by Barbara Lohr
Twenty long minutes later, she was feeling much better in a fresh T-shirt. But shorts were out. No way could she ease them over that cast. Heck, she couldn’t bend over that far so she settled on her short denim mini-skirt that zipped up one side. The skirt had always shown off some of her best assets––her legs––and drove Ryder crazy. Forget that. He could barely look at her this morning.
Getting dressed had exhausted her. In fact, she felt too tired to put on any makeup or style her hair. Of course Ryder hadn’t returned. What had she expected? Thumping back out into the main room, she continued to the screened porch and collapsed on the futon. Fernando was busy watching the birds at the feeder.
If she was going to make it through the next couple of months, she had to focus on the bright spots in her life. She had Jen and Carly to run the salon. She could order groceries from Clancy's. And if Ryder didn’t come through for her, she would line up contractors herself. They’d give her a new roof and paint her house. Her jaw ached from gritting her teeth. Phoebe might have to beg her dad for some money, but she’d do it. Grabbing one of her small yellow pads and a pen from a side table, she went to work. Seated at the table on the screened porch, she was making a list when the kitchen screen door whapped shut. “Who’s there?”
“Phoebe? You out on the porch?”
“Ryder, is that you?” Amazement shot through her, followed quickly by guilt. He always said she underestimated him. Well, it looked like she’d done that again. Fernando had that infuriating I-told-you-so expression on his face. After some suspicious rustling in the kitchen, Ryder appeared, holding a white takeout box. When he flipped it open, her stomach sat up and waved hello. Sunnyside eggs and hash browns from Rosie’s in town.
“Is that for me?” Setting her pen down, she could hardly believe it.
“Of course it is. I told you I’d be right back.” He waved her back to the table. “Now don't get up. You can eat this right here. I’ll get you a glass of juice.”
All this for her? “I’m out of juice.”
“Make a list.” His eyes flitted to the yellow pad and he smiled. He used to tease her when he found those little yellow pads all over the house. “And I'll make mine.”
After handing her a plate full of goodness that smelled wonderful, he disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a cup of coffee for himself. “Oh, Ryder, this tastes so good. Thank you.” Still surprised that he’d returned, Phoebe forgot to be irritated by the way he made himself at home.
So he really was going to help her line people up? And here she thought that had just been an empty promise. The sunny side eggs had never tasted so sweet, especially when she mixed the yokes in the crispy hash browns. And it sure looked like he’d gotten a double order. While Ryder looked around and made his list, she ate. At first, she felt perfectly content. The pain pill must have kicked in, and for a second she even forgot her broken leg. Then she got restless.
Sitting on the porch with Ryder brought an unwanted flood of memories, most of them bittersweet. Phoebe couldn't even look at that futon without blushing. Good thing this cottage was secluded by honeysuckle bushes. But today felt disjointed and wrong. They weren’t happy newlyweds anymore. No, today they were unhappy exes, dealing with the stuff that came with divorce when you couldn’t sever all the ties. She hated that part.
The sound of waves breaking on the nearby beach made her think of the times she’d slip into a bathing suit, grab his hand and tug him down to the water. Short swim and they’d come back up, wet and refreshed. Sometimes they never got around to dinner.
But that was all in the past. Pushing her empty plate aside, she reached for his list. “Now what exactly do you propose we do?”
Leaning back, Ryder linked his hands behind his head. Her mouth went dry to see his biceps plump. When he pursed his lips, she reached for her coffee. Warm or not, she needed something. Then he turned those gray eyes on her. This was so ridiculous, but she started to tremble, like he was that big bad tornado and she was Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. “First of all, the roof. I can't believe that you were even thinking of painting anything without fixing the roof first.”
Hearing that you-are-such-an-idiot tone in his voice, she shrank. Any dreamy images flitting through her mind vanished. Frowning, he lowered his arms. Ever so slowly, he sucked in a breath. “Sorry, Phoebe.” At least he wasn't using darlin' anymore. “I just mean that it makes sense to replace the roof. The man can lay the shingles right over what we've got now.”
