by EMILIE ROSE
“In my house, if you eat, you clean.” He followed her into the galley-style kitchen and set his load in the sink.
She hadn’t had a man in this room since Rick’s death. And even then, preparing the meal and cleaning up afterward had been her job while Rick had played with the children or watched TV. Brandon’s shoulders were broader than Rick’s had been, and he took up more space. His presence made her feel claustrophobic in the narrow area between the counters.
Brandon rinsed a dish and offered it to her. She jumped into action. Her hip bumped his as she bent to open the dishwasher, and her pulse blipped erratically. Nerves over what his take on Mason’s attitude might be. That was all it was. She was certain.
“Brandon, I’m sorry, but until I renovate this kitchen there’s only room for one of us in here, so...if you don’t mind...”
He scanned the room. “I forgot you wanted to knock out some walls.”
“Just that one.” She pointed to the wall dividing the den and kitchen.
“Did Rick ever get that structural engineer’s report he talked about?”
“Yes, but kitchens are expensive projects, so it’s pretty far down the list.” And now it was off it completely because one salary would never be enough to cover the cost.
“Could I see the report?”
She sighed. If it would get him out of the way, she’d give it to him. Crossing to the built-in desk, which she rarely used, she opened the file drawer, flipped through the folders and extracted the file.
“You’re still organized, I see.”
“Yes. Here you go.”
“Thanks. I’ll read it after I take a look at the computer.”
Anxiety burned in her chest. “You won’t find anything. Like I told you, I have all kinds of parental controls on it, and—”
“Then you don’t have anything to worry about.” He retrieved the laptop from the den and brought it to the kitchen table then pushed a button and the machine hummed to life. “Do each of you have separate log-ins?”
“Yes. That way the programs we use are on the desktop and my bill paying is out of the kids’ reach.”
“Do you ever sign in as Mason to see which sites he visits?”
“No. I trust him.” She didn’t need to see Brandon’s lips compressing to know he didn’t like her answer—especially given she’d demanded his help. “I don’t know his password.”
“No problem.” Long fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard.
She rinsed the remaining dishes and loaded the dishwasher, trying hard to ignore him clicking away. What if he found something? If she confronted Mason with it he’d know she’d gone behind his back and invaded his privacy. How would he react? The way her mother had? She tamped down the fear. Brandon wouldn’t find anything on the computer. She was too proactive for that.
“I’m in,” Brandon stated.
She stilled, water dripping from her hands into the sink. “How did you get in without his password?”
“I signed in as the administrator.” He looked back at the screen then frowned. “Mason’s history has been deleted. Did you show him how to do that?”
Her anxiety level climbed. “No. Maybe the computer is set to automatically delete the browsing history?”
Click. Click. Click. “His account is.” More taps. “Neither yours nor Belle’s is. It’s not the computer’s default. If you didn’t set it up this way, then Mason did.”
“But why...?”
“Exactly.”
Acid burned the base of her esophagus. She dried her hands. “I...could ask him.”
But if she did, then he’d know she was spying on him. And spying on someone was a violation of trust that couldn’t be forgiven or forgotten.
“You think he’d tell you the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Your hesitation says differently. Hannah, he’s a kid doing something he wants hidden. Let me talk to him.”
“No! I don’t want you interrogating him like a criminal. He’s a little boy.”
His jaw shifted. “Then let me take the computer with me so that I can find out what sites he’s been visiting. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”
“That’s spying.”
“That’s parenting. If you want to know what’s driving his behavior and you won’t let me take the computer, then at least let me install some software that’ll track his activity. He’ll never know it’s there.”
Fear tightened her chest. “I’m not violating his trust like that.”
He shut down the computer, set it aside and stood. In three strides he was by her side. Close. Too close. She had to tip back her head to look at him. He wasn’t as tall as Rick, but he was...imposing in his breadth. Dark evening stubble shadowed his jaw and his eyes were...intent. She shuffled backward and nearly tripped over the open dishwasher door.
He reached out, but she caught herself and held up her hands before he made contact. “I’m fine.”
“Hannah, I can’t help you if you won’t let me. Mason is probably nothing more than a curious boy looking at porn, and he’s picked up some of the language. But it could be more. And software is the easiest way to find out what’s going on.”
“You’re just paranoid because of your job chasing cyber criminals. But my son isn’t a criminal.” Then another thought dried her mouth. “He won’t be able to tell you logged in as him, will he?”
“No. Think about a tracking program. It’s your best bet.”
“No software. I want you to promise me you won’t do anything to violate his trust.”
Frustration radiated from him, pleating his brows and making his shoulder muscles bunch. “Hannah, we’ve covered this.”
“Promise me, Brandon. I want Mason to feel he can come to me with anything, and if I go behind his back he won’t feel that way.” She saw opposition in his face. “If you can’t make that promise, then leave and don’t come back. I have enough problems with the Leiths trying to undermine me. I don’t need you doing the same.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Fine, I agree. But only as long as I don’t think he’s in danger or a crime’s being committed. If I suspect either of those, then I’ll do whatever it takes to keep your son safe. I owe Rick that.”
