by Toni Blake
Maybe you’re just destined for a life of soup and daisies.
And if so, was that really so horrible? She liked soup. She liked daisies.
Yet right now it did feel horrible. It felt like . . . not enough. Simply not enough.
After Tessa’s mom had left the bookstore, Amy had said, “If you’re so anxious to do something, why don’t you do something you used to do? Like . . . travel.”
Once upon a time, Tessa and Amy had taken annual trips to Chicago when Rachel had lived there. And she’d gone to the Bahamas with friends from Cincinnati several times, along with a few other destinations. “Because I don’t have the money right now. Whatever I do, it has to be right here.”
“Well, you can’t skydive in Destiny.” Amy had nodded smartly, clearly ready to nip this in the bud.
“But there are places nearby where you can.” She’d looked it up online. “And I realize this is out of the blue, but I just want to have . . . an experience. Something that makes me feel like, no matter what happens, I’ll always have at least one or two exciting things to remember.”
Yet . . . maybe it was a silly idea. Maybe she’d never have the courage to jump out of a plane, and maybe it was dumb to do something just to say she’d done it anyway. Maybe sunbathing in front of a guy that made her heart beat too fast was as thrilling as it was going to get.
Just then, unmistakable music from her youth pulsed out the open cabin window and onto the deck—the only radio station that reached Destiny was playing “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” She’d been in middle school when she’d first heard it—she recalled Rachel, who’d always been in the know, telling her she thought it was about sex.
As Tessa stretched her hose onto the deck and sprayed a little water over her freshly planted seeds, she found herself moving to the beat, her hips swaying slightly back and forth as she hummed along, murmuring some of the words. As the sun dipped officially behind the trees billowing overhead, plummeting her into cool, deep shade, Def Leppard hit the chorus and she didn’t fight the urge to sing a little louder and dance a little more. It was a good song, after all. And maybe she would have worried about a certain new neighbor spotting her, but the view was obscured at this part of the deck—there were too many branches jutting between the two houses here, already budding with new leaves. If she couldn’t see his deck from here—and she couldn’t—no one on the deck above could see her.
Glancing over the railing in the opposite direction, she spied the freshly turned soil where she’d planted her daisies. Couldn’t hurt to water them a little more while she had the hose out, so—still swinging her hips back and forth—she turned the adjustable nozzle to Full in order to reach the daisy bed from where she stood, then aimed in their direction, careful to get the whole area wet as she danced.
Just as she belted out lyrics in which she claimed to be hot and sticky sweet . . . a warm hand closed over her shoulder.
She screamed, jumped, and spun—promptly drenching Lucky Romo with the hose.
Oh Lord! She released the trigger, but it was too late—he was soaked. Her jeans and feet were sopping wet, too. Her heartbeat pounded in her head as she gazed up at him, adrenaline keeping her completely tensed.
“I said hello,” he told her, sounding only slightly put out for a man who’d just been doused at close range, “but you didn’t hear me.”
Oh boy. Here he was, right in front of her, all tattooed and muscular again—and wet now, too. She tried to be cool, but she was pretty sure that ship had already sailed. And instead, she actually found herself snipping at him. “So you thought it would be a good idea to creep up on me and scare me to death?”
“I was trying not to scare you to death.”
She pursed her lips, still completely on edge—about everything—and getting terse. “How’d that work out, do ya think?”
“Not very well.” He looked down at himself. “Damn, hot stuff, you’re quick on the draw.”
She lowered her gaze to where his black T-shirt clung to his stomach, which appeared to be just as muscular and taut as the rest of him. His jeans were fairly soaked, too. “Sorry about that. Just happened.” Because not only did you scare me to death, you did it while I was singing. And dancing. Which means you saw me.
Singing.
And dancing.
Ugh. Could this get any worse? Even wearing a bra this time, she still wanted to crawl in a hole.