When he used that “we,” her head felt like it might burst. Was Ryder going to be this bossy all summer? Who would work for this man? Well, okay, she could be pretty bossy herself.
“All that sounds fine, but...” Now that she'd eaten, she was feeling drowsy. “Who do you plan on getting to do the work?”
Ryder knew every contractor in the area. He'd get it done and for the right price. But the way he was going about it? She hated it. The cast on her leg reminded her that she had no choice.
“How much do you figure this is going to cost?” Phoebe held her breath.
The figures he threw out sent her stomach on an elevator ride. “We’re splitting this, right?” she asked.
“If that’s what you want, Phoebe. Yes.”
“Just asking. That’ll be fine.” Somehow she’d get the money. That was the only way she’d still keep some control of her house. Maybe her father would give her a loan, although she hated to do that again.
“Now about the color for the roof, I think we need a dark shade,” Ryder began, the authority in his voice grating on her nerves.
“Turquoise. I want turquoise,” she mumbled, sleepiness taking over. If she could just lay her head down, just for a second. Then everything would be fine. So she did. Right on the red-checked oilcloth. The last thing she remembered was the horrified look on Ryder’s face.
When Phoebe finally came to, she felt ever so much better. Squirrels chattered in the pine trees next to the screened porch. And it sure looked as if the birdfeeder had been filled. Sparrows were having a heck of a time, scattering the seeds everywhere. Feeling fuzzy, Phoebe stretched. The weight on her right leg brought it all back. The cast. And all the frustrations caused by her broken leg. At the top of that list was Ryder Branson.
Glancing around, she realized she was stretched out on the futon, her favorite quilt settled lightly over her. The smell of peanut butter teased her. A sandwich sat on a paper plate on the coffee table, eye level, along with a frosty glass of lemonade. She heaved her body up on one elbow.
She wasn’t going to question this. She wasn’t going to get riled. No sir. “Thank you, Ryder.” She may have to practice those words.
After she'd munched her way through a peaceful lunch, she pushed the plate aside. That's when she saw the note tucked under one of her magazines. “Gone to check out roofing tiles and materials. Stay where you are until I get back.”
Sure. Right. Like I’m going anywhere. Crumpling up the note, Phoebe pushed herself to her feet. Her leg screamed with pain. For a second she had to stand there and just take it. Sure, she whimpered a little. Then she grabbed the crutch from the end of the sofa and shoved it under her right arm, which was beginning to feel sore and chafed. Somehow she made her way into the bathroom. When he got back, at least she'd look presentable.
~.~
Stanley was out back when Ryder stopped in early that afternoon. Mick was handling customers at the front counter. Ryder’s dad liked the garage part of the business. He liked to get down and dirty with the oil and the grease. Right now he was studying a Harley with one of the mechanics. Parts were spread out on the floor, just the sort of job Stanley liked. He loved to put things back together. The old man looked up. “How's it going? You look like hell.”
“Thanks a lot, Stanley. I needed that.” Ryder preferred not to call his father Dad in front of the other workers.
“How’s Phoebe doing?” His father drew closer.
“Ornery as usual, but she’s not any wo
rse.”
“Broken leg. It’ll take time.” A chuckle deepened the creases in Stanley’s face. “That girl. Climbing a ladder to paint her house. Imagine that.”
“It was stupid, okay? And it’s our house.”
“It’s gutsy, son. That’s Phoebe all right. Gutsy.”
For his father, Ryder’s ex-wife still walked on water.
This was damned annoying so he moved along. “When you think of roofers, who would you hire? I need someone who could schedule the job within the next two weeks.”
Running his fingers through hair matted down by his helmet, Ryder paced. He wanted to get this job over and done. Being around Phoebe was killing him. She’d looked so sweet and sexy in her flamingo shirt that morning, especially after the incident with the water. Wet, that shirt revealed way too much. He could practically smell and feel the warmth of her bed. Ryder had felt all thumbs putting the coffee machine back together.
Right now, she needed his help. He had to stick to business and leave it at that. “I promised Phoebe I’d line up some guys to do the work on the cottage. We’re starting with the roof, not the siding.”
