No Perfect Hero, page 12
She watches me cannily across the floral arrangement in the center of the lace-doilied table. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, dear. What’s the trouble with pondering young Haley’s future?”
“She’s a stranger, Grandma. Her future isn’t really our business.”
My grandmother smiles sheepishly. An award winning act if I ever saw one.
“No, I suppose it’s not,” she says, blotting the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “But it could be.”
“Ah, hell. That was less sledgehammer and more wrecking ball between the eyes.”
Grandma lets out a soft, ladylike laugh. “Really, Warren? Is it so awful of me to notice that the two of you do seem to have quite the spark?”
“Sparks start forest fires around these parts, Grandma. Lucky we’re in the dry season right now, so let’s not tempt fate.”
Flynn snorts a laugh – then my grandmother pins him with another of her flinty looks.
Suddenly, he’s diving into his plate, hunching over it and stuffing his face with mashed potatoes and peas swirled in gravy. But after a few bites, he mumbles, “Warren tried to run the poor thing off.”
Traitor-fuck.
Now Grandma's scorching gaze lands on me, and I feel like a little boy squirming as she says mildly, “Did you now? And why would you run off a paying customer with a little girl?”
I don’t have a good answer.
Not one that'd satisfy her without drawing her into my mess, and I damn sure can’t afford to do that.
This family's lost enough. Grandma couldn't breathe the day two men in uniform showed up at Charming, a 'ma'am, we regret to inform you...' on their lips.
I was overseas, still on a mission. I heard about it later from the same backstabbing drunk who's sitting next to me. He had to rush her to the ER just to keep her from joining Jenna with the Reaper.
Fuck.
I don’t say anything, just lower my eyes to my plate. After several long moments, Grandma continues, “You know, I can’t help wondering where she finds the energy, but then again...I’m low on that myself these days. I fear I may be slowing down, closer to retirement than I'd care to admit.”
I smile faintly. “C'mon. You’re not going to quit on us till you’ve goaded me into something, are you?”
She looks at me innocently. “Isn’t that a grandmother’s job?”
“Yeah. And it’s why I love you. But if you're thinking about passing the torch...do you really think you can trust me to manage this place and the pub and the half-dozen other properties you own and that I don’t even know about?”
“That’s why you need a good woman to ground you,” she replies promptly, and I groan.
I set myself up for that one.
She's not done. “And yet you seem set on ignoring common sense—and ignoring the obvious fact that there’s no ring on her finger.”
“Just because she’s single doesn’t mean...”
Shit. I can’t.
Not just because of Bress, but because of last night.
Because I can’t be another man who breaks Hay’s heart, and sometimes I think that’s all I know how to do.
Break hearts and lose people.
Thirteen Years Ago
“Damn it, War.” Jenna flops down next to me, leaning just a little too hard on my shoulder in that way she has, until she starts to subtly shove me over. I laugh and push her back.
“What're you complaining about now, sis?”
“We’re not being sent on this run together! I know, different units, but they want you on the border, damn near in Pakistan?” She pouts. It’s a strange thing to see, this woman in her desert fatigues with her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun, no makeup on, the perfect image of the soldier...pouting. “Why'd you have to go with the Rangers? They send you all the good places. I thought this was my break, not being stuck in a bunker somewhere crunching numbers on logistics sheets. Borrring.”
“Those numbers are the only reason people stay alive,” I tell her. “You’re keeping me safe, even when we’re not near each other.”
“Yeah?” Her pout turns into a smile, and she hooks her arm in mine, resting her head on my shoulder. “That’s some consolation. But it’s also my job to protect you.”
I lean into her. “That’s funny, I thought it was my job to protect you.”
“It can’t be both?” Eyes bright, she pulls back and offers me her pinky.
“You be careful,” I say more seriously. “The mine runs are pretty quiet, but shit happens when you least expect it in the field.”
“Yeah, yeah. I think I can walk with the guys to escort that big-ass lumbering thinga-ma-jiggie while it pulls up old mines. Easy work.”
More dangerous than it sounds, I think without telling her.
“C’mon, bro. Let’s promise we’ll come back together.”
Snorting, I flash her a sideways look. “Pinky swear? Shouldn't you be doing that with your new boyfriend?”
Her crooked smile sinks. Too damn fast for my liking.
“What's up? Don't tell me he isn't treating you well?”
“Nah, not that. Dennis is lovely. It's him and this other guy, really. Causing some real drama with the unit.”
“Drama?” Folding my arms, I look her up and down. “What the hell kind of drama? Listen, Jenna, if it's putting anybody in danger, that's something you've gotta bring to command. Or you tell me his name and I'll –”
“No.” She stands up, tall and straight, eyes like daggers. “We're not in Heart's Edge no more, War. I can handle myself and I'll handle this too. Probably just my own mind playing tricks on me...”
My lips twist sourly. I wonder what the hell she's getting at, wonder if this 'drama' involves anybody I know. Too bad I know she won't back down and tell when she's looking at me like that.
“So about that pinky promise...”
I eye her crooked pinky and then break into a laugh. “Jesus, girl. We’re not in grade school anymore. Something about it feels like jinxing shit.”
