“Sure. Fine.” He took a deep breath, inhaling vanilla and . . . and something. He could do this. It wasn’t like teaching her to shoot pool, bending her over a table . . .
Or baseball, getting up close behind her, teaching her to choke up on a bat . . .
His mind blanked.
Fuck. He was just getting his life back under control. He was not losing it over soft, appealing Jane Clark.
The fact that he wanted to bone her into next week didn’t mean he couldn’t teach her how to shoot a damn ball.
Even if she did smell good enough to eat.
“So, you want to shoot the ball into the basket,” he said.
The corner of her mouth indented in one of those tiny, controlled smiles. “Yes, I figured that’s why it’s called basketball.”
She was killing him. “Right. Okay. Stand with your feet about shoulder-width apart. Line your fingertips up with the long seam of the ball. Don’t grip so hard.” Did that sound dirty to her? Because, with her sweetness filling his head, with all that softness close enough to touch, it sounded dirty to him. “You want a little air here. Like this.” He demonstrated. “Balance the ball on one hand.”
“Your hands are bigger than mine,” she complained good-naturedly, but she followed his instructions, stretching her small fingers to span the ball.
Gabe frowned, laying one finger on a small discolored circle near the crease of her thumb. “What’s this?”
She glanced down, distracted. “Oh. A burn.”
“And this?” A series of thin silver scars at the base of her little finger.
“It’s nothing. Just a cut.”
More than one. A slippery knot tied itself in his gut. He’d figured her hands would be like the rest of her. Smooth. Unblemished. Or like her pastries, pretty and perfect. But this close he could see they were covered in nicks and burns, calluses and scars.
“How did you cut yourself?” he asked, dreading her reply. Already knowing her answer.
Inside, he felt like he was freaking five years old again, trying to make sense of the noises in the night, the bruises on his mother’s throat, her arm. “You hurt yourself, Mommy?”
“It’s nothing, honey. Hush. Mommy bumped into a door.”
Or, “I tripped on the stairs. It was an accident.”
Never, Daddy backhanded Mommy onto the floor, or shoved her hard against the cabinets or knocked her down and made her bleed.
“I don’t remember,” Jane said. “It must have been an accident.”
The knot tightened.
See, this was the reason he couldn’t let himself care. The real reason he wouldn’t get involved with any woman soft enough, vulnerable enough, weak enough to live with an abuser. To lie about it, to make excuses for him.
He’d tried to protect his mother, and she’d thrown him out of the house. He’d tried to defend Dani Nilsen and spent nine months in jail. He couldn’t do this anymore. He’d already proved he wasn’t anybody’s knight in shining armor.
At his continued silence, Jane glanced at him sideways. “I guess that sounds a little strange.”
Not strange at all. Familiar. The knot moved into his throat, threatening to strangle him.
“It’s just . . . I’m a baker,” she continued. “I’m surrounded all day by knives and stoves and mixer blades and pots of boiling caramel. I’m so used to burns and cuts I don’t even notice them anymore.”
“A baker,” he repeated stupidly.
She flushed a little. “My job’s not all fondant and royal icing, you know.”
He hadn’t known. He hadn’t thought.
He looked at her small hand again, seeing it differently. Seeing her differently, her injuries transformed from the secret symptoms of abuse to signs of strength, souvenirs of a mission, like a Marine’s battle scars.
He had the stupidest impulse to bend his head and kiss each mark, the callus where her knife must rest, the purple burn inside her wrist.
He swallowed, forcing a grin. “So, you can handle yourself in the kitchen. Let’s see what you can do on the court, cupcake.”
Nine
GABE WATCHED JANE chase after the ball. Which she did a lot, since neither she nor the kid could shoot worth a damn. The ball clanged against the rim and ricocheted off the gravel.
Do I look like a basketball player to you? she had asked, an unexpected edge to her tone, that flash of humor in her eyes. A cupcake with attitude. He liked that.
