it. Something reeked and he hoped to hell it wasn’t his turkey. He grabbed a beer, popped the top and settled on a stool at the butcher block island that served double duty as his dining room table. “Even if I had the money,” he ground out, “you wouldn’t get it. You know as well as I do you already got your hands on more than your fair share of the business.”

  “You just can’t let it go, can you, G?”

  “I can forgive, but I’m sure as hell not going to forget. Not if it means setting myself up to get fleeced again.”

  “If you can say that, it means you haven’t forgiven me at all.”

  Gil banged an elbow onto the island, shoved his fingers through his hair and rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. “I’m not singing this refrain with you, Ferrell. Not anymore.”

  “You’re a hard man, bro. What’s the matter, no luck with your Millenium Falcon prize problems?”

  Gil let loose a bitter chuckle. His brother had mashed together a Star Wars reference with the Millenium Prize, which offered one million dollars for the correct solution to any of seven unresolved math problems.

  He wished he had time to concentrate on something like that. For years, he’d been fascinated by the mass gap. But he barely had time to do the books for the hardware store at night while honoring his online tutoring commitments. What he earned from tutoring kept him in groceries. And the occasional poker game.

  “No,” Gil said. “No luck.” But it was Bartender Kerry’s face that floated across his brain.

  He wondered where she was living now. Had her friends made room for her?

  “I’m not giving up on this,” Ferrell said. “You don’t want to be there at the store any more than I like being poor.”

  “So everyone says.”

  “You’ll never make a go of it.”

  Gil sat up and swigged his beer. “I hear that a lot, too.”

  When his brother progressed to threats, Gil disconnected the call and set his phone aside.

  Ferrell hadn’t sounded high, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still on drugs. Asking wouldn’t have accomplished anything.

  Finally, tiredness gave way to exhaustion. Gil banged his empty bottle on the island and turned toward his bed. His sheetless bed. He’d dumped the linens in the washer before opening the store that morning and forgot all about them.

  Hell. He wanted to sleep, not make the damn bed. But no way he’d catch any Zs without a sheet over his bare feet.

  He yanked off his jacket, let it drop to the floor and went over to the bed. Grabbed a fresh set of sheets from underneath and tossed them onto the mattress.

  With one hand, he snagged a pillowcase. With the other, he picked up a pillow with a little too much force and it ended up sailing over his shoulder. It caught the blinds beside the bed and with a rattling protest, the vertical slats popped out of alignment.

  Gil bit out an oath and swung around to fix it. Through the opening he caught a glimpse of the opposite side of the street and froze.

  What the—?

  He pulled at the blinds, widening the gap, and pressed his nose to the glass.

  In the dress shop parking lot across the street, Kerry paced behind the bumper of an older Honda. Her arms were folded across her chest as her hands rubbed fiercely at her bare arms.

  What was she doing over there? And where the hell was her sweater?

  She sagged against the bumper. Pushed one hand into her hair.

  The blinds clattered back into place as Gil lunged for his jacket.

  * * *

  WITH A FRUSTRATED MOAN, Kerry dug in the side pocket of her purse for her cell phone. Way to go, chickie. Not even twenty-four hours in the apartment and already she was calling Eugenia for help. At eleven thirty at night.

  Her brand-spanking-new landlady would not be impressed.

  She dropped her purse on the trunk, sagged down onto the bumper and reluctantly thumbed through her contacts. It could have been worse. She could have been making this call at two in the morning. Though the reason Snoozy had sent her home early was hardly something to celebrate.

  She had to do better.

  A scuffing sound had her jerking to her feet. With liquid knees, she squinted through the late-night gloom.

  Gil Cooper loped toward her, blond hair flopping, glasses glinting as he passed under a street lamp. The lean, muscled ease of his movements was a clear contrast to the gracelessness he’d shown at the bar. The disparity intrigued her, while his undemanding smile provided an instant balm to her frustration.

  Despite the heavy pull of a plaintiveness she was damned tired of feeling, she straightened her spine.

  “Hey,” she said.

  He stopped a few paces away and gave his head a shake when he had to catch his breath. “Now you know I’m out of shape.”

  An exaggeration if she’d ever heard one. Still, she rested her free hand on one well-padded hip. “Who am I to judge?”

