by Snow, Nicole
Opening the next cupboard door, she replies, “Who doesn’t like garlic?”
“Vampires, duh,” Shane says from the living room.
Leave it to my son to give the best answer.
Gingersnap laughs, and showing her teeth makes her eyes light up. My heart slams something fierce for all the wrong reasons.
This is no time to celebrate. Much less imagine how she’d look sprawled across this counter, that mane of fire-red hair wrapped in my fist, giving me those teeth as I piston between her legs like the world’s about to end.
Goddamn.
I instantly turn away from her, forcing my mind back to earth, carrying the plates around the center island to the table in front of the patio doors.
Whatever else I think, wherever else my half-fried thoughts go, I can’t do this.
Can’t let this get any more complicated, and fixating on how damnably attractive she is could bring me down like Humpty Dumpty.
I take my sweet time setting out the plates and step out of the way when her and Lauren arrive carrying glasses, silverware, and napkins. They’re talking about the book Lauren borrowed, and I hold my tongue, keeping my lewd thoughts and worries over tomorrow to myself.
Still can’t seem to control my eyes.
They won’t stop scanning her. Every contour, every curve, calls to me like a siren. From her bare toes to the top curls of her golden-red hair.
It dawns on me then. Something more awkward than any of this.
She must have a boyfriend.
Anyone with her looks couldn’t possibly be alone. Shit.
That’s reason number ninety-nine this won’t work, isn’t it?
No man with any balls would put up with something like this, a stranger moving in on his chick, no matter how well it pays. If she’s taken, I’ll have to find someone else.
I got the sense from Stork that he didn’t have anyone else lined up. Almost like Gingersnap was a spur of the moment pick.
I noticed it before but didn’t want to believe it then. I’d been too tired, frayed, nearly dead, and just wanted a couple hours of shut-eye so I could think straight again.
Now that I’ve had it, things are clearer, even if they’re also as muddy as quicksand.
Son of a bitch.
I really need this to go off without a hitch. Need to know now if there’ll be complications in her life that make this thing doomed from the start.
The timer I’d set on the stove goes off. I walk around the table, past the island where Gwen and Lauren are busy juicing lemons.
“Is it done?” Shane asks hopefully. “A grizzly’s got nothing on my stomach right now.”
“Just time to put in the bread,” I answer, sliding the pan into the oven. “But go shut off the TV and wash up, Shane. It’ll be ready in about eight minutes.”
“I’ll put the dressing on the salad as soon as Gwen and I finish the lemonade,” Lauren tells me.
Unable to wait any longer, I nod at Lauren as I step up beside Gwen and lean a hand on the granite countertop. “How’d it go?”
She freezes, her eyes flashing to me. I wonder if she’s shocked I’m asking her out in the open like this. Hell, maybe part of me is just as surprised, but I don’t have any choice.
I need to know what’s coming.
Gwen pours the lemon juice out of the bowl into a pitcher. “Just fine, Miller.”
Just fine? I frown.
Her poker face still doesn’t give a hint.
“Did he even answer?” I whisper.
She lifts a brow. Up this close, I notice there’s a short line of delicate freckles along the curve of her high cheekbones. A teasing finish on a face that’d look too good all over my body.
“He answered, all right.” She dumps a cup of sugar into the pitcher and then hands it to Lauren. “Fill it up three quarters of the way full, please. I’ll get the ice.”
I’m frantic now. Whatever game she’s playing, I’m not in the mood. I stop just short of grabbing her wrist, before she can pull away.
“What’d he say?” I ask quietly after Lauren carries the pitcher to the sink. “Are we still on, woman, or what?”
“You’re welcome to stay here for a week. It’s okay.” She doesn’t even blink. Just rattles it off like it’s the fucking weather report, then spins around and pads over to the fridge.
What the hell does that mean, 'okay?' We’re on?
Or Stork’s looking for someone else to fill her shoes before I rip his head off?
I can’t be in limbo like this. I need a wife right now.
I turn, ready to tell her that, but just then the front door opens, and I’ve got another worry.
