Crazy Love

by Nicola Marsh

  “Vicious.”

  He decided to push his luck. He hadn’t had this much fun the morning-after, even if nothing had happened the night before.

  “Does breakfast come with this coffee?”

  “If you want to cook it. Though I wouldn’t hang around too long.”

  Her eyes gleamed with mischief and he had a sudden urge to cross the kitchen, haul her into his arms and pick up where that kiss left off last night.

  “Flo has a habit of dropping in on Saturday mornings and if she finds you here…well, there’s no telling what she might do.”

  The thought of another bone rattling backslap from the gargantuan waitress quelled his libido quicker than if she’d doused him in cold water.

  “On second thoughts I’m not hungry. Thanks for letting me use your computer and for letting me crash on the couch.”

  “No problems. Let yourself out. I need to shower.”

  So much for distracting his libido. As soon as she mentioned shower his mind drifted into the gutter again, his imagination conjuring up visions of him joining her under the warm spray, soaping up and getting it on.

  “Marc?”

  “Huh?”

  He wrenched his mind back to the present with difficulty. In his fantasy, he’d had her pinned against the shower screen and was about to—

  “If you ever need my services, don’t hesitate to holler.”

  She leaned against the doorjamb, the hem of the cotton T skimming her bare thighs, her naughty expression enough to tempt a saint. By her cheeky grin she knew exactly what he’d been thinking.

  “Services?” Was all he managed to say, most of the blood draining from his brain to his other organ that seemed to do all the thinking around her, rendering even the simplest of activities like speaking difficult.

  “Yeah, if you need to find your perfect match, drop by the office some time. I’m sure Love Byte can provide exactly what you’re looking for.”

  She wiggled her fingers in a saucy wave, blew him a kiss and strutted out of the kitchen.

  Flo flipped the top of her cigarette packet and rummaged through the gold foil, futilely wishing her morning fix would appear. It didn’t and she crushed the empty packet, cursing under her breath.

  “Damn habit,” she muttered, picking up her purse and car keys from the floor where she’d dropped them in utter exhaustion as she trudged in the door last night.

  I’m too old for this shite, she thought, knowing six straight night shifts were too much for her ageing body yet doing it anyway. At fifty-eight she felt seventy and if her no-good lump of a husband hadn’t upped and died, leaving a mountain of debts she was still trying to clear after four years, she would’ve been living on easy street by now.

  Not that she would ever leave Love but it was nice to dream about returning to Sydney, her home city she’d left all those years ago after being stupid enough to fall for Charlie and his empty promises.

  “Need to find a rich bloke next time,” she said to no one in particular as she slammed the back door and threaded her way through the overgrown path to her rusty Ford, rubbing her lower back as she slid onto the threadbare seat.

  Though who’d have her? She stared at her reflection in the rear vision mirror, running a hand through her tangled greying curls standing on end, poking at the road map of lines crisscrossing her eyes.

  Yeah, you’re a real catch, Flo Patterson. Better let young Sierra and her computer work its magic on you.

  Cackling loudly, she started the engine, revved it and reversed out of the driveway at breakneck speed. If there were two things she did well in life, it was wait tables and drive. She might be no oil painting but she had life skills. Perhaps all she needed was to find a mechanic with a hankering for some good old-fashioned servin’ and she’d be right.

  As she reached the end of the drive she checked over her shoulder and almost hit the accelerator rather than the brake.

  “I’ll be blowed,” she said, as Liv Fairley’s handsome son left Sierra’s house, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink all night.

  In all the years she’d lived next to the Kent’s, first Dolores and now her daughter Sierra grown up, she’d never seen a bloke spend the night. Or if they had she’d never seen them sauntering out the front door and down the garden path as if they owned the place.

  At first she’d thought Sierra might be gay but if the rumor mills were correct, and they had to be for Essie had those foil thingies put in her hair at Rosa’s and the hairdresser knew everything about everybody in Love, Sierra had been seen leaving the Love Inn one morning hand in hand with a computer guy from the big smoke.

