by Tawna Fenske
Austin nods and splays his hands over the arms of the chair. “Is there anything else you can tell us? Ideas about why someone would want to scare you?”
Chelsea looks up, trying to meet Austin’s eyes. She holds for only a few breaths before her gaze skitters away. “No.” She shakes her head. “Not that I can think of.”
Austin looks at me. I’m positive he didn’t miss that, Chelsea’s lack of eye contact. Something’s up, but I don’t think any of us are going to find out about it right now. Not tonight anyway.
Austin probes again, gently. “Any names you can give me, anyone who’d have a beef with you?”
I think about what she told me, about her history of dating lousy guys. Is that what Austin’s fishing for?
Chelsea shakes her head. “No one comes to mind.”
There it is again. That slight skittering of eye contact.
Austin doesn’t comment, but I’m sure he noticed. He stands up, so we do the same. “For now, I’d suggest installing some motion-sensor lights out there. Maybe security cameras.”
Chelsea frowns. “That sounds expensive.”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “I’ll do it.”
She gives me a sharp look. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t,” I point out. “I volunteered.”
She bites her lip. “My car,” she says softly. “I have to be at the Humane Society at eight in the morning. Libby and me, it’s our volunteer shift. We can’t miss it.”
Austin rubs his chin. “The guys at McCormick’s Auto Shop are fast, but maybe not that fast,” he says. “I can put in a call, but—”
“I’ll take you.” I don’t give her a chance to argue. “I’m going anyway, to get a dog.”
Chelsea’s eyes widen, but Austin just nods. “Good idea. In fact, it might be smart for you to stay here.” He glances at Chelsea. “If it’s okay with you, of course. You’ve got a guest room?”
Chelsea frowns. “Yes, but—” she glances down again. When she looks up, her eyes are troubled. “You think there’s a risk he’d come back?”
He.
Was that a slip, or just a logical guess that anyone who’d do something this lousy must have a penis? I don’t ask, but I can see Austin filing the observation in the back of his brain.
“We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet,” he says slowly. “But we do have one more question for you.”
“What’s that?” Chelsea’s hands are clenched in her lap, and I wish I could reach over and unspool the tight knot of her fingers.
Austin glances at Officer Studebaker, who starts to speak in a nervous burst.
“The words written on your windshield,” Studebaker says. “Shoe polish or motor oil or chocolate or something. McCormick’s should be able to get it off, don’t worry.”
“It’s the words themselves,” Austin says, his jaw tight. “That’s more our concern.”
Beside me, Chelsea stiffens. “What do they say?”
Austin stares at her, no expression on his face. “Keep your mouth shut.” He clears his throat. “So, let me ask one more time—any idea who might have done this?”
Chapter 7
CHELSEA
“Sorry it’s so small.” I look up at Mark, not sure how his massive frame is going to fit on this tiny double bed in my guest room. “It really wouldn’t take me more than five minutes to change the sheets on my bed, and then you could have a king-sized—”
“No.” He folds his arms over his chest. Huge arms, tree-trunk arms, arms capable of protecting me if it comes to that.
Jesus Christ, how has it come to that?
Keep your mouth shut.
I swallow hard, wondering if I should have done exactly that with the police. I didn’t tell them anything useful. Not really. Just a hunch, but maybe that’s enough.
“That was brave,” Mark says softly, and I wonder if he read my mind. “What you told the cops back there.”
I look down at the comforter, smoothing the duvet so I don’t have to meet Mark’s eyes. “I don’t know it was him. I haven’t heard from Charlie Crawford for years.”
Admitting out loud that I dated a guy who hit me—once, that was all it took before I got out—was awkward enough. Admitting it in front of a guy who looks capable of dismembering him for it was another matter.
“I was stupid,” I murmur now. “I was only twenty, and I thought if I just left, that would be enough. I didn’t think to report it, and that was wrong. I know that now.”
