Читать книгу Nora's Guy Next Door - Jo McNally - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

ASHER PEYTON WAS lost in the process of staining the cherry sideboard in the work area of his shop, rubbing the finish to a satin sheen. Back and forth he went with the ball of cheesecloth, working in long strokes with firm pressure. It was a task that took a lot of time and very little thought. Clapton’s bluesy guitar was coming through the speakers mounted on the wall, and Asher was totally in The Zone, focused only on the fine grain of the wood coming to life under his fingers. Until a car alarm went off outside.

At first he figured someone set off their alarm by mistake, but when it kept going, he tossed the finishing cloth onto the workbench in disgust and grabbed his lukewarm cup of coffee. He walked to the plate glass window at the front of his shop to see what was going on.

There was a tiny red Mini Cooper nudged up against a big Cadillac right in front of his shop. Whoever owned the Caddy had to know they’d blocked that little car in completely, since their car was halfway into the street. An older couple came running out of Cathy’s shop, waving their arms all over the place like idiots.

Asher took a sip of coffee and watched in amusement as it took three tries for the guy to silence the alarm with his key fob. From all the yelling, you’d think the red car just totaled their gas hog instead of barely bumping it. The door of the red car opened slowly, and he caught a glimpse of pink.

Of all the rotten luck. It was that nosy little brunette from the grocery store. The one with the sweet accent and the compulsion to save people. The Fixer.

She got out of the car and faced Mr. and Mrs. Cadillac with a tight smile. Her chin-length hair was tucked behind her ears, revealing bright spots of rosy red high on her cheeks. A small crowd was gathering—the joy of small-town life. Asher drained his coffee. The Fixer was having one hell of a day. First he’d barked at her in the store, and now this. He started to turn away. Her little parking drama was none of his business, and he had work to do. Then he heard Cadillac Man yelling.

“Did you not see my car sitting right there? That must be a dye job on your hair, ’cuz you’d have to be a blonde to be this stupid...”

His wife tugged at his coat sleeve, cell phone in hand. “Should I call the cops, Herbie?”

Oh, hell, the last thing Deputy Sheriff Dan Adams needed was to get called to Main Street to deal with this nonsense. Before he could stop himself, Asher was outside. He glanced at the bumpers to confirm there wasn’t so much as a scratch on either car. The Fixer had rocked the Caddy just enough to set off the alarm, but not enough to do any damage.

“Okay, folks, let’s all calm down, okay?” He stepped forward and faced the older man, forcing him to look up to meet Asher’s eyes. The considerable difference in their size and age wasn’t lost on the guy. Good. “Sir, there’s no harm done to your car. Your parking job didn’t leave the lady much room to maneuver. Why don’t you just pull out, and then she’ll be able to leave, too?” And Asher could get back inside his quiet shop, away from all these curious faces.

The Fixer was handing her insurance card to the fur-clad wife while babbling at the speed of light.

“I’m terribly sorry, but really, there appears to be no damage, except to my pride, of course.” She forced a laugh, but it fell flat. “Feel free to write down my insurance information, though I’m sure you won’t need...”

The old guy snatched the card from her hand before she could finish, and Asher’s fingers curled into a fist. He didn’t have a lot of patience on a good day, and today was not a good day. He thought about Sheriff Dan and forced himself to relax again as Cadillac Man spoke.

“Your name’s Randall?”

“What? Oh, no. The car belongs to my cousin Amanda Randall.”

“So you don’t even own this car? Maybe we should call the cops.”

She put on a bright, tight smile. “I really don’t think that’s necessary...”

Asher sighed. Miss Fixer was connected to the resort, which meant this jerk was wasting his time trying to cause trouble. He pulled the guy aside as if he was doing him a favor, going so far as to drape his arm casually across the man’s shoulders before digging in firmly with his fingers.

“Here’s the deal. The Randalls own the Gallant Lake Resort. They also own half the waterfront. You’re not winning this one, pal. Just drive away and let it go, okay?” The words were spoken calmly and quietly. It was a technique he’d seen Dan use many times on hotheads, including during their first meeting, when he’d used it on Asher. To the casual observer, everything looked friendly, but Cadillac Man flinched under the pressure of Asher’s grip.