“Yoo-hoooo, Gwendolyn!” a female voice sings her name, a soft beam of sun clashing with my mood.
I’m not the only one who’s surprised. Gwen whips around, her eyes as big as saucers.
Fuck, what now?
She closes her eyes and her chest heaves reluctantly, drawing in a deep breath.
“Hello, Mother. What brings you by?” she asks, handing me the ice bin in her hurry around the island to escape into the living room.
“Oh, Dylan’s in town, and we’re meeting at the clubhouse. Lord knows I’ve made that man enough money to buy a second home, so the least he can do is buy me dinner at the most expensive place in—Oh.” She sidesteps around Gingersnap, eyes wide. “You have...company, darling? My, my.”
My, my, my ass.
It’s a miracle I’m not completely sneering as this lady gawks at me like a new, exotic beast in the zoo.
She looks like she’s roughly fifty. Draped in what appears to be layers of white cashmere material, the woman has hair that’s several shades darker than Gwen’s, almost a dark burgundy. She’s shorter, too, by more than half a foot, but her eyes and cheeks are as close as a mother’s could be to her daughter’s.
All in all, she’s attractive, for her age. Fit and well-kept and totally unwelcome here.
Realizing I’m still standing like a fool, I have no choice but to smile and nod, considering the fact that her eyes haven’t left me once. “And who might this lovely specimen be, Gwendolyn?”
Gwen turns, looking at me over her shoulder, mouthing an apology. “My company, Mother. This is Miller, and his daughter Lauren, and this—” She waves as Shane walks out of the bathroom. “Is his son, Shane.”
“How lovely!” Her mother clucks, glancing at Gwen, light flashing in her eyes like tinsel. “I’m May, Gwendolyn’s mother.”
“Nice to meet you,” I lie, moving a hand to Lauren’s shoulder as she steps up beside me. I slide the ice bin over to her.
It’s not fun gabbing while our lives are on the line.
Not while I have no idea what Dumbass, Esquire, told Ms. Make Believe.
Not while I’m drawing every breath under the gun, literally and figuratively.
“Hi!” Lauren’s eternally cordial little voice rings out while she’s scooping up ice for the pitcher, snapping me out of my trance.
“Hey, ma’am,” Shane echoes. “Nice to meet ya.”
“Twins?” May’s eyebrows leap up as she glances slowly between Lauren and Shane.
“Sure are,” Gwen tells her. “Now you said you’re meeting Dylan at the clubhouse? Probably smart not to keep him waiting, so if you just want to–”
“Oh, wine and my next contract can wait, dear.” May waves her hand like an empress dismissing a subject. Then, with her eyes on me again, she smiles with the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. “You, I don’t recognize, Miller. Where’d you blow in from?”
“Out West, Mother. Miller and the kids are just staying with me for a few days,” Gwen says, cutting in before I have a new dilemma on my hands.
May’s eyes damn near roll right out of her head. “Staying here? With you? Really now?”
Her face is practically twitching with questions trying to get out. Luckily, the buzzer goes off on the stove, so I’m not sure if Gwen ever gives her a real answer or not. I head straight for the oven.
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“Lauren’s quite the avid reader, Mother,” Gingersnap says, smiling sweetly, trying to change the subject.
May tilts her face sourly but has a syrupy smile for my daughter. “Not my stuff, I hope?”
I pull the scampi and the bread out and set the pans on the stove before turning to see Lauren nodding. “Um, yeah. What stuff?”
“No, surely not, you’re far too young. And somehow I think Big Daddy here wouldn’t like you sneaking anything too terribly grown up.” May nods at me, mischief in her eyes.
“Wait, you write books?” Lauren asks, suddenly far more interested.
May flips one end of her white scarf over her shoulder as she walks closer to the island. “Sometimes I think the books write me. But yes, doll, I’m constantly spinning yarns with damsels in distress on white sand beaches and the men-to-die-for who steal the show.” She winks.
“You’re an author? Like a real life published author? What’s your name?” The excitement in Lauren’s voice goes to eleven.