God, I feel dumb. Dumb for falling in love with a guy like that. Dumb for not filing a report. Dumb for thinking if I just moved away, he’d vanish from my life for good. He did, or at least I thought so. Now I’m not sure.
“Hey.” Mark’s voice is low and soft, and his eyes match that softness when I meet them. “None of this is your fault, okay?”
I nod, even though I don’t believe him. “Okay.”
“Hey,” he says again, stepping closer. I feel the heat of his body, the solidness of his presence, and I can’t help meeting his eyes. When I do, my core turns to warm honey. “I mean it, Chelsea. You’re not to blame for someone else being an asshole.”
This isn’t the first time someone’s said that to me. Having a strong pack of girlfriends and a history of choosing lousy men made sure of that.
But something in Mark’s voice, in his eyes, makes me almost believe it. I nod because I can’t find any words, but maybe I don’t need them. My memory flickers with the feel of that beard rasping soft and gentle against my face.
I want that again. I want him.
I swear he reads my mind again. His arms slide around me, pulling me in for a hug. A comforting squeeze, I’m sure that’s all he means to give me. But I tilt my face up at the last second, and our mouths pull together like magnets.
“Chelsea.” He says my name on a growl the instant before his lips meet mine.
Then we’re kissing, kissing fierce and frantic like two starving people. I claw at his shirt, craving his heat, his strength, his whole damn body. The plaid flannel is warm, and so is the cotton undershirt beneath it, but the heat in his clothing is nothing compared to what I find when my fingers tunnel under it. Flesh, hot and solid and taut with muscle. This massive wall of a man is like a playground for my hands, and I clutch greedily at his bare back.
He groans as I stroke my palms up his spine, memorizing the feel of his shoulder blades under the heels of my hands. My God, there’s so much muscle. So much coiled energy hiding just under the surface.
Mark makes a low rumble in his throat and clutches me tighter. His tongue strokes mine, a kiss that’s rough and possessive and exactly what I need right now. Both hands cup my face, but he lets one drop to my waist. I urge him on, grinding against the hardness behind his fly to tell him I want more.
His palm starts moving, slow and steady, up my ribcage. I know where he’s headed, but still gasp out loud when his palm cups my breast. I practically melt when his thumb strokes my nipple through the thin cotton of my shirt.
I’ve never wanted anyone this much in my life. It’s not even a want, it’s a need. If I don’t feel this man inside me in the next five minutes, I’m going to lose my mind.
“Mark.” His name comes out in a gasp against his mouth as my nails dig into his bare back. My whole breast fits in his hand, and I’m aching for him to rip my bra off with his bare hands. With his teeth if necessary, I just need more. The huge pad of his thumb circles my nipple, and my knees start to buckle.
I take a step back, pulling him with me toward the bed.
But it’s like pulling the leash of a dog who doesn’t want to walk. He stiffens and breaks the kiss. When he draws back, his eyes are full of fire.
“I can’t.”
What?
I glance at the front of his jeans. I can’t help it; I know damn well he can.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, shifting a little so the bulge is less apparent. “I mean we shouldn’t,”
he clarifies. “You’ve had a rough night. And I don’t want to take advantage.”
“You’re not taking advantage.” The words come out hoarse and desperate. “I’m a big girl, Mark. I know what I want.”
He closes his eyes, looking pained. “I can’t.”
I open my mouth to beg. I’m not proud, I want this guy so badly my whole body aches. It’s more than just a physical urge, though that’s powerful enough to knock my knees out from under me. I need his sweetness to erase the bitter fear inside me. I crave his bigness to make me feel less small and afraid.
And yeah, I want him. Badly.
But what kind of jerk would I be to plead with a guy who’s clearly telling me no? If the tables were turned, if I were the one resisting, he’d be an asshole for trying to change my mind.
My brain understands this, but the greedy clench between my thighs tells me the rest of my body isn’t getting the message.
He opens his eyes and takes another step back. His movements are shaky and forced, and I can tell it’s taking as much strength for him to back away as it’s taking me not to reach for him.