The man nodded and shrugged away from him. “Get in the car, Helen. Maybe if we move, she’ll be able to figure out how to drive.” Helen harrumphed but obeyed, slamming the passenger door shut. The big car pulled away. People were dispersing when he looked to the Fixer. Why hadn’t he noticed how unusual her golden-brown eyes were before now?

“I had that handled, you know.”

Okay. That wasn’t exactly the thanks he’d expected.

“You could have handled two people screaming in your face and calling the cops about driving a car you don’t own? Yeah, I could tell. Great job.”

She squared her shoulders, tipping her chin up. “I had it handled. I was being nice, I was cooperating and I was working on getting them to like me. I didn’t need you to swoop in and save me.”

“The only thing you were handling was getting the sheriff’s office called. And the sheriff’s deputy would have called Blake Randall, and Randall would have rushed down to resolve your little mess. With an audience. In the middle of town. Was that the plan you had in mind?”

The red dots on her cheeks got brighter.

They glared at each other for a heartbeat before something in her seemed to snap. “You know what? I tried to be nice to you in the store, and instead of thanking me, you insulted me and questioned my parenting skills. And now you show up here... Where did you swoop in from, anyway?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Every time she said that word—swoop—her mouth formed a perfect little kiss. Her eyes narrowed and he noticed the hazel sparks for the first time. She had the eyes of a cat, and she was ready to hiss and spit at him.

“You didn’t need my help this morning, and I certainly didn’t need yours now. I had it handled. I’ve got this whole damned day handled.” Her hands gestured wildly. He had a feeling she didn’t get worked up like this often. “Now crawl back to whatever cave you live in and let me get on with my perfectly handled afternoon.”

Sarcasm dripped from her words, and he realized he was smirking at her. A smirk was just one step away from a smile, which meant he was in dangerous territory. But who would have guessed the sweet, Southern Fixer had a backbone?

He reached up to touch the imaginary brim of the hat he wasn’t wearing and backed away, giving his best Clark Gable impression. “Whatever you say, ma’am. Because frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn about your day.”

He turned away, pretty sure he heard her call him an “arrogant jackass” as he walked off. He was glad she couldn’t see the rare smile that brought to his face.

* * *

THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, a smile wasn’t even a glimmer of a possibility for Asher. He stared at his son in disbelief.

“Marry her? Are you out of your freakin’ mind?”

He’d known for a few days that Michael had gotten some girl pregnant, and that was bad enough. But marriage? Michael had been dating this girl, whom he’d met snowboarding, but he’d never brought her by. And now that Asher knew she’d just turned eighteen in April, he understood why.

He turned to face Michael and wondered for the hundredth time when his son had become this tall, bearded adult. Wasn’t it just yesterday Asher had been watching him play in the yard? The memory of two laughing little boys caused its usual slicing pain, and he clenched his jaw tightly to maintain some semblance of control.

“You are not going to marry this girl.”

Michael leaned back against the unfinished sideboard and shook his head with a pitying smile.

“Oh, I’m definitely marrying this girl, Dad. And you are definitely going to become a grandfather in six months. Nothing’s changing those two facts. You just need to decide how much of an ass you’re going to be about it. Or not.”

Michael’s eyes were calm and steady, but Asher could see the tightness in his son’s shoulders and the pulse pounding rapidly on the side of his neck. His own stance probably reflected the same. The tension had been part of every conversation they’d had over the past few years. But there was a difference today. There was something in Michael’s eyes that exuded a confidence he hadn’t shown since his brother’s death.

Too bad Asher would have to squash it.

“Oh, trust me, boy, I’m going to be a major ass about this. This wedding is not happening. You got some girl pregnant—that’s on you. If she insists on having it, you’ll have to support it, which I’m sure was her plan all along. But she is not marrying you.” Asher turned away, staring through the window of his furniture shop to the dark and silent street outside. “You need to finish your degree and start the career you planned.” He looked back and narrowed his eyes. “Have you even told your mother about this? Does your grandfather know?”