“Don't be silly! A pinky swear's a pinky swear, and you’ve never broken one before.” She stares at me challengingly, that finger held out. “Promise me.”
I look around, embarrassment flushing through me. There’s no one in the bunks but me and her. After a moment, I hiss and hook my pinky in hers. “Fine. I promise. Happy?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You're such a porcupine sometimes. But that's why we all love you.”
When I start pulling back, she only curls her pinky tighter and holds mine, grinning at me fiercely. “Hey, you didn't promise me. You have to say something to make it work.”
I stop cold, tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth.
I can’t explain why this suddenly feels too real, the playful air dissolving to leave me chilled, prickling with premonition. But I decide she's right. I'm being stupid.
So I hook my finger tighter in hers and whisper, “I promise, Jenna. Promise I’ll always come back for you.”
I have three days left.
Three days before that promise becomes a lie.
7
Stray Cat Strut (Haley)
Surprise! It turns out telling college boys they can look, but not touch, leads to some pretty great tips.
It’s like edging.
Except the final gratification is all mine at the end of the night. That's when I fish out the dollar bills tucked in my bra and stuff a little extra in the shared tip jar for the bartender and the other servers.
My starving artist soul doesn't put me above my pride if it means more dollars to blow this town.
This morning I count out the bills over brunch, stacking them by denomination on the kitchen island and swinging my heels against the barstool. It's mostly ones and fives, a couple of tens and twenties, one very generous Benjamin that I’d thought was a mistake until a rather nice older man told me no, keep it, I remind him of his daughter.
Um, I kinda hope not.
No one needs to see their daughter with her ass hanging out of that postage stamp of a skirt I wear to work every night.
But after five nights working at Brody’s, I’m up to four hundred and twenty-seven dollars in tips. More than enough to tide me over until my first paycheck deposits.
I’m not doing half bad.
It’ll definitely help keep me afloat in Heart’s Edge while I save up for the last big jump to Chicago. I may even put out some online job applications in a couple of weeks, so I have some prospects and interviews waiting for me when I hit the Windy City.
Today, though, I think I’ll splurge on a little treat for me and Tara.
It’s my day off, with Wilma informing me that Wednesdays are the slowest and I should get some rest and take in the town. I’d like to spend a little time with my niece, especially when I know what's coming.
I’m going to have to send her home soon.
I may be stuck here, but her parents will be back from Hawaii in about a week and then she’ll be heading home for summer camp, and then back into school. Leaving me and my problems behind.
It’s a little scary to think I might still be in Heart’s Edge by the time Tara’s school year starts up again.
Still in Heart’s Edge. Still half broke. Still dancing around Warren freaking Ford.
I still can’t believe I got drunk in the hot tub with him – and he was naked!
Did he really think I wouldn’t notice?
Then he'd put me to bed. I’m not sure if I’m glad or mortified that he’s apparently been avoiding me ever since.
I mean...who would want to talk to the girl who started blubbering over her ex in front of a smolderingly hot, tattooed, naked brute of a man?
If this was a rom-com flick, I’d be eyeing that smolderingly hot tattooed brute and thinking about the many, many ways he could help me forget my ex before I move on with life and forget them both.
Instead, I’m busy trying to figure out how to ask him if I said anything really embarrassing. I can’t wholly remember the night.
I just remember him carrying me inside and how warm he was.
Like that burn when you lean against sun-warmed wood or leather, and it’s just a little too hot but it’s absolutely perfect, too, and you just want to soak it all in. I didn’t realize he could be so amazing.
So gentle.
He was so sweet with me that night. Tucking me into bed, fetching me clothing, letting me keep my decency and my dignity, making sure I wouldn’t wake up with a crappy hangover.
I still feel his arms around me, how thick and strong they were, how he made me feel like I was floating and lifting away, and it had nothing to do with the beer.
Oh, God.
I can’t actually be letting that dick get under my skin.
Can I?
He was just being a decent human being. Nothing more. He did what anyone would do with some drunk stranger lolling all over them.
It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean we're friends. It surely doesn't mean he’s not a complete and utter jerkface.
“Auntie Hay!”
Tara’s shrill voice rips over the duplex, tearing me from silly thoughts.
My heart drops out and practically goes bouncing across the floor.
I don’t remember standing.
I barely register the barstool nearly toppling over. I just know I’m on my feet, racing out the door like my heels have wings, terror turning my blood into something thin and cold as I race toward the sound of my niece’s screams.
“Tara?! What happened? Baby, what's wrong–”
I draw up short as I see her standing on the edge of the front porch.
She’s fine, I realize with a quick once-over. No bruises, no blood, not even dirtied, but she’s crying over something that's moving in her arms.
Whatever I expect, it isn't her holding that orange tabby like her dear life depends on it, while the cat makes disgruntled, deep rrrring sounds that may mean anything from I’m not feeling so well to I’m about to claw your face off and wear it as a jacket.
Breathlessly, I stumble to a halt, clutching at my chest. “What happened? Tara, what’s wrong?”