“You don’t know how much I fucking want to,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his beard. “But this isn’t—I can’t—I won’t—”
“I get it.” I don’t, totally, but watching him fumble like this is painful. And staying here in this room just ups the odds that one of us will snap.
I edge sideways, doing my part to put distance from us. To keep myself from reaching for him. The bed is right there, but so is the door.
I choose the door.
“Good night, Mark.”
With that, I turn and run.
I’m up early the next morning.
It’s partly to make sure I’ve got time to explain to Libby about our houseguest, and partly because I hardly slept a wink. I was too keyed up, too aware of the sexy, virile, hot-as-sin man sleeping just down the hall.
How would he have responded if I’d gone to him in the night? If I’d slipped naked into bed with him, pressing my body against the hard, hot length of his.
Don’t be an idiot.
That’s what I told myself last night, and again this morning as I tiptoe past the guest room. The door is open, and I can’t resist peeking inside.
But instead of a glimpse of Mark, I see the bed made up neatly, throw pillows arranged exactly how I had them before. The smell of coffee pulls me toward the kitchen, where I find a freshly-brewed pot and a note scrawled on a sticky note in a thick, blocky hand.
* * *
Chelsea,
Figured it’s best if I’m not here when Libby wakes up. Will be back with breakfast by 7:30.
M
* * *
I run my fingertips down the paper, oddly touched that he called Libby by name. Not your daughter or the kid, but Libby. Her own person, not an extension of me.
Most guys don’t do that. Not that I’ve dated tons of them in the six—almost seven—years since Libby was born. But the few who’ve made it past a first date have been cautious and itchy, referring to my child in abstract terms instead of as a real person.
And the guys I dated before that—well, let’s just say I’ve picked some real winners. Charlie Crawford, the guy who forgot to mention he’d gone to jail once on an abuse charge. My college boyfriend Antonio, who neglected to tell me he had a fiancée back in Brazil. Matt Carmichael, who spent six months claiming to be a lawyer from Portland, when he actually ran an illegal cockfighting ring in Scio.
And then there was Libby’s father…
I glance back at Mark’s note and feel my balled-up heart unclench.
“Mommy?”
I look up as Libby pads into the kitchen all sleepy-eyed and rumpled. She’s changed out of pajamas and into a pink and yellow tutu over blue jeans with a red and gray plaid work shirt I bought for her when we started our volunteer shifts at the Humane Society.
“We’re going to help the puppies and kitties today,” I remind her as she fluffs the tutu. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
She frowns, then scurries back toward her room. “I forgot my tiara,” she yells from down the hall.
All right, then.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and wonder what Mark meant by breakfast. Should I cut up fruit or maybe fry bacon?
I hear the rumble of his truck’s engine before I see it, and my heart speeds up in an embarrassingly Pavlovian response. The battered blue and white truck wheels into my driveway, which is when I realize my car is gone.
What the hell?
I scramble to the front door and yank it open, stepping onto the porch as Mark’s getting out of the truck. “Did they take my car for evidence or something?”
He shifts a big pink bakery box to his other arm and slams the truck door. “Nope.” He ambles up the walkway, not even pretending he doesn’t notice I’m braless under the thin cotton tank I’m wearing. Good.
“Then where—”
“Figured it might upset Libby to see your car all bashed up,” he says. “I had McCormick’s come out with a tow truck early this morning. And then I got donuts.”
Holy cow, he’s been busy. And hungry, judging from the size of that donut box.
“Thank you for thinking of that,” I say. “All of it. The towing, the donuts—everything. I’ll pay you back, of course.”
Mark frowns. He’s standing less than a foot from me now, and I watch the lines deepen on his forehead. “Let’s get something straight.” His voice is rough, but not unkind. “When my dad died, he left behind a fuck-ton of money. More money than any five humans could possibly spend in a lifetime.”