  His gaze dropped, and even in the anemic glow of the dress shop’s outdoor lights she could see the smolder. She couldn’t help a rush of gratification, even as she acknowledged he wouldn’t look at her that way if he knew what she’d done.

  He held out the jacket he carried. “I’m wondering if I should call the sheriff. You look like you’re casing the joint.”

  Her lungs seized and she fell back a step. God. Maybe he did know. And he was still talking to her?

  “What?” she croaked.

  The amusement leaked from his expression. “Bad joke.”

  She pulled in a breath. “I’m staying in Eugenia Blue’s apartment.”

  “I figured that.” He pushed the jacket into her hands. “Either she didn’t warn you about the cool spring nights in Castle Creek or you forgot your sweater at the bar.”

  She took her time tucking her phone into her back pocket, then accepted his jacket with a lofty air. “Or maybe I’m conducting an experiment.”

  His eyes lit up. “What kind of experiment?”

  “The kind that involves postdusk lake proximal air and...and the exposed skin of a—” she floundered “—Southern urban-type female.”

  His lips twitched. “Your conclusion?”

  “Goose bumps are a natural phenomenon that cannot be considered region-dependent.”

  “You speak geek.”

  “I used to work for a software development firm.” Why did you go there?

  “I don’t have my keys,” she added quickly. “I was about to break the news to Eugenia.”

  “No need.” He dangled a braided plastic key ring. “Eugenia and I exchanged keys when she first opened her store. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you hung on to this until you find yours.”

  “Thank you,” Kerry breathed, and offered an apologetic nod as she took the key ring. “That’s twice you’ve rescued me tonight.”

  “I don’t think you were in any danger of freezing to death.”

  “I meant back at the bar, when you saved me from demolishing Snoozy’s entire supply of hurricane glasses.” She grimaced. “Three martini glasses and a brandy snifter weren’t quite so lucky. That’s why he sent me home early. I think he was afraid if I stayed, I’d start working my way through the liquor bottles.”

  “He didn’t fire you, did he?”

  The alarm in his voice touche
d her. “No,” she said. “But he probably should have.”

  When she shuddered, he mistook it for cold. “You should go in.”

  Yes. She should. She didn’t want to, but she should. She forced herself to take a step away from the car, then another, until finally she turned and started toward the metal staircase that led up to the second-story apartment.

  He followed. “Sorry you had such a rough day.” Something about the way he said it...

  She paused at the bottom of the stairs. “You, too?”

  “Let’s just say that ten minutes ago, I was seriously considering heading back to the bar. For another beer, I mean,” he added hastily.

  She snorted. “You’d have probably had to drink it out of a to-go cup.”

  When she made to shrug out of his jacket, he stopped her with a quick squeeze of her forearm. “Why don’t you wait till we get to the top? Sometimes the key sticks.”

  Kerry managed a nod and led the way up, her palms going slick as she grew overly aware of the brush of his jacket’s sleeves across the bare skin of her arms, the chill of the night air soothing her blush, his solidness at her back.

  Would he kiss her?

  When they reached the top of the stairs, she unlocked the door and turned to face him. “Thank you for looking out for me,” she said huskily.

  “Don’t even. It was my pleasure.” He lifted an arm, but by the time she realized he was only gesturing her over the threshold, she was already stepping in for a hug.

  She slid her arms around his waist and pressed her forehead to his chest. A telltale cylindrical bump revealed the presence of a pen in his shirt pocket and she almost laughed out loud. Or maybe that was from the pleasure of touching him.

  Not that she should be touching him. But God, it felt good. His back was warm and hard beneath her palms, his chest a tantalizing sanctuary of firm muscle over bone. He smelled like sunshine and maple syrup, and it kicked off a hunger that had nothing to do with pancakes.

  For long seconds his arms hung awkwardly. Then he raised his hands to her shoulder blades. She fought the need to free one of her own hands and press it to her heart, where an actual ache had set in. Instead she lifted her head and nestled against his throat. His skin was cool from the night air, and the almost irresistible urge to taste him left her trembling. The ache had spread, traveling east and west to her nipples, which were smashed enticingly against his chest, and south to her belly. The ache was seriously considering venturing even lower, where a dangerous heat had already started to build. The attraction was one part physical, one part remedial and two parts situational.