Mason wasn’t committing a crime. As his mother, she’d know if he was. Brandon’s half promise wasn’t the unconditional one she wanted, but it would have to do. “Okay.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. And while I’m here I’m going to check out the gutter over your garage. It’s sagging and it needs to be repaired before you have water damage.”
He swung around and left the kitchen before she could protest. The old adage “give ’em an inch and they’ll take a mile” came to mind. She’d invited Brandon back into her life. She hoped she didn’t regret it.
* * *
BRANDON RETURNED HIS ladder to the bed of his truck on Sunday morning. He had come over early to work on Hannah’s gutter. As he’d suspected, the gutter repair was going to involve more than hammering a couple of nails. Good thing he’d gone ahead and brought the necessary materials.
He bent to check his face in the side mirror and winced. The mug reflected back at him wouldn’t win any beauty contests. His right eye was swollen almost shut, his upper lip looked ready to burst and an assortment of other bulges puffed out his cheeks and chin. He gingerly touched the worst spot beneath his eye and swore. It hurt. Hell, his whole face hurt. But a promise was a promise. He hoped he didn’t scare Belle.
He checked his watch. Hannah should be home from church any minute. As if on cue, her minivan came up the driveway. Hannah parked outside the garage. Mason bailed out of the side door, scowled in Brandon’s direction then did a double take and smirked. “How bad does the other guy look?”
The kid thought he’d been in a fight. He decided to play along. “There were about
fifty of them. And I’m still standing.”
The boy’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened.
Hannah stopped as she rounded the hood, a horrified look on her face. A flowery sleeveless dress fluttered above her knees, displaying long, tanned legs. She looked good. Really good. He squashed that thought and noted that Belle wore an identical dress.
“Fifty yellow jackets,” he elaborated. “They nest in the ground. I ran over their hole this morning with my lawn mower.”
Belle tugged his hand and pointed at his face. “Does it hurt?”
He wasn’t going to lie. “Yeah. But not as bad as it looks.”
Hannah moved closer, concern puckering her forehead. “Have you removed the stingers?”
“The ones I could reach.”
“You have more?”
“Some of the bast—buggers got in my shirt.”
“Have you taken an antihistamine or put anything on the wounds?”
“I didn’t have anything but antiseptic.”
“I have a first-aid kit. Come inside. I’ll fix you up then you can go home.”
“I promised to help paint, and I don’t break promises.” Except for the one he’d made to Rick. But he was righting that now. Hannah had reopened the door. He wouldn’t let her close it again.
“I don’t think you should exert yourself.”
“I’m fine, Hannah. I’m not allergic. Just ugly.”
“Did you pour gas in the hole and set it on fire?” Mason asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
Was Mason a firebug? That would suggest even bigger problems. “No. You have to do night ops to kill yellow jackets.”
“How come?”
“Yellow jackets return to their nest at dusk. After dark they can’t see as well and they’re less likely to attack. I’ll hit all of them at once with chemicals that’ll fog them to death.”
“Can I watch?”
Bloodthirsty little rascal.
“No,” Hannah replied before Brandon could. “It’s a school night.” Ignoring Mason’s “Moooom,” she swung her gaze to Brandon. “Come inside.” He followed her in. “Wait in the den. I’ll get the first-aid kit. Mason, stay with Brandon and watch for...anything unusual. Belle, put on the painting clothes I laid out for you.” Hannah left. Two sets of footsteps ascended the stairs.
Mason studied Brandon’s face as if he’d never seen anything like it before. “There are bites all over. You look like you’ve been beaten up.”
“You ever been in a fight?”
The boy’s expression turned defensive, cagey, putting Brandon on alert. “Maybe. You’re not going to like, die or something if I leave the room, are you? I’m hungry. I need a sandwich.”
“Go ahead. If I was going to drop dead from anaphylaxis I’d have done it by now.”
Mason headed for the kitchen. His actions confirming what Brandon suspected. The boy was evading providing a direct response. So Brandon followed him and leaned against the doorjamb. “Do you know how to defend yourself, Mason?”
Wary blue eyes whipped his way. “Why?”
“Because your dad didn’t. I had to teach him.”
“Why?” he repeated and grabbed a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly from the fridge.
“He was having trouble with a bully. I don’t like bullies.”
Mason paused with his knife above the peanut butter jar while he mulled that over. “Would you teach me to fight?”
“To fight? No. To defend yourself? Sure. There’s a big difference in the two. Hand-to-hand combat is always a last resort for when you have no other choice. It’s better to walk away if you can.”
The answer earned him an eye roll. Mason returned to assembling his sandwich. “You’re only saying that cuz you’re a cop. I’d be called a pussy if I ran.”
“Name-calling doesn’t break bones but fighting can. I’m saying it because you’re built like your dad. Not a lot of muscle yet. I don’t want you to get your butt kicked or to get suspended from school. You’ll have to use your brain instead of brawn.”
Another eye roll.