I lick my lips, aware that he’s sharing way more personal info than he owes me. “You don’t have to—”
“Since I’m one of those five humans, and we’re equal heirs, I’ve got a ridiculous shit-wad of money that I don’t particularly need,” he continues like I haven’t spoken. “If I sometimes want to share with friends and family and people I care about, I’ll damn well do it.”
I hold his gaze with mine, looking deep into those dark brown eyes. “Which am I?”
His brows furrow. “What?”
“A friend or someone you care about.”
His eyes stay locked with mine, not blinking at all. “You have to ask?”
“I—”
His arm ropes around my waist before I say more. He closes the space between us with a soft growl and claims my mouth. The kiss is possessive and hungry and leaves zero doubt this is way more than friendship.
I grip the back of his neck and thank the Lord I had the foresight to brush my teeth already. I kiss him back hard, pressing my body against his to let him know I’m ready to pick things up where we left off last night. My body hasn’t stopped buzzing since then, and I’m so mind-whacked I’d cheerfully let him bend me over the porch rail right now. That’s how badly I want him.
“Are you mommy’s boyfriend?”
I jump back, totally busted, and try to look like mom instead of some hussy making out on her front porch at daybreak. I turn to face my daughter, tugging down my tank top before crossing my arms over my chest.
Libby peers up at me with innocent eyes, her tiara askew on her head. She’s still wearing the tutu, and has added a pair of glittery high-top sneakers to her ensemble.
“Hi, baby.” I clear my throat. “This is Mark, and he brought us breakfast.”
Mark steps forward, presenting the pink box with humble reverence. “Donuts.” Spoken like a man who fully grasps the distraction power of sugar. “Two dozen. I wasn’t sure what everyone likes.”
“Donuts!” Libby claps her hands together and does a happy little twirl in the doorway. “Come on, we’ve got milk.”
She scurries into the house, leaving the door open behind her. Mark and I look at each other.
“Thank you.” I don’t know if I’m thanking him for the kiss or for the donut distraction, but either way he nods.
I follow my daughter into the kitchen wi
th Mark keeping a safe distance behind me. With any luck, Libby’s forgotten her boyfriend question.
No dice.
“Mommy doesn’t have boyfriends,” she chatters happily as she pours milk into three mismatched mugs, sloshing some on the counter. “I can’t have a boyfriend until I’m thirty.”
Mark looks at me and nods. “Sounds about right.”
“But I can get my ears pierced when I’m ten,” she continues as she puts the carton back in the fridge with the cap still sitting on the counter in a puddle of milk. “And when I’m eighteen I go to college. Oh! And when I’m thirteen I can watch Farrah Spewler.”
“Farrah Spewler?” Mark looks mystified.
“Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” I say. “Some older kids at school told her about it. It’s PG-13.”
He sets the donut box on the table and scrubs a hand over his beard as Libby sets a mug of milk in front of him. “That’s a lot of rules,” he says. “Your mom’s really smart for knowing them all. And you’re smart for remembering them.”
“Yeah.” Libby’s eyes widen as Mark opens the donut box to reveal a huge assortment. “You got the good ones.”
“Boston cream?” Mark accepts the plate I hand him, but keeps his eyes on my kid. Like this is his favorite conversation all week. “Or are you a maple bar kinda girl?”
“No, jelly.” Libby jabs a chubby finger at a berry-filled confection in the corner, smudging powdered sugar all over her hand.
“Libby,” I warn. “What did we talk about last week? About touching food that doesn’t belong to us?”
Mark stays silent, and I can see him doing his best to keep his face fixed in a serious expression.
Libby’s doing the same. “You touch it, you eat it,” she recites, grinning at me. “And if I lick it, it’s mine.”
The corners of Mark’s mouth twitch, and I can tell he’s avoiding my eyes. “Sounds about right.”
We each choose a donut—jelly-filled for Libby, a maple bar for me, Boston cream for Mark. He polishes his off in two bites and reaches for another, cinnamon sugar this time. That’s gone in less than thirty seconds, leaving him studying the box like a cigar aficionado admiring a display of fine Cubans.
