Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel

by Virginia Kantra

  But he couldn’t help thinking that Jane didn’t need another man running interference in her life. Underneath the soft and the sweet, she was strong and determined. Brave enough to go after what she wanted. Tough enough to call Gabe on his shit. He figured she was capable of making her own decisions, of protecting her own son.

  Or maybe he just wanted to believe that.

  “I don’t know where this is headed,” Gabe said. “But I’m not going back.”

  Luke sighed. “You always did charge into things.”

  The screen door opened and Kate came out. “While you, of course, are the most patient, the most reasonable, the most easygoing of men,” Luke’s wife said dryly. “Hi, Gabe.”

  “Kate.”

  Luke’s daughter slipped out behind her. She smiled at Gabe. “Hey, Mr. Murphy. Daddy, Grandma’s ready for the corn.”

  “Here you go.” Luke handed her the bag. “I’m patient,” he said to his wife.

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re relentless until you get what you want. There’s a difference.”

  Luke caught her hand and kissed it. “Got me you, didn’t it?”

  And Kate, the hardheaded, cool-eyed lawyer, blushed and stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

  Taylor made gagging noises.

  This, Gabe thought. He rubbed the heel of his hand over his breastbone to relieve the funny pressure on his heart.

  Be sure, Luke had said.

  This was what he wanted. This laughter, this warmth, this love, this family. He wanted them all with Jane.

  Now all he had to do was convince her that he could be what she wanted, too.

  * * *

  AIDAN SAT WITH his after-school snack of milk and cookies, surrounded by stacked tables and chairs covered in drop cloths.

  “Like a fort,” Jane said, smiling, as she ruffled her fingers through her son’s straight brown hair. The gesture made Gabe shiver all over with longing, like a dog.

  “I need to get these cakes in the oven so they’re ready to decorate tomorrow. You copy your spelling words and don’t bother Mr. Murphy. You can play with your Legos.”

  The boy pulled his head between his shoulders like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

  “He’s no bother,” Gabe said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I could use a hand on those shelves. After he finishes his homework.”

  That earned him a glance, bright and wary, from the boy, and another smile from Jane. “Well, now that you’ve talked me into painting the entire dining room, I think we both should give you a hand,” she said. “Aidan?”

  The boy jerked his shoulder in what might have been a gesture of assent.

  “We’ll be fine,” Gabe said. “Go bake.”

  He angled his brush along the trim, laying down an even line of paint against the bright white primer.

  When he was a kid working with his uncle Chuck, he used to hate painting. He wanted to rip things up and nail things down, to get his hands on power tools. But he wasn’t an impatient sixteen-year-old any longer. There was a different satisfaction, he was discovering, in seeing a project through from start to finish, in being able to step back and think, I made this. It’s good. It’s done.

  Especially since he was doing it for Jane. He liked the new color she had chosen, a soft taupe that wasn’t blue or brown or gray but a combination of all three, like the Sound on a cloudy day. The neutral tone pulled the shades of the outdoors inside, providing a clean backdrop for her pretty cakes and bright pastries.

  He finished the door and started cutting in around a window.

  “Grandpa told me not to talk to you,” Aidan announced. “Because you were in jail.”

  Gabe’s paintbrush bobbled. Well, shit.

  He reached for a rag to wipe the smear of paint from the trim. Now what?

  He’d never been any damn good at keeping his mouth shut. But even he knew that Your grandpa can go to hell was not an appropriate response to a seven-and-a-half-year-old.

  “You don’t need to talk to pick up a paintbrush,” he said evenly.

  Aidan drank his milk, sneakers swinging back and forth, back and forth. He wasn’t even tall enough for his feet to touch the ground.

  “My dad’s in jail,” Aidan said.

  “I heard.” Gabe dipped his brush. “That sucks.”

  Could he say “sucks”?

  “Yeah,” Aidan said gleefully. “It really sucks.”

  Okay, probably he should watch the language.

  “Mom says you go to jail when you break the rules,” Aidan said after another pause. “Did you break the rules?”