Yet the angle of her downward glance allowed her to study his muscles a little more. She saw now that the flames she’d noticed before were accompanied by a grim reaper up above, complete with scythe. Charming. And a reminder that she remained kind of uneasy about him, for good reason. There were more tattoos on his other arm, but she’d have to stare to really see them all and she lacked the nerve.
“I’m Lucky Romo, by the way.”
Oh my. Why did that take her aback? Maybe because being “pretty sure” this was Lucky and hearing it from his own mouth were two different things. It remained hard to believe the Lucky she’d once known in school had turned into this big hunka hunka burnin’ biker.
“I thought so,” she said, biting her lower lip uncertainly.
His dark eyes narrowed slightly, and for some reason she wished the sun hadn’t gone behind the trees. It was getting too dusky all of the sudden—and he was standing awfully close. “You know who I am?”
She nodded. “Your shirt the other day—it said Lucky on the back. And you look like a Romo. Like your brother,” she added, even going on to say, “Mike’s engaged to one of my close friends.”
That’s when his eyes shifted away from hers, like it bothered him to be reminded of Mike.
“I was in school with you, a year behind,” she went on. If they were doing introductions, after all, it seemed inevitable. And it had been silly not to introduce herself the first time anyway. She’d just been too caught off guard then. Not that she was exactly calm and composed now, but at least she’d gotten a little bit used to the idea of him. Even if not the reality of him. “I’m—”
“Tessa Sheridan,” he finished before she could, then gave a light nod. “Yeah, I remember.” And it truly surprised her. She’d have thought the young Lucky would have been far too busy raising hell and getting in trouble to notice she existed. And she couldn’t recall ever exchanging even one word with him. His sullen angriness back then hadn’t exactly encouraged conversation. Not that he was really Mr. Chatty as an adult, either.
“So,” she began, still wondering what had brought him skulking up onto her deck when she’d thought she was free to relax, “did you lose your cat or something?”
To her surprise, the corners of his mouth quirked up into a hint of a smile.
Which she felt in her panties. In a hot, tingling way. Oh dear.
“No cat to lose,” he informed her. Not a big surprise. If Lucky Romo had a pet, it was probably more of the rottweiler persuasion. “But . . .”
“Yeah?” She leaned forward slightly, even though he already stood so close that she could smell the musky, manly scent of him.
“I have a proposition for you.”
. . . Every nerve I have is unstrung: for a moment I am beyond my own mastery. What does it mean? I did not think I should tremble in this way when I saw him—
Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Three
Tessa Sheridan’s pretty gaze went wide as her cute little mouth fell open in the shape of an O. “Uh, what kind of proposition?”
And Lucky couldn’t help arching one eyebrow. He really wasn’t trying to make her nervous, but she looked like she feared he might be getting ready to suggest they have wild monkey sex on her deck. “Relax, it’s nothing illegal,” he assured her. “I saw your sign, about interior decorating, and I want to offer you a job.”
Now she flinched as her eyebrows shot up. “Oh.” He’d thought this news would calm her down, but instead she appeared completely bowled over. Damn, pretty soon she was gonna start making him nervous.
&n
bsp; “So, uh, why do you look so freaked out?”
She cautiously lifted her eyes to his—allowing him to notice they were hazel with tiny gold flecks that glittered a little, even in the shade. “Because . . . you’d be my first customer.”
Huh. He hadn’t seen that coming. “Do you suck at it or something?”
She gave her head a saucy tilt—and though he’d been thinking out loud more than trying to goad her, he liked this attitude a lot better than when she was jittery. “No, I’m great at it, for your information. And I’ve worked my butt off trying to get this business going, taking out ads, putting flyers out all over town, and everything else I can think of. But no one in Destiny seems to need an interior decorator.”
Puzzled, he lowered his chin, narrowed his gaze on hers, then asked the obvious question. “Then what the hell are you doing in Destiny, hot stuff?”