Watching her was definitely entertaining, like enjoying the cheerleaders instead of the game. When she jumped, when she ran, everything under her apron bounced and bobbed.
She was a good sport, though, flushed and smiling, brimming with energy even at the end of whatever kind of day she’d had. As if spending time with her son, playing two-on-one basketball on a rusting hoop against the handyman, was her idea of a good time. She touched Aidan sometimes in passing, ruffling his hair, bumping his shoulder, adjusting his grip the way Gabe had shown her, and Gabe’s whole body clenched in longing.
His throat tightened. He couldn’t remember the last time somebody had touched him that way, with casual affection. Tess Fletcher, maybe. His uncle.
Lucky barked and danced around them, making little openmouthed runs at the ball. As if anything the humans were chasing must be edible, and the dog wanted in on the action.
Aidan laughed, high-pitched, gleeful.
Gabe widened his stance, his elbows on his knees, pretending to guard the basket while he made himself short enough for them to shoot over. “Come on, show me what you’ve got.”
Jane’s gaze met his, her face shining with joy and exercise and laughter, and he went temporarily blind, as if he’d stared too long at a pink, gold, round sun.
She said something—his ears registered sound—but he couldn’t hear actual words. So, temporarily blind and deaf.
Which meant he was basically fucked in an ambush situation. He almost didn’t care. He couldn’t look away.
“You got a license for that dog?” Hank Clark said behind him.
Gabe’s muscles bunched, his body registering the threat before his mind caught up. He straightened slowly. Turned.
Clark stood at the edge of the gravel, arms crossed, face like a minefield, rutted and dangerous.
Yep. Fucked.
Aidan stumbled over the ball. He picked it up, looking silently from his grandfather to Gabe, alert in the way that children learned to be alert to the tension in the air. The dog’s ears were forward, its eyes wide.
Hell.
Gabe had always had problems kowtowing to authority. Nine months ago—hell, three days ago—he would have told the old man to take his license and shove it. But things were different now. New job. Clean slate. Gabe was different. People trusted him now—Luke, Sam, Jane. He couldn’t let them down. He would not let himself down.
There was no honor and no satisfaction in taking down a country cop thirty years his senior. Especially not in front of the cop’s daughter and grandson.
He took a deep breath and shifted into parade rest, eyeballs front, hands out of trouble at the small of his back. “No, sir.”
“It’s Lucky, Grandpa,” Aidan said.
Hank spared his grandson a brief glance. “Lucky, huh? We’ll see.” He fixed his glare on Gabe. “Mutt got a name tag? Rabies tag? Collar?”
“No, sir.” Some of the best DIs and worst officers in the world had busted Gabe’s balls. He had learned long ago that there was no point in making explanations or excuses. The suspicious father in front of him wouldn’t accept them in any case. Just answer the questions. Keep it simple, stupid.
The mutt’s ears shifted back and forth. Its tail tucked close to its body. Gabe knew how it felt.
“What is that, a pit bull?” Hank asked.
Jane and the kid both looked at Gabe.
“He was a stray,” Gabe said. “Until two days ago.”
“Figures,” Hank growled. “No telling what sort of diseases it’s picked up runni
ng around. Or you, either.”
Gabe gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to respond.
Jane squeezed her son’s shoulder. “Aidan, run in and get your backpack. Dad, I don’t think this is an appropriate discussion to have right now.”
Gabe and Hank both looked at her, taken aback by her intervention. Aidan set down the ball and ran into the house. The screen door banged behind him.
Lucky flinched at the noise and slunk closer to Gabe, body lowered, hackles raised.
Hank recovered first. “It looks vicious. Somebody has to protect my grandson.”
“Dad, they were fine. They were playing,” Jane said.
She was defending him. She was standing up for him against her father. Okay, for his dog, but still, it gave Gabe hope.
“You want the boy to get rabies?” Hank demanded.
“Of course not. And he won’t.” But there was a little pleat between her brows. Her finger crept up to twine in her braid.
Gabe unclenched his jaw enough to speak. “I’ll take care of it.”