  Gabe’s back stiffened, but he kept his tone easy, his grip on the paintbrush light. “Yeah, I did.”

  Aidan wiped at his milk mustache. The bruise on his cheek had faded to a yellow smudge. His lip was all healed. “What did you do?”

  I killed a man. “Got in a fight.”

  Aidan nodded wisely. “Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself. That’s what Grandpa says.”

  “Sometimes it’s smarter to walk away,” Gabe said. “You ready to get started on those shelves?”

  Aidan jumped up, his sneakers hitting the floor with a smack. “Okay.”

  Gabe set him up on a corner of the drop cloth with a brush, a small roller, and the already-primed shelves. “Edges first,” he instructed. “You want to catch the drips with the brush, like this, see? Then we’ll go over it with the roller, get a nice smooth finish.”

  Gabe pulled over the ladder to cut in around the big picture window, stopping his own work occasionally to praise, to adjust, to demonstrate. “Good job,” he said, shifting a finished shelf out of the way, and Aidan beamed.

  The kid looked just like his mother when he smiled.

  Gabe cleared his throat. “Watch those drips.”

  They worked together for a while in silence.

  “Can you write letters in jail?” Aidan asked. The boy’s head was bent, his straight hair flopping into his eyes.

  “If you have somebody to write to,” Gabe said.

  “I wrote to my dad once,” Aidan said.

  Ah, crap.

  Gabe glanced toward the kitchen door, hoping for rescue. Where was Jane? She would know what to say. According to Luke, she had raised her son on her own. Aidan’s dad wasn’t even in the picture.

  But maybe that was the point. Gabe knew from bitter experience that it didn’t matter how much of a shit your father was, there was a part of you that still wanted his love. That craved his approval.

  “What did your mom think about that?”

  “She didn’t want me to at first. But he’s still, like, my dad, right? He came to get me. Last summer. He wanted to meet me, he said. But he never wrote back.”

  Gabe lowered his brush, thinking of all the postcards he’d mailed over the past ten years that went unanswered, all the things he’d said and left unsaid, never finding the right combination of words that would turn his mom into a mother like other mothers, a mother who cared. Like Tess.

  Like Jane.

  But he could remember (couldn’t he?) good times, too. His mom bringing him ginger ale in bed once when he was sick. Uncle Chuck taking him to see the Pistons edge out the Bulls.

  Aidan wouldn’t have those kind of memories with his dad.

  “You writing to your dad like that . . . You gave it your best shot,” Gabe said. “You stepped up. That was a brave thing, that was a good thing, for you to do. You’re a good kid.”

  “Then why didn’t he answer?”

  Because he’s an asshole, Gabe wanted to say, but that wouldn’t help. Probably nothing he could say would help.

  He wiped his hands on a rag, choosing his words with care. “Sometimes dads don’t know how to be dads. Your dad, he didn’t step up. That’s on him. That’s not on you.”

  Aidan dropped his head, his bangs shielding his eyes.

  “Hey.” Gabe squatted down on his heels, waiting until the kid looked up. “The thing is, the thin
g you should know is, you’ve got people who are here for you. Your mom. Your grandfather.”

  Me, he thought.

  But it was too early to say that. Too early even to think it.

  Too late to take the thought back.

  “It’s not the same,” Aidan said.

  “I know.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, I do. Which is why you can talk to me. And how I know that you will get through this. I’m not saying it will be easy. But you got people who love you who will help. Even one person who’s there for you can make all the difference.”

  Those big brown eyes searched Gabe’s face. “Who do you have?”

  He was some kid. Gabe rubbed his jaw to hide his smile. “Well, when I was your age, I had my uncle Chuck.”

  “Where does he live?”

  He’s dead. “He’s in heaven, I guess.”

  Aidan’s brow puckered. “But who do you have now? You need somebody now.”

  Gabe opened his mouth to reply when something—an indrawn breath, a sudden stillness, a scent like vanilla in the air—dragged at his attention. He lifted his head.

  Jane, standing at the entrance to the kitchen.