In response, she drew her eyes downward, looking sort of despairing as he took in how long and lush her lashes were, and her voice came out softer than usual. “That’s a long story.”
Something in his chest contracted, just a little. He knew about long stories, and he knew about despair. But he’d sure as hell never expected to see the same kind of pain in this girl’s eyes that he saw when he looked in the mirror sometimes.
And he thought about telling her he had the time to listen if she wanted to talk, but then thought better of it. Listening to her story might obligate him to tell his. And that was something Lucky didn’t do. Ever. To anybody. Only he and Duke knew about their pasts and that’s how it would stay. Hell, even they didn’t talk about the time they’d spent in California as full-patch members of the Devil’s Assassins. So despite being mildly curious about what kept her here, he moved on. “Well, Destiny might not need you, but I do. What do you say?”
At first, it threw him when she acted hesitant, like she was fumbling for an answer. But then he understood, remembered. He made her nervous. And he was nothing like her. He probably scared the shit out of her. And worse yet, she was probably right to be scared.
So it almost surprised him when she finally said, “Okay.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m busy in the morning, but I’ll come look at the space tomorrow afternoon. You can tell me what you want done, then I’ll draw up some ideas and estimates.”
He gave a brief nod. “All right. I’m gonna go dry off now.”
Although it hadn’t been his intent, she went back to looking uncomfortable as she ran her eyes over his torso again to say, “Sorry about, um, hosing you down.”
He shrugged. “I’ve survived worse.” A lot worse. Then he turned to go.
Though as he made his way to the stairs at the rear of her deck, he recalled catching her singing those sexy lyrics and it set off another tiny spark of lust inside him. She was definitely hot—and probably sticky sweet, too. Just like the song said.
Not that he’d ever find out. Good girls like her didn’t hook up with guys like him.
And it was probably best that way, he reminded himself, for both their sakes.
As for why he’d decided to tell her who he was—hell, if he was gonna have a life here, he couldn’t hide. That was an ingrained habit he’d have to break. People would find out he was back sooner or later anyway. And besides, he couldn’t very well ask her to work for him without giving her his name. It had hit him just this morning that while he’d never considered hiring an interior decorator in his whole life, it would take a lot of work off his hands, and help him make sure things were right in the house.
“Any particular time good for you?” she called behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder, catching another glimpse of her petite body in well-worn blue jeans. “Whenever. I’ll either be in the house or working in my garage.”
And as his boots reached the grass and he proceeded up the slope, he remembered once more the way she’d been wiggling her cute little ass to Def Leppard, and without weighing it, or even looking back at her, he said, “By the way, hot stuff—nice moves.”
Mike Romo rolled out of bed late—he’d been on duty for the Destiny Police Department until midnight. And he vaguely remembered the alarm blaring, but Rachel must have turned it off. When he ambled into the kitchen in gym shorts, he found his fiancée standing at the counter eating an English muffin with one hand and scratching their fat cat, Shakespeare, behind the ear with the other.
“Rachel, you know I hate when you let that damn cat on the counter.”
She looked up, her gaze surprisingly docile, and said, “You’re right, I’m sorry.” Then she smoothly lowered Shakespeare to the floor.
Mike just stared at her. Okay, who was this strange woman? Normally, she would tell him in her most superior tone that she didn’t let the cat do anything and that she couldn’t be responsible for his every action and that Mike had better get used to it. At least that’s what she’d said every other time they’d had this discussion for the six months he and Rachel—and the cat—had been living together.
“What’s with you?” he asked, eyes narrowed, running a hand through his messy hair. “And why didn’t you wake me?” She was showered and dressed, looking all pretty and perky, clearly ready for a day at the orchard they ran with her grandma.
“Thought you could use the sleep,” she said, still sounding bizarrely sweet. And she could be sweet sometimes, but . . . something was weird here. The topper was when she said, “What would you like for breakfast? I could make you some eggs.”