Tara sniffles, then rubs her face dry on Mozart’s fur.
“Mozart’s hurt,” she mumbles. “I found him and he was limping!”
Oh, God. She nearly gave me a heart attack, but I can’t help my worry shooting to the poor cat, too.
“Here,” I say, reaching for him. “Let me have a look.”
Reluctantly, Tara hands the beast over.
He’s almost bobcat-sized, far too big for her little grip, but I’m able to cradle him a bit more carefully in my arms. The fact that he lets me is worrisome...
He's always been rather prideful, coming in as if he rules the roost and only deigns to let us humans occupy his space. That he’s so docile today is troubling.
But I figure out why pretty fast. I'm checking his paws, murmuring to him and scratching his belly in between, when I see it.
One paw looks bloodied, like something bit down on it.
Frowning, my heart aches as I gently try to peek at the damage to his paw pad while he makes pained, terribly sad little mewls and flinches away.
“Come on, little guy,” I murmur, coaxing him with nuzzles between his pointed ears. “I just want to look so I can help you.”
“Did...did someone hurt him?” Tara asks, her eyes streaming. “Auntie Hay, who would do that to him?”
A chill runs up my spine because I just don't know.
Whatever did this – person, animal, accident – it isn't good.
“I don’t know, sweetie, but there’s got to be a vet in town. We can ask Ms. Wilma if—”
“You don’t need to ask Wilma anything,” comes a gruff voice at my back. Warren.
I haven’t heard him in days. It's so sudden and startling that the deep rumble of his voice seems to shake through me like an earthquake. I glance back, and he’s leaning out of his doorway, half asleep and rumpled, and it’s not hard to tell he slept in his clothes. Just raising nagging questions like who he is and what he’s doing and what secrets he’s keeping today.
“We have to do something,” I say through clenched teeth. “He's really hurt and I don't know if–”
“Hay.”
For a second, we share a glare. A gaze that says too much. Mostly, it's the same stark plea turning over and over in his midnight-blue pools.
Trust me.
Trust me this time.
Trust me to fix this like I fixed you that night.
I want to. But right now, I can’t think about all the trust issues with this whirlwind mountain man.
Not when there’s a big mewling baby bawling in my arms and Warren steps out on the porch to tug his boots on. “I know just the man. Grab a blanket, wrap the cat up, and let’s go.”
Once again, Warren comes to my rescue.
Well, technically this time it’s Mozart’s rescue, but once again I get to see another side to him.
After a breakneck drive through town with Tara sandwiched between us in the front seat of his truck and Mozart swaddled in her lap like a baby, Warren gently takes the cat from her. I watch him hold the furball in the crook of his arm, murmuring a soothing word or two under his breath as he scratches under the cat’s chin and then elbows open the door to a small, nondescript building.
I’d never have known this was the vet’s office, tucked away between a deli and an abandoned shoe shop with the windows boarded up.
There’s no sign over the door. No decals on the windows. No emergency drop-off marker.
But the instant we step inside, I’m hit with that warm smell of fur that always seems to permeate vet offices, and the sound of various pets barking and mewling and cawing in the back room.
There’s only one other person in the waiting room, a reedy older blonde woman with a golden retriever resting with his head on his paws and the cone of shame around his neck.
She’s texting one-handed, her other hand wrapped around the retriever’s leash. She glances up and offers a sympathetic smile as we come bursting in like a tangled cannonball of human and cat, with Tara practically clinging to Warren’s leg, never taking her eyes off Mozart.
The receptionist starts to lift her head with a chirpy greeting stuck on her lips. She never gets the chance to speak when Warren, without looking up from the cat he’s coddling, belts out, “Doc! Get your ass out here.”
“I see someone’s forgotten the chain of command yet again.” A dry, cool, smoky masculine voice drifts from the back.
A second later that voice's owner emerges, a tall man with an elegance that seems out of place somewhere as earthy as Heart’s Edge. Dark haired, oddly chiseled, sharp and straight as a scalpel in his lab coat.
Adjusting his glasses, green eyes glinting, “Doc” leans over the counter, peering at Mozart, before sighing and thinning his lips. “Again, Warren? This cat must be on the thirtieth of his nine lives by now. Let's bring him back, let me get a better look at him.”
Warren starts to step around the counter – only to stop and look down at Tara, who’s on him like a burr.
“Hey,” he says softly, bending down toward her. “Give Mozart a kiss for luck.”
Tara nods solemnly, then leans in and presses her lips to Mozart’s fuzzy little forehead. The cat looks entirely annoyed, while Warren’s gentle smile is warmly approving as he nods to my niece. “There we go. Now we know he’ll be fine.”
Then he straightens, looking at me, and I realize I’ve been staring at him too long.
Just gawking in flipping awe, trying to figure out who the heck I'm seeing and why he looks so much like Warren Ford, Super Asshole.
My legs won't move. They're petrified in the middle of the room, caught between fear for the cat and this bizarrely tight, warm, wonderful feeling in my chest watching this 'other' Warren.
How gently he handles the cat.
How gently he handles my niece, and that sweet way he smiled for her.