  Their eyes met and held. Held, while the moment flowed and thickened between them. You need somebody now.

  “I’m working on it,” Gabe said.

  * * *

  GABE ROSE FROM his crouch with a long-limbed, easy strength that made Jane’s knees wobble. His eyes were dark as molasses, with just that hint of gold and green drizzled around the edges like honey. Sweet. Dazzling.

  “How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

  Jane swallowed. “Long enough.”

  Long enough to hear his patience and honesty with Aidan, to lose her breath and a piece of her heart. An almost maternal tenderness moved through her, heavy and fierce.

  She wanted him. And he needed her, or he thought he did.

  All she had to do was go back to being the old Jane, the one who trusted her happiness and her son to somebody else.

  She cleared her throat. Smiled. “How’s the painting coming?”

  “Good,” Gabe said. “Kid’s doing a good job on those shelves.”

  “No drips,” Aidan piped.

  She laid her hand on his shoulder, bird bones and slight muscle. “I can see that. Nice job. I’d say this calls for pizza.”

  “Pizza! Yay!”

  Gabe smiled slightly. “I can have the walls done by the time you two get back.”

  He had offered to take them out for pizza before, and she had hesitated. She couldn’t decide now if her caution was foolish or selfish—or very, very smart.

  She was falling for him. But she had to be realistic. She had a kid to worry about. There was a risk that Aidan might fall for him, too.

  At her continued silence, Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Unless you don’t trust me with your shop.”

  “It’s not that,” Jane said.

  She didn’t have only her own feelings to consider now, or Aidan’s. Now there was Gabe, who deserved better than to be used and dismissed.

  Surely she could give him what he wanted and hold back enough to protect herself and her son.

  “I reckon you earned pizza, too,” she said. “I can handle a roller. Why don’t we finish painting together and eat after?”

  Gabe nodded slowly. “I’d like that. If that’s what you want.”

  In the end, she and Aidan were so covered in paint that they decided to have the pizza delivered—mushroom for Jane, pepperoni for the boys. Gabe insisted on paying.

  Jane folded her arms. “That’s not right. Not after all this work you’ve done.”

  “You worked, too.”

  “It’s my place.”

  “I painted the shelves,” Aidan said.

  Jane shared a quick smile with Gabe.

  “You sure did,” Gabe said. “Looks nice, too.”

  The new color made the bakery look bigger. Brighter. Jane spun slowly in the center of the room, surveying the freshly painted walls with satisfaction.

  Satisfaction and gratitude. It had taken her days to paint the place herself when she opened six years ago. She was proud of all she had accomplished on her own. But she couldn’t deny the work had gone quicker with Gabe’s help.

  “It all looks nice,” she said.

  “Beautiful,” Gabe said.

  But he wasn’t looking at the room.

  She blushed to the roots of her hair, warm all over. “Thank you. Well, I . . . I should get Aidan home. It’s a school night.”

  “Sure,” Gabe said. “See you, sport.”

  “You could come, too,” Aidan said.

  A faint smile touched Gabe’s lips. Her gaze snagged on his mouth. He was so handsome when he smiled. “I don’t think so. I’ve got to walk my dog.”

  “Aidan goes to bed at nine,” Jane said. “You could drop by after.”

  Gabe’s dark gaze turned razor sharp. “You want me to come to your house,” he repeated.

  She nodded, her blood rushing. “Maybe . . . for coffee?” Not a booty call. They needed to talk, away from Aidan and interruptions.

  “You can read me a story,” Aidan said.

  Her jab of surprise was followed by a tiny prick of envy. Lately, Aidan had grown impatient with cuddling. But often, at the end of the day, he reverted to her little boy again. Even though he was old enough to read to himself, he liked for her to read to him at bedtime. Usually she could squeeze in a hug, too.

  Gabe stuck his thumbs in his belt loops, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “You got the mouse and the cookie book?”

  “Yeah!” Aidan’s face changed. Became doubtful. “It’s kind of for little kids though.”

  “I’ve never read it,” Gabe said.