“M.E. Court,” May says.
The name means nothing to me, but it does to Lauren. She squeals so loud it bounces back off the ceiling.
“Dad, Daddy! You know those books Heather reads? The ones she said I couldn’t borrow, but some of them have been turned into movies that I watched with her and...the Arcadia Island Cove movies, I mean? This is her! She wrote them!”
“Correct,” May says cheerfully. Still looking at me, she smiles. “Don’t worry, daddy dearest. The movies are quite toned down from the scenes in my books to fit the studio’s demands.”
Fuck me upside down.
So, it’s not just a nosy mother across town I have to worry about on top of everything else. But a famous one who must’ve sold millions of books to wind up on the big screen.
Let’s cut the crap. I’m going to slaughter Manny Stork before it’s over. And I think I’m willing to go to prison to make his lying, incompetent carcass pay big time.
“Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe this!” Lauren’s still gushing. No surprise. “Heather would fall right over for a chance to meet you!”
May just smiles like a cat sunning itself. No doubt whatsoever she’s heard it a billion times.
Doesn’t stop Lauren from pressing both hands to her chest. “Me too! This is amazing. Amazing!”
“Whoever this Heather is, tell her she’s welcome to email my site for a signed copy of her favorite book on the house.”
Lauren bites her bottom lip and glances at me before saying, “She was our babysitter before we moved. And wow. Wow. She’ll be ecstatic!”
“What time are you meeting Dylan, Mother?” Gwen cuts in, her tone pointed.
May darts a frown back that asks why she’s trying so very hard to ruin her fun. “Oh, don’t worry about him. He’ll be there when I get there.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m afraid we can’t join you tonight. We’re about to sit down to eat ourselves. Dinner for four.” Gwen folds her arms.
Sweet hell, this woman.
She’s feisty and beautiful and riled. And it’s not lost on me that for now, she’s trying to help.
“Shame, your dinner smells scrumptious. Reminds me of the food trucks I adored on Oahu.” She looks away from me to Gwen. “Curious. Garlic shrimp isn’t your style, Gwendolyn. Have you finally been taking cooking classes?”
“Nope. Miller made dinner tonight.”
May storms over then, grabs Gwen’s arm, and pulls her close without even lowering her voice. “Oh, dear Lord, where did you find this incredible man? All three of them, really? I want details, dearie. Might even make a good sketch for a book.”
Scrunching up her face, Gwen shakes her head, tearing herself away. Her ma pouts while she rubs her head like she’s suddenly got a crippling migraine.
Feeling her pain, I say, “We met through a mutual friend. Not Hawaiian, but I did learn to cook this stuff over there in the Army.”
“I knew it! Well, Miller, it’d be rude to say hello and goodbye without offering you a night off dinner duty, wouldn’t it?”
My eyes shift over to Gwen. The look in her eyes says that headache she’s nursing isn’t just a phantom pain.
Fuck.
I say nothing, just stare at her, waiting for the next thing out of her mouth to hit me like a brick to the face.
Gwen just shakes her head faster and grabs at May’s arm, tugging her firmly toward the door. “Mother! The kids are starving and so am I. I’ll call you tomorrow. Tell Dylan I said hello.”
May walks haltingly beside her, mainly because she doesn’t have a choice, but her neck twists and she cranes her head, still glancing over her shoulder dead at me. “You’ll come to my place for dinner later in the week, and bring those little darlings with you.”
There it is.
Bad turning into worse. But I don’t have the heart to go ballistic when I’m still too busy walking a tight rope.
I remain stock-still. This is Gwen’s call, not mine, and it’s her mother to deal with.
She nudges her mother around the small entryway corner, so I can’t hear what comes next.
Whatever she says must keep the peace. Because May Courtney hardly seems like the kind of woman to back down without raising hell if she doesn’t get her way.
A moment later, May pokes her very smug face around the corner one more time. “Ta-ta, everybody. It was a pleasure meeting you all. See you soon.”