There must be a vet on the island. Luke would know. All Gabe had to do was pay for the shots. And a collar. And a license.
Shit. This was why he should keep his mouth shut, why he shouldn’t get involved. He was supposed to be getting his life back on track, not throwing his time and money away on a dog.
“There’s an animal hospital in Beaufort. You could make it in an hour. If you had a car,” Hank added with a gleam. “You should go there.”
Permanently, his tone implied.
The old bastard. “You got a problem with my dog being here, sir”—Gabe packed the word with all the aggression he couldn’t express—“I’ll deal with it. You got a problem with me, you can take it up with my boss.”
Hank snorted. “I don’t need to talk to Sam.”
Gabe held his gaze. “I meant your daughter. I’m doing this for her.”
“Gabe is installing the door as a favor,” Jane said. Taking his part again. He didn’t need her protection, but it felt nice, all the same. “On his own time. For free.”
“If you believe that, you’re stupider than I thought,” Hank said.
Jane’s cheeks flushed ugly red, like he’d slapped her.
Lucky growled, very softly, responding to Hank’s tone of voice. Or maybe to Gabe’s sudden stillness.
He dropped his hand, gripping the bandanna around the dog’s neck. He didn’t have a hope of holding the dog back if it decided to give him the slip. One twist, and Lucky could be free. Serve the son of a bitch right if the dog bit him in the ass.
Except then Lucky would be locked up for sure.
And Jane wouldn’t thank him if his dog attacked her father, no matter how offensive the old man was. Especially when he was only trying—damn it—to protect his daughter and grandson.
So for Jane’s sake, for the dog’s sake, Gabe held on.
“Did Grady even do a background check before he hired this guy?” Hank demanded. “Because he didn’t come to us.”
“Grady doesn’t need police permission to put me on his payroll,” Gabe said.
“Which is why we got a problem in this country,” Hank said. “Bunch of transients and criminals taking jobs from ordinary folks.”
“Dad,” Jane protested.
Gabe shot her a look. She hadn’t objected when Clark insulted her. But she was quick enough to speak up when he attacked someone else.
Hank shifted his weight, not quite meeting her eyes. “What? I’m just saying you don’t know anything about this guy.”
Aidan came out of the bakery, his backpack slung over one thin shoulder.
“Get in the car. We’re going out for pizza,” Hank said. He looked at Jane. “You, too.”
Jane crossed her arms over her apron, a feminine echo of her father’s pose. “I’m not leaving Gabe here alone.”
Hank gave a short nod. “You want him supervised, fine. You take Aidan on home. I’ll stick around, keep an eye on things.”
Gabe ground his teeth together. He hadn’t signed on to spend his evening with the chain gang boss. But what could he say? The guy was Jane’s father. Objecting would only prove that the son of a bitch was right, that Gabe was using the job as an excuse to be around her, as an opportunity to score.
Jane hugged her arms tighter. For comfort? Or strength? “My bakery, my responsibility.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “I appreciate you taking Aidan, Dad, but I’m staying.”
Her starch surprised Gabe. Maybe it surprised Hank, too, because after a few more grumbles, he got into the squad car.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Don’t be too late,” he said gruffly.
She touched her fingers to the car door, a kiss of flesh to metal. “I’ll call you.”
She hugged Aidan good-bye. He squirmed and climbed into the back like a little model prisoner. Looking out the window at Gabe, the boy raised his hand, fingers curled in a tiny wave on the other side of the glass.
Something in Gabe’s chest expanded, his lungs, his heart, pushing against his ribs. He winked.
The boy smiled.
And Hank drove them away.
“Well.” Jane wiped her hands on her apron. “That was . . .”
Awkward, Gabe thought.
At least the dog hadn’t bitten anybody.
“He doesn’t mean to be . . . That is, he’s concerned,” Jane said. “He’s just not very good at expressing himself.”
Gabe raised an eyebrow. “I’d say his concerns came through loud and clear.”