  Aidan brightened. “I could, like, maybe read it to you.”

  “I’d like that.” Gabe looked at Jane. “But it’s up to your mom.”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Please?” Aidan said.

  She could not resist both of them. Not when her own heart was on their side. She shrugged helplessly. “I guess we’ll see you later, then.”

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “Make it half an hour. Aidan has to shower.”

  Gabe rubbed the back of his neck. “Wouldn’t mind a chance to clean up myself.”

  He patted Aidan’s shoulder. Stepped in close—he was so tall—and kissed Jane on the cheek, a brush of stubble and smooth lips, a whiff of paint and warm male. Her insides gave a sudden throb. Her lips parted.

  “Thirty minutes,” he said and was gone.

  Aidan’s eyes had widened at the kiss, but he didn’t say anything as Jane locked up or in the car or later when they got home.

  Was that a good sign or a bad sign?

  Jane spooned grounds into the coffeepot, one ear cocked for the shower running upstairs. She had never brought a man around her son before. Maybe if she had, she’d know what to say to him now.

  And maybe Aidan wouldn’t have been so quick to jump in the car when his father tried to take him last summer.

  The doorbell rang.

  Her hand jerked, scattering coffee grounds over the counter.

  “Sorry,” she said breathlessly when she yanked open the front door a few minutes later. “I spilled the . . .”

  Tulips.

  Her thoughts dissolved. She melted all over, her knees and her spine.

  Gabe Murphy stood on her doorstep in an olive-green T-shirt that brought out the color of his eyes, holding a bouquet of yellow tulips. “Spilled the . . . ?” he prompted.

  “What? Oh, the coffee.” She stared at the cheerful blooms, trying to remember the last time a man had brought her flowers.

  Gabe looked at her oddly. “You okay? Not burnt or anything.”

  “Hm? Oh. No.” You didn’t bring flowers to a booty call.

  “These are for you.” He thrust the tulips at her. “Watch the stems. Tess said they’d drip.”r />
  She accepted the bouquet, wrapped in a damp paper towel fastened with a rubber band. “Tess Fletcher?”

  “They’re from her garden.”

  And you definitely didn’t bring flowers from your best friend’s mother’s garden. Jane raised the tulips to her face, melting a little more, breathing in the fresh green scent with its faint undernote of musk.

  “Where’s Hank?” Gabe asked.

  She blinked. “He’s out tonight. Home at eleven, he said.”

  “Late shift.”

  “I don’t think so.” She lowered the flowers. “Honestly, I don’t know. Usually, the officers are just on call after nine o’clock. But he’s been acting weird lately.”

  “Weird, how?”

  “Well, he’s always spent a lot of time at the station, but he’s gone even more now. And when he’s home, he’s kind of distracted.” She frowned. “Also, he’s been shaving a lot. And whistling.”

  Gabe’s mouth quirked. “Maybe he has a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, no,” she said automatically. “Dad doesn’t date.”

  Any more than she did. Huh.

  “Twenty years is a long time to go without sex,” Gabe observed.

  “Yes.” She bit her lip. Even eight years was too long. Eight days. “But we’re talking about my dad.”

  “I’m no authority, but it seems to me having a kid doesn’t eliminate your sex drive.”

  Their eyes met. Her breath went. “I guess not.”

  A door opened upstairs. Footsteps creaked in the hall and thumped on the landing. Aidan appeared at the crook of the stairs, his hair shiny from his shower. “Hey, Gabe. I have my book.”

  “Hi, sport. Let’s see it, then.”

  Aidan danced from foot to foot. “It’s upstairs.”

  Gabe looked at Jane in silent question.

  She summoned a smile. “You go. I need to get these in water.”

  She lingered to watch them climb the stairs together, the tall man in jeans and work boots adjusting his stride to the little boy in pajamas and bare feet. The picture pierced her heart.

  She and Aidan had each other, and that was essential. They had her father, and that was a blessing. Despite her recent worries about Aidan, he was a happy, healthy, well-adjusted child. Practically a miracle.

  And yet . . .