Pursing his lips, Stanley made one of the rude noises he’d taught Ryder growing up. Drove his mother crazy. “I thought you were making yourself useful?”
Ryder picked up the paperwork for the parts that had come in yesterday. “I am. I'm coming up with a list of contractors. The roof’s leaking, and the place needs painting inside and out. The kitchen linoleum crackles when you walk on it. Who would you get for the roof? First things first.”
“Sounds like a real opportunity.”
Ryder turned to meet Stanley’s scheming smile. Like always, he started right in. “So you're going to hire some hunky contractors to come in and do that work for Phoebe? She’s going to turn those big green eyes on the workers, so grateful that they’re helping her out. And Phoebe...” Here his dad started stabbing the air with one finger. “Phoebe is going to be so grateful that they’ve helped her out of the predicament caused by her mean husband.”
“Hey, I'm not mean. And I’m her ex-husband.” Almost pained him to say it.
By this time he was nose-to nose with his dad. “You’re not using your head, son. This here’s an opportunity. A mission where you can distinguish yourself.”
Damn. His father was a Vietnam Vet and everything to him was a strategy or a mission.
“Yessir,” Stanley continued. “Looks to me like this has dropped into your lap, and you can make something of it. Phoebe’s a strong-minded woman, but right now she’s vulnerable. You have to strike while you have the opportunity.”
All they needed was a war map on the wall. “She’s stubborn, but you might be right.” Picking up a ballpoint pen, Ryder started clicking it in his hand.
“She wouldn’t let you near her for a whole year.”
“Hey, I tried, okay?” Now, this was starting to embarrass him. He tossed the pen aside. “Calls, texts. Heck, I even wrote a letter.”
Amazement broadened his father’s features. “You did? What did Phoebe say?”
“Nothing.” It pained him to admit his failure. “She wouldn’t talk to me. Wouldn’t believe me when I said I was sorry.”
“You think that’s going to do it?” Stanley made a rude noise again. “I don't blame her. You lied to her with that strumpet.”
That was his father’s favorite name for Trixie, and Ryder smiled to hear it. But there was nothing funny about this situation. That one hop in the hay had cost him big time. Stupid didn’t begin to cover it.
“You have a chance here to prove to Phoebe that you’ve grown up, matured.”
Ryder reared back from his father. “Hey, I am mature, goddammit.”
“Then act like it.” Pulling up the sagging jeans that he insisted on wearing, his dad frowned at him. “How many years are you going to waste? You know you want her back, you sorry sack of cow pucky. Prove it to her. She hasn’t married anyone else, has she?”
That thought could give him dry heaves. “No, not yet.”
“Not yet. But a woman like that? You can bet she’s had her chances.”
“Probably. I suppose so.” Yep, dry heaves coming right up. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“Instead of lining up men to waltz that girl down the aisle, work this chance to get back in her good graces...”
Good graces. Hell, Ryder lay awake at night thinking of a lot more than Phoebe’s “good graces.”
His father was ticking a finger in front of his face like a damn clock. “I can read your mind, boy, but first things first. For starters, think good graces.”
By this time, the boxes of stock and pile of paperwork had been forgotten. “I see your point. No way do I want any of the crews to know Phoebe is living alone. Hell, they'd all be howling around that cottage like tomcats.” Drumming his thumbs on the glass counter, he thought it over. Not a pretty picture.
“Not at all. You can’t blame her for kicking you out.”
“I acted like an idiot.”
“You acted like you were still in high school, with girls drooling over you. Why you had the finest woman...”
“Stop, Dad. Please.” Ryder hunched over. Each word felt like another slam to his gut. His father was right. Thirty was early to go through male menopause from what he read, and he’d looked it up online. But that’s about what happened. At the time, he was going to hit thirty and trying to prove he was still a chick magnet. So stupid and immature. He knew that now. “So where does that leave me?”
Stanley rocked back on his heels. “Well son, I believe that leaves you up on the roof.”