She bit her lip. “I know he can be a little overprotective. After my mom left, it was just him and me. And then him and me and Aidan. It’s hard for him to respect my personal boundaries.”
“Personal boundaries,” Gabe repeated.
“That’s what Lauren says. Lauren Patterson. She’s a counselor at the school?”
Her voice rose a little, like she was asking a question. Like he made her nervous or something. Like he could turn vicious, like his dog.
Gabe winced a little. “I get it. No worries. I can respect the hell out of your personal boundaries.”
She searched his face, those big gray eyes wide and doubtful. “If you don’t want to install the door now . . .”
“Not right now.”
Her expression fell. “That’s okay. I understand.”
Gabe frowned. From her reaction, you would have thought he was leaving her in the lurch, with a hole in her wall and the door leaning against the side of the building.
“I need to frame the new opening first,” he explained. “Might take another hour. Maybe two.”
She blinked. “You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“Because my father insulted you.”
A smile tugged his mouth. “I’ve been cussed out by the meanest drill instructors on the planet. You want to insult me, you’re going to have to try a lot harder.”
Her face, her whole body, relaxed. Cautiously, she smiled back.
“I don’t blame your dad for busting my chops,” Gabe continued. “Doesn’t matter how old you get, he still sees you as his baby girl. Me? I’m a drifter with a rap sheet.”
“But you were found not guilty. I heard . . .” She closed her lips tight.
He ought to be grateful the gossips had acquitted him. But no amount of talk changed the facts.
“A guy is dead. That’s still on me.”
She met his gaze straight on. “Did you mean to kill him?”
He didn’t expect her to understand. “I’m a Marine. I’m trained to win. You go into a fight, you make sure when the other guy goes down, he doesn’t get up to fight again.”
“Why were you fighting?”
Gabe massaged the back of his neck with one hand. He should be used to repeating the story by now. To the cops, to the lawyer, to the judge. But he didn’t want to talk about that night. He didn’t like to remember. He sure as hell didn’t want to go into all the gory details with a woman
he was trying to . . .
Well. With a woman he liked.
On the other hand, Jane wasn’t looking to convict him, wasn’t asking just to feed the local gossip machine. He was hanging around her place. Her son. He owed her some kind of explanation.
“I came out of the bar,” he said. That night, he’d stayed until closing time, reluctant to return to the quarters he shared with five other guys, the trailer that always smelled of old socks, French fries, mold, and sweat. “And I heard her. Dani.”
He’d thought at first she was doing it with her boyfriend in the alley. There was precious little privacy in a fracking town. No lover’s lane, no empty motel rooms. He’d seen her with the guy a couple of weeks before. But . . .
“There were four of them.” Holding her down, egging one another on. “The first guy I pulled off hit the wall headfirst. When the other three ran off, he was still lying there.”
“It was an accident,” Jane said.
Gabe frowned. “Not an accident. I told you, I’m trained—”
“To protect people,” she said. “You didn’t want him dead.”
He looked down at his big, callused hands, still grimy from tearing out the window. “No,” he admitted.
After he’d checked on Dani, after he’d stripped off his jacket to wrap her in, he’d actually tried to revive the son of a bitch until the sheriff arrived.
“I screwed up,” he said.
“You made a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes. You shouldn’t be judged your entire life because of one error in judgment.”
He stared at her. She was serious. She actually believed him. Believed in him.
Her earnest expression faltered. “Unless that’s what you think. Unless you believe that everybody gets what they deserve. You know, a woman works in a bar, wears the wrong clothes, marries the wrong guy, she should accept the consequences.”
“Hell, no,” he growled. “Dani wasn’t asking to be raped. It was four on one.”
“I wasn’t talking about Dani,” Jane said.
Understanding burst in his brain, her words smacking him upside the head like a two-by-four. Everybody gets what they deserve. A woman marries the wrong guy, she should accept the consequences.
She had a restraining order against her ex. He knew what that meant. He knew, and the knowledge made him sick, in his heart and in his gut.
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