Hannah returned with a small box. She took in the situation. “Did you offer Brandon a sandwich?”
“Want one?” Mason asked with his mouth full.
“No, thanks. I ate before I came over.”
Hannah aimed a dark look at her son for talking while chewing, then turned to Brandon. “Pills or cream? I’d recommend both.”
Brandon recognized the pink bottle she displayed. “Antihistamines knock me out. I’ll stick with the topical.”
“Take off your shirt and have a seat.” He did as directed then sat at the table. By the time he had his shirt fabric bunched in his hands, she’d set down the box and held a playing card. Her gaze ran over him. She blinked, hesitated, then licked her lips. He caught himself watching her pink tongue and mentally kicked himself.
“Where are the ones you couldn’t reach?”
“Back.” The word came out gruffer than intended.
She whirled a finger, signaling him to turn. He twisted in the chair. “There are three and two stingers are still in.”
He felt the rasp of the card across the first bump, then the second. A moment later the coolness of the cream hit his inflamed skin, accompanied by a twinge of pain caused by the light pressure of her touch. Then the warmth and slow caress of her fingertip registered.
“Turn around,” she ordered before he could figure out what was causing him to have difficulty breathing. Was he having a delayed reaction to the venom?
He turned and found himself at chest level. The neckline of Hannah’s sundress dipped low enough to reveal smooth skin and a fine gold chain that disappeared between her breasts. His lungs locked. He swallowed—hard—then closed his eyes and forced a breath into his tight chest. Her scent, combined with a hint of flowers, filled his nostrils. His mouth dried. He opened his eyes and searched for safer territory. He spotted a quarter-inch thread standing out from the seam of her dress on her left shoulder and fixated on it. But then his mind took an unexpected detour. What would happen if he pulled that thread? Would the dress fall from her shoulder?
“You’re lucky you’re not allergic. With this many stings this could have been a life-threatening situation.”
His attention lasered in on the gentle stroke of her finger on the thin skin beneath his eye, then she moved on to the sting on his cheekbone, smoothing small circles over the puffy flesh. His pulse jackhammered with near-deafening force against his eardrums.
Delayed reaction to the venom.
She rubbed the lump beneath his earlobe and the one under his chin, and his respirations shallowed and quickened. The pressure descended from his chest to his groin. What in the hell was wrong with him? This was Hannah. Rick’s Hannah. And getting a woody in response to her was unacceptable. But there it was, straining against his zipper. He held out his hand to take the tube from her.
Ignoring his silent request she squeezed out more cream. “Sit still, Brandon.”
He gritted his teeth against the pleasure/pain and gripped the T-shirt in his lap so tightly he’d probably imbed permanent wrinkles into the cotton. He hoped like hell Hannah didn’t notice his condition.
She brushed the tender, swollen flesh of his upper lip and a lightning bolt of sensation shot south. He jerked out of reach, sucked in a sobering breath and snatched the tube from her hand. “I’ll get the rest.”
She stilled. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
What was that song lyric? Hurt so good? “No. But we need to get painting. Put on your work clothes. I got this.”
Looking as relieved as he felt, she stepped back. “Well...if you’re sure. The guest bathroom is—” She shook her head. “You know where it is.”
“Yeah. I do.” His momma had raised him to stand whenever a lady entered or lef
t the room. He did so, but he kept the T-shirt in front of his crotch until Hannah left.
What in the hell had just happened? And how could he make sure it didn’t happen again? He mentally shook himself and caught Mason watching. “Put on your painting clothes, kid. After we knock out this job I’m going to wipe up the basketball court with you.”
The kid glanced toward the den. “I need to work on my project.”
“More online research?” The computer was in the den.
“Yeah.”
If Hannah was going to paint upstairs and Mason was going to be on the computer downstairs, then the kid wasn’t as supervised as Hannah thought. Brandon filed that away and went into the bathroom to treat the remaining stings.
Once that was done he climbed the stairs. As he reached the landing the spare bedroom door opened. Hannah, wearing a T-shirt that had seen better days, cut-off jeans a thread longer than indecent and sneakers, stepped out. She’d changed clothes. Behind her he spotted the dress she’d been wearing draped across the corner of the bed he’d slept on a few times when Rick’s renovation projects had run late into the night.
He assembled the clues. “The master bedroom is downstairs.”
Her gaze flicked away then returned—evasive, like her son’s. “I can hear the children better up here.”
“What happened to that fancy monitor I gave you when Belle was born? Camera, sound and the whole deal?”
She shifted, drawing his attention to her legs. He hoisted his gaze north. “I’d have to come up anyway if they needed me during the night. It’s easier not to have to race up the stairs when I’m groggy.”
She no longer slept in the downstairs master suite she’d shared with Rick. “When did the move take place?”
“Does it matter, Brandon? We have work to do. Belle’s room will probably take several coats...unless you’re not up to it.”
A challenge to distract him. He recognized the technique but followed Hannah into Belle’s room without comment. The six-year-old stood in front of an easel with a paint-by-number set attached. “What’s that?”