Chapter 7
The thumping overhead had given Phoebe a headache. This was the third day that Ryder had been working on the roof. And he was probably right about the shingles. At first she’d been disappointed. The grayish blue tiles might be close to turquoise, but not really. When he showed up with a sample, she’d promptly googled “turquoise roof.” But any tiles that even came close were ceramic or clay and made in Santa Fe.
“So pretty.” She’d stared at the screen for at least ten minutes while Ryder ranted about the cost. Finally, she clicked off the pictures. “I guess you’re right.”
He didn’t look happy. “Look, Sweet Ch...Phoebe. I’d like to give you what you want. Really. But...”
“If you grab your hair any tighter, Ryder, you’re going to pull it clear out of your head.” And that would be a shame. He’d always had such great hair. Phoebe knit her twitching fingers together in her lap. They settled for the blue gray.
Why had she ever agreed to this arrangement? Oh right, she didn’t want to hit her dad up for money. Again. After the divorce, her parents had pleaded with her to come home. She’d been such a mess back then. But she’d built up a business in Gull Harbor. No way was she going back to the Upper Peninsula where winter stretched into May. Instead of crawling back home like a wounded animal, she threw herself into building her salon with marketing plans, a new sign and extended hours.
All that had worked. For a while.
Dating? She had no time or heart for it.
Munching cinnamon toast at the porch table, Phoebe considered her summer. The plans had changed. The white cast glared up at her. There’d be no slipping down to the shore to dance along the sand. No running into the Swirly Top when she felt like a chili dog or a twirl cone. She was tied to the house and her ex. Jen and Carly were running the salon with disturbing efficiency. This was not what she’d pictured, not at all. But at least she had this porch.
And me. Fernando was giving her the eye.
“And you.” If Ryder overheard her talking to her yard art, he’d think she’d lost it.
Licking the cinnamon from her fingers, she settled back. Everything was beginning to bloom. Blue hydrangeas were budding in the unweeded beds circling the house. Hollyhocks struggled to rise in the garage border. Black-eyed Susans perked up their sassy heads along the driveway. Oh, the yard was far from tidy, but the flow
ers sure would be pretty once everything got going.
The yard might help soothe her. Lately, she felt so jumpy. Having Ryder around was like having a rash you couldn’t scratch or it might spread. Call her suspicious but she still questioned his motives. Was he bent on proving how much work this cottage involved, hoping she’d agree to sell? Her chewing slowed. The toast turned to a dry ball in her mouth when she thought of all the calls and whispered conversations that were going on. They had Trixie-that-Bitch written all over them.
Her thoughts ran wild, taking her for a pretty scary ride. Maybe Ryder wanted to get married and needed his down payment from the cottage. Why else would he do this? He was probably going to marry Trixie––or some other bimbette––and set up house with his new wife. Right now he was living over Branson Motors, not exactly home sweet home for any new bride.
Yep, he no doubt wanted her to sell her home.
The realization splashed over Phoebe like scalding coffee.
She took another bite of the cinnamon and sugar toast. Divorce was one thing but Ryder getting remarried? She had trouble wrapping her mind around that. When she studied the rattan furniture, her stomach lurched. Ryder might want half of all this too. Her thoughts darted from one fear to another, matching the rhythm of the rat-a-tat on the roof. Finished with the toast, she dusted the crumbs from her fingers and swiped one eye. The cinnamon must be making her tear up. That had to be it. She sniffled, dabbing at her nose with a napkin.
Why did she always miss the obvious? Ryder used to tease her about that. Why else would he drive down here every day? Heck, he’d even insisted on coming Saturdays. She’d put her foot down––well, her cast––when he suggested Sundays. Phoebe needed one day without him.
Phoebe hadn’t heard any rumors that Ryder was getting married. But he was more a Rusty Nail guy than Mangy Mutt. Kate’s husband Cole and the rest of the guys probably never visited the Rusty Nail much. The popular watering hole was way up past Stevensville. Convenient for Ryder but not for most of the Gull Harbor guys. The fact that Ryder had met Trixie there really hurt. After all, that was where he’d come onto Phoebe, all sweet huskiness and coaxing eyes.