  Having a meaningless fling was one thing, but inviting the guy back to her house? Could only mean Sierra liked this one.

  Flo watched Liv’s son—what was his name? Matt? Mason? Marc, that was it—get into his fancy-shmancy car and drive away.

  Ignoring her nicotine craving, Flo reversed into the street with a squeal of burning rubber and headed in the opposite direction from the Amor Corner Store.

  She hadn’t seen Hank and Liv in a few days and it was definitely time for a visit.

  Sierra rapped twice on Belle’s door, wondering what was keeping her. Belle would usually wait on her front porch, eager to get to the market and scout the best bargains before the Saturday morning crowd arrived.

  Ripley pawed the screen and barked twice for good measure.

  “Clever boy.”

  She scratched behind the hound’s ears and received a sloppy slurp on the hand for her trouble. Though her faithful companion had been none too clever this morning when he’d been slobbering over Marc. Ripley usually hated strangers, particularly men, yet he’d taken to City Boy with a swiftness that staggered her.

  Her mom always said kids and animals took an instant liking to those they trust but in this case Ripley’s astute judgment had gone haywire. Either that or the guy had hidden a steak in his pocket. Maybe he subscribed to Horse and Hounds—yeah, right—and had read the old adage “charm the dog, charm its owner.”

  Not that she needed Ripley’s vote of confidence. If Marc had charmed the pants off her last night she wouldn’t have put up much of a fight.

  As for trusting him, Marc Fairley was good to look at, fun to spar with, but trust the man? She’d sooner trust one of Hank’s low-bellied grass snakes than the guy who could undermine her with a single glance.

  “Hey you.” Belle opened the front door with a sly grin. “This is a surprise.”

  “Are you nuts? I’m on your doorstep this time every Saturday.”

  “But this isn’t any old Saturday, is it?” Belle smirked, infuriatingly smug. “Thought you’d be too exhausted after all that nocturnal activity to want to spend a morning at the market with little ol’ me.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  Sierra shouldn’t feel so flat saying it. As much as she’d connected with City Boy, and for all the pre-date hype including the impulsive de-forestation down below, she’d chickened out when it came to the crunch.

  As much as she fancied Marc she knew sleeping with him would’ve been a bad idea. Call it intuition, call it gut instinct, but acting on the attraction buzzing between them would’ve been a dumbass thing to do.

  Over dinner last night and later at her place she’d expected him to probe for information, make small talk and hit the road as soon as he realized she was stringing him along. Instead, he’d proven to be an entertaining dinner companion and worse, looked sexy as all get-out lounging in her living room.

  “No GOLF, huh?”

  “Didn’t feel like playing.”

  Instead, she’d stood over him while he slept, surprised by a surge of tenderness at how vulnerable he looked with his eyelashes fanning half-moon shadows on his cheeks and his mouth relaxed in a slack smile.

  She should’ve woken him and sent him packing but didn’t have the heart. Besides, if she couldn’t keep her lips to herself fully clothed there was no way she could’ve risked waking him sem
i-naked.

  Belle shook her head as she swung a large straw tote over her shoulder and shut the front door.

  “I don’t get it. This is the first guy I’ve seen you get an emergency wax for, he spends the night at your place and nothing? What’s with that?”

  “He’s Olivia Fairley’s son and she’s a client of mine. It’d be unprofessional.”

  Belle gave Ripley an absentminded pat as he pawed at the hem of her Capri pants.

  “The way I see it, Liv was your client. Now she’s engaged to Hank, why would she be on your books?”

  “Stop splitting hairs. You know what I mean. Besides, technically she’s still a client. I’m organizing the wedding as a favor for Uncle Hank, remember?”

  Belle fell into step next to her as they headed for the town square where the market was held on a weekly basis. “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “You really like this guy.”

  “No way.” Sierra shook her head, wishing her best friend didn’t know her so darn well.

  “Do so.”

  “Do not.”

  Belle took a deep breath, her breasts straining against her purple T-shirt. “In that case, you won’t mind me taking a shot at him.”