5
More to Chew On (Gwen)
Mother steps outside, finally, and then I shut the door and lean against it.
I use the same weight I would if I was worried a black bear might barge in. At least the bear would have more manners.
Oh, my God! What in blue blazes do I do?
Not just with her and this stupid dinner invitation, but any of this?
Predictably, Manny was no help at all, besides laying on his guilt trip as thick as molasses. He apologized up and down for leaving out the little details, but the fact remains. He doesn’t have anyone else who can help this family.
Family. That’s the part that’s hitting so hard.
A single dude – even one as handsome as Mr. Stormy, Inked, and Mysterious – I could jettison on his butt without much guilt. But with these poor kids, supposedly in grave danger...
What am I thinking? A single man wouldn’t need a pretend wife, a make-believe mother of his children, in order to fool Federal TSA databases to exit the country.
Ugh.
I didn’t fully understand that part until Manny explained it. He says they scan for names, behavioral profiles, criminal backgrounds, or holds of any kind. The system won’t flag a near duplicate entry for a man with kids who have fairly common names. There must be at least a dozen Miller Rushes out there with kids named Shane and Lauren.
And if this Mederva place put some kind of illegal hold on him, it’ll miss it the second our fake passports come up as one big, married, happy family who’ve always lived in Minnesota. The Rush family they’re looking for is from Washington, sans the non-existent wife.
That’s just one of the many fun details Manny left out this morning. He apologized for forgetting that part, too.
Asshat. I’m not stupid. He left it out on purpose to get me to agree to this after he waved his dirty money in my face.
I’m expected to fly to Ireland with them.
Ireland!
A place I’ve always dreamed of visiting one day, but totally not like this. My father was from Cork, a small-time musician who swept Mother off her feet when they were both too young to know what they were doing.
Maybe that’s why Mother refused to ever travel there. She won’t like the idea of me going, either. Much less with a man who could raise the temperature in Hades itself, and no end date.
Actually, can she even know where I’m going? Where we’re going?
Crap, what’s wrong with me? I can’t possibly go to Ireland with them and make my mom’s hair stand on end. Knowing her, she’d probably
have one of her Hollywood people reach out to Scotland Yard or the Irish equivalent to hunt me down.
Why did I think I could ever do this?
“You okay, Gwen?”
I snap open my eyes at Miller’s question. My fake husband leans against the short wall that separates the entryway from the living room. And to be perfectly honest, he looks like he just stepped out of one of my mother’s books.
Awesome.
Just what I need right now. A brutal reminder of how huge and hot he is, and how he’s probably as sick of this stuff as I am.
His dark hair is cut short, still rumpled from his nap. His black shirt hugs his broad chest like a second skin. So do the black jeans, and even in his socks, you could just eat him up. Whipped cream optional.
The worst part is, it’s a normal, almost boring look. How can that be sexy?
Hell if I know, but it is. Something hums in my veins I’ve never felt before, this heated rush that has far too much to do with Mr. Rush and not the adrenaline attack of the past twenty-four hours.
“Gwen?”
I try to nod. My name rolls off his tongue like warm caramel drips down the side of a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
His bright-blue eyes no longer look so tired, so worn out. Now they have a shine to them.
There’s more, too. He’s concerned. Rightfully so.
This guy and his twins are on the lam. That’s got to bother him deeply. Heck, I’m not even him, this isn’t my mess, and it’s not any easier for me.
If only that were true. Because I went and made it my mess when I let Manny talk me into helping Miller Rush twice.
I push off the door, hating how flustered I must look. “I’m fine. Let’s just eat.”
“Hoped you’d say that. It’s ready.”
He doesn’t have to remind me. My entire house has never smelled this good in my life. It pales even compared to the time I tried to cook a whole turkey dinner for Mother and her happy little M.E. Court team. She wound up rushing to my rescue. Turns out my cooking skills are far more impressive in my head.
Maybe I’m dreaming this. An overly handsome, wildly sexy stranger in my house has just cooked up a fabulous meal from my meagerly supplied cupboards. That’s more than a dream.