He flashed another look of disbelief in her direction, but she seemed not to notice. “My normal cereal is fine, thanks.” They were light breakfast eaters, both of them, except for having fallen into the habit of making pancakes each Sunday.
Without being asked, Rachel retrieved Mike’s cereal from an overhead cabinet, and a moment later lowered a full bowl onto the table, complete with milk and a spoon. “Want some toast? I could make you some toast.”
Okay, now he was getting mad. Something was definitely off here. “No, what I want is for you to tell me what the hell’s going on. Start talking, woman.” He sat down and began eating, since he didn’t like soggy cereal—but he still shot Rachel a death stare until she took a seat at the table with him. “Talk,” he said when she didn’t. “I mean it.”
She sighed, looking unsettled. And when she spoke, her voice came out softer than usual. “All right. Mike, I have something to tell you.”
Hmm. It made him stop eating. He set down his spoon. This sounded serious. Weird thoughts blipped through his mind: She’s leaving me. She’s pregnant. But he thought neither was likely. So he just looked at her.
“You know that house on Whisper Falls Road above Tessa’s?”
He nodded.
“Well, someone bought it and moved in.”
“Okayyy,” he said slowly, making it clear she needed to keep going.
She let out another thick sigh. “It’s . . . Lucky.”
All the blood drained from Mike’s face. What she’d just said was impossible. “It’s who?” He’d heard her, of course, but it didn’t make sense. None at all.
“Lucky. Your brother.”
He took that in, analyzed it. He hadn’t misheard her. But . . . Lucky had been gone for more than fifteen years. Almost half their lives. He let out his own sigh then, aware that his heartbeat was pounding in his ears now and his chest felt tight. “Are you sure?”
The woman he loved nodded. “After a conversation with him last night, Tessa called me while you were on duty and confirmed it for certain.”
Shit. Mike didn’t know how to feel. The flood of conflicting emotions was almost too much to take. He let out a breath, his cereal forgotten, and this time raked both hands through his hair. At this moment, he felt older than his thirty-six years, and tired. Tired of the drama that was his family. Always, always—even during uneventful times, the underlying, unresolved dramas remained, and right now he had the odd sensation of something yanking at his soul, pulling him down unde
r water, making it so he couldn’t breathe.
“Are you okay?” Rachel reached out beneath the table, touched his knee. Now he understood why she’d been so sweet—she’d known what a big deal this was. And thank God he had her, to ease the blow, but it was still difficult to fathom.
He blew out a long breath, tried to get hold of himself, tried to put his feelings into words. “I’m . . . glad as hell he’s alive.” That part was just hitting him. He’d wondered for so long. In fact, the realization was bringing tears to his eyes. And with anyone but Rachel, he’d have struggled to hide that, but with her, he didn’t have to hide anything, so he just reached up and wiped them away. “I mean, I really thought he might be . . . gone. Dead.”
Then an unexpected bolt of fury shot through him and his teeth clenched. “But now that I know he’s alive . . . I wanna fucking kill him.” He met Rachel’s gaze. “I mean, Jesus Christ, he let us go all these years not knowing what became of him! And now he’s home? In Destiny?” He shook his head, still overwhelmed, and attempted to calm down. “What else did Tessa say? How does he look? Is he . . . healthy?” Lucky had seemed to Mike like a prime candidate for drug or alcohol addiction, and he tensed now, waiting to hear the answer.
“She said he was . . . big, like muscular—so yeah, I guess his health is okay.”
Good, no drug problem. Or at least not an obvious one.
“And she said he has a lot of tattoos. And friends on loud motorcycles.”
Mike let out another sigh. That part didn’t surprise him at all. Not long after Lucky had left home, Mike had heard from a cop over in Crestview—via a cousin transplanted in California—that Lucky had gotten in with a bad outlaw biker gang there. He was only sorry to hear his brother was probably still hanging with those kinds of people. He’d learned at police academy that once you were in a criminal gang it was hard to get out, not a lifestyle you could easily break away from.