  Sierra stopped, not liking the way her heart reacted to the thought of Belle and Marc together.

  “He isn’t your type.”

  “Really?” Belle studied her fuchsia nails at arm’s length. “He’s gorgeous, successful and rich. What more could a girl ask for?”

  “Chemistry.”

  Was Sierra that blind? She could’ve sworn there was nothing between Belle and Marc when she’d come downstairs that morning. In fact, she’d wager a year’s profits on it, for the minute she’d descended those stairs and Marc had caught sight of her he’d looked like a starving man contemplating his first decent meal in ages and she was his appetizer, main and dessert all rolled into one.

  “Hey babe?”

  Sierra frowned, not liking Belle’s syrupy tone. If her stunning best friend set her sights on Marc, all because she was too damn stubborn to admit the truth and stake her claim, she didn’t have a hope in Hades. “What?”

  “I’m kidding.”

  “Bitch.”

  “And you love me.” Belle draped an arm around her shoulders while Ripley tried to insinuate his way between them, pushing against their legs until they gave him some room. “Had you fooled for a minute.”

  “You’re a real riot.”

  She should’ve known Belle would never encroach on her territory.

  Since when did City Boy become her territory? Damn, she lost all perspective when it came to him.

  “Don’t worry, babe. It’ll all work out in the end.” Belle threw her free arm into the air. “We’re in Love.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Sierra should forget Marc. Uptight city boys passing through town were bad news. Yet the more she tried to forget him, the more he wheedled his way into her thoughts and she hoped her judgment hadn’t joined Ripley’s and gone to the dogs.

  Olivia patted her stomach. “You’re spoiling me. Any more of your blueberry flapjacks and I won’t fit into my clothes.”

  Hank wiped the frying pan and hung it on a giant copper hook over the range.

  “That’s the idea, love.” He winked and crossed the kitchen to drop a kiss on her lips. “I kinda like the idea of you walking around naked.”

  She slapped him away, loving every minute of the attention. “We’re too old for this sort of thing.”

  His lips drifted across her cheek towards her ear. “You’re only as old as the fella you feel.”

  “Your point, old-timer?”

  Her breath caught as he nibbled on the tender spot beneath her earlobe.

  “I may be old, sweetheart, but I ain’t dead. And as long as you’re doing the feeling I reckon my age registers around twenty-one.”

  He knelt next to her and she snuggled into his arms, content to stay there for the rest of her life.

  His hands smoothed her smoothed her back, strumming with infinite tenderness. “Care to do some feeling now?”

  “You’re a dirty old man.” Her head lolled back as his magical fingers drifted upward to knead her shoulders. “And I love you for it. Feel away.”

  Before they could retire to the bedroom a loud pounding on the backdoor jolted them apart.

  “Think we can make a run for it?” Hank whispered, tugging on her arm.

  “Doubt it.”

  She smiled as Flo’s weatherworn face peered through the kitchen window. “We have company.”

  Following the direction of her gaze, Hank groaned. “So much for a little morning loving. That sight is enough to turn any man’s stomach.”

  She whacked his arm. “Be nice.”

  “Stop canoodling you two and open this damn door.” Flo put both hands up to the glass and pressed her face against it, trying to get a better view. “Don’t you know what you’re doing is sick at your age?”

  “Crazy old bat,” Hank muttered, dropping a light kiss on Olivia’s head as they crossed the kitchen to open the door. “How fast do you think we can get rid of her?”

  “She’s lonely and the only person who truly welcomed me when I first arrived in this town so you get those uncharitable thoughts right out of your head.”

  With one hand on the doorknob, Hank’s other patted her behind. “My thoughts aren’t uncharitable, sweetheart.”

  She swatted his hand away. “No, they’re in the gutter. Now open that door before dear Flo has a coronary.”

  “Dear Flo? Lord help us.”

  He opened the back door with a flourish. “Dear Flo, how lovely to see you.”

  Flo bustled into the kitchen, the pungent odor of stale cigarette smoke wafting behind her.

  “Save it, Hank. I gotta have a heart to heart with your missus. Hey, Liv. How you doing?”