Michael rolled his eyes. It was something he’d done since he was a kid. His baby brother always made fun of it, telling Michael he rolled his eyes so much that one day they’d just roll right out of his head. Asher’s teeth gnashed together again, this time sharply enough to make his jaw ache. His eyes landed on the bottle of bourbon on the workbench, and he headed for a shot of painkiller.

“I called Mom this morning. She said she’s too young to have grandchildren.” Michael’s foot kicked softly at a pile of wood shavings on the floor. “She said Grandfather would pay for ‘anything necessary’ to make this ‘problem’ go away.” His fingers made sharp air quotes. “But here’s the thing none of you get.” Michael stood straight, and Asher had to look up just a bit to meet his son’s eyes. It was another unsettling reminder that his son was a man now. “This isn’t a problem to be solved. I love Becky. She’s it for me.”

Asher scrubbed his hand over his face, then took a drink, letting the familiar burn steady him. “I thought marriage was out of style these days—why the big hurry to tie yourself to this girl in some ceremony?” He drained the glass and refilled it.

“What can I say, Dad? I’m in love with an old-fashioned girl.”

Asher snorted. “An old-fashioned girl wouldn’t be pregnant at eighteen. But a clever one would. Can’t you see she’s just using it to get her hooks into...”

“Careful, Dad.” Michael’s expression hardened. “This baby is not an ‘it’ or a ‘problem’ or a scam or anything else but a child. My child.”

Michael, more than anyone, had to know the thought of a child was no comfort to Asher.

“What does her family think of this mess?”

“You’ll find out this weekend. Her mom is in town, and Becky wants to set up a meet-the-parents brunch after I get back from spending turkey day with Mom in LA. I’ll meet her mother and you get to meet Becky.”

“Where’s her father in all this?”

“Killed in a plane crash. The year before Dylan died.”

The furniture shop was usually Asher’s sanctuary from his youngest son’s ghost, but Dylan’s memory was so sharp in here tonight he could almost feel it brushing against his skin. He turned away to hide his grimace, taking another drink.

How could he explain to Michael that parenthood simply wasn’t worth it? How could he explain that putting all your hopes and dreams onto a child meant the risk of losing all those hopes and dreams? What was it the golden-eyed brunette had said in the grocery store that morning? Our children will always be our children... She was wrong. Children weren’t always your children. Sometimes children died. He took one more gulp of liquor to bolster his resolve.

“Count me out.”

“Dad...”

“No.” His voice hardened, and the walls went up around him so solidly he could almost see the bricks stacking. “I won’t be a part of it. You’re too young, and she’s definitely too young. You’re being reckless with your life and with hers.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who had me at twenty-one.”

“But your mother was twenty-three, not a freakin’ teenager. And we didn’t get married for another two years, after I was out of college and had a job.”

Asher could see his younger self standing in the hospital, holding another baby boy in his arms, dreaming all those golden dreams for the boy’s future. Twelve years later he was back in that same hospital, holding his son’s lifeless body, cursing the universe and everyone in it. He drew in a deep breath and forced the words out.

“And look at me now, Michael. The marriage is over and your brother is gone. Gone. Are you ready for that to happen to your baby? Because I don’t think you are.”

Michael’s face paled and his lips pressed thinly together for a moment. He stared long and hard at the glass in Asher’s hand, as if trying to convince himself it was just the booze talking. His son had no idea how deep Asher’s fears ran—right to the marrow of his soul.

Michael ended the conversation by walking away, looking over his shoulder at Asher when he reached the door. “I’ll text you the time for the brunch. If you don’t care about meeting Becky, at least show up for me. I don’t imagine her mom will be too crazy about me considering the circumstances. But I guess you aren’t, either.”

“Michael...” A shot of regret hit Asher’s heart, but his son was gone, the door closing softly behind him. The tinkling of the bell over the door, there to alert him to customers during the day, seemed cruel and mocking in the middle of the night. He turned the lock, then leaned against the door.

For some reason, the Fixer was in his head again, suggesting he and Michael would look back on this time and laugh. He’d liked the cadence of her soft Southern accent and the glimpse of fire she’d shown out in front of his shop, but she couldn’t be more wrong.

This mess would never be a laughing matter.