  Hank wrinkled his nose and waved a hand in front of it as if trying to get rid of a bad smell behind Flo’s back and Olivia struggled not to laugh.

  “I’m fine. What brings you out here?”

  Flo tapped the side of her nose. “Secret women’s business.”

  Hank’s smile vanished. “That’s my cue to leave you delightful ladies. I’ll be in the tractor barn if you need me.”

  Hank kissed Olivia before scurrying out the door.

  “Don’t know what you see in that old reprobate,” Flo said, smiling fondly at his retreating back. “But I’m glad to see you looking so happy.”

  “Thanks. Tea?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Flo’s gaze darted around the kitchen. “You wouldn’t happen to have a few ciggies stashed away somewhere?”

  Olivia shook her head, thankful she’d shed that nasty habit along with her old life when she left LA. “Those things will kill you. Why don’t you try those newfangled patches? They worked for me.”

  “Reformed smokers are the worst.” Flo opened her bag and popped gum into her mouth. “Now, hurry up with that cuppa so I can tell you my news.”

  “I’ve got some news of my own.”

  Olivia boiled the kettle, tipped leaves into a pot and arranged lavender cookies on a plate. Not content to let Hank do all the cooking, she’d started baking for the first time in her life and amazingly wasn’t half bad. At least they both hadn’t keeled over from food poisoning yet.

  “We’ve set a date.”

  Flo banged the table and the cups she’d set out rattled. “Good for you. When’s the big day?”

  “Christmas Eve.”

  “Lordy, old Hank’s getting romantic in his dotage.” Flo chuckled as Olivia poured the tea. “Does that mean he gets to wear a red suit rather than black?”

  “No, but all his Christmases come at once.” Olivia winked as she set down the cookies. “What’s your news?”

  Flo wrapped her gum in a serviette, wadded it and lobbed it into the trash. From Flo’s height, Olivia guessed she’d been a basketballer in her younger da
ys back in Australia and it looked like she hadn’t lost her aim.

  Flo took a sip of her tea and sighed. “For a person who had one of those fancy chefs back in LA, you sure know how to make a mean cuppa.”

  “Any old fool can boil water and steep a few leaves.”

  As the words left her mouth, she cringed. George had used those exact words in one of his many put-downs, knowing she took pride in serving quality tea. His petty attitude had never ceased to amaze her. For a man who’d had everything he wanted and his own way for so long he’d still derived satisfaction from making her feel inadequate. Bastard.

  “You’re thinking about him again.”

  “That obvious?”

  Flo shook her head, a sad expression creasing her lined face. “Been there myself. Though thankfully my mean old son of a bitch had the decency to curl up his toes and leave me in peace. Saved me the hassle of going to jail for murdering his useless arse.”

  Olivia loved their cultural differences—arse for ass—glad it lost nothing in the translation. Sounded like both their husbands had been an arse/ass.

  “Murder would’ve been too good for George and besides, I would’ve had to care to do it. I didn’t in the end. In fact, I didn’t care for a very long time. Years of putting up with infidelity and abuse do that to a person.”

  “He hit you?” Flo’s hands clenched into fists. “That lily-livered bastard—”

  “No, but the verbal and psychological stuff was just as bad.”

  In many ways it had been worse, as he’d subjected her to mindless torment before finally realizing what he said or did didn’t affect her anymore. Even then, he’d tried to get a rise out of her daily but she’d refused to bite, seeking oblivion in alcohol rather than face her demons. She’d been on a downward spiral until Marc stepped in and the fact her son had to see her like that, drunk, devastated, depressed, saddened her.

  No child should have to shoulder the burden he had but she thanked the Lord every day he’d helped her turn her life around.

  “He better not show his face around these parts or I’ll tear him apart with my bare hands.”

  She glanced at Flo’s ham-fisted weapons of choice, not doubting their strength for a second. Man-hands, Marc would’ve called them. She hadn’t heard from him and it worried her. He of all people knew what she’d gone through with George and rather than be happy for her it looked like her son had chosen to ignore her.