Beth Ciotta - Anything but Love

“No. It’s not that.”

“Stop thinking the worst.”

“I’m not…” She shook off the lie. “I can’t help it.”

“Think about something else. Tell me what’s up between you and your mom. Why are you on bad terms? What’s up with her husband?”

“I don’t have the energy.”

“All right then I’ll talk. Back in Bel Air, you asked about my family. How about I bring you up to speed?”

Weary, queasy, she sighed and relaxed against the leather seat. “Okay.”

“You know about Gram and Chloe’s café, Moose-a-lotta. It caught on like wildfire. Aside from themselves, they now have a staff of five. Chloe and Dev have been living together now for almost five months. She still hasn’t agreed to a wedding date, which drives my brother crazy, but she’s got some sort of superstition thing going on with her pregnancy and his past.”

Rae swallowed. “Chloe must be about six months along now.”

“Mmm.”

“And Monica’s expecting now, too. Sam told me. I’m so thrilled for her.”

“Everyone’s thrilled. Happened when Leo took her to Paris as a way of resparking their marriage.”

“And in the process they made a baby. Twins. How romantic.”

“You know Leo. Not a hearts-and-poetry guy, but yeah. What you said. Speaking of happy endings,” Luke said, skating over baby talk. “Rocky and Jayce are getting married—day after Valentine’s Day—and Gram and Vince are living together in Vince’s house. Daisy’s still copping to the ‘just friends’ living together for companionship thing. No one believes it, but no one pushes. Especially family.” He frowned. “Who wants to think about their grandma getting it on? Not me.”

Rae smiled a little. “Understandable.” She thought about Daisy Monroe, a feisty eccentric, and Vincent, the mild-mannered operator of Oslow’s General Store. They couldn’t be more opposite, yet somehow they clicked.

“Did you know my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer?”

Rae blinked. “What? No.”

“Thought Rocky might have mentioned. Or Sam.”

“No. No one…” She tried to sit straighter and failed. She did, however, home in on Luke’s expression and tone. “How is he?”

“Recovering. Thank God. The proud bastard kept it to himself. Given he’s a workaholic, we all thought it was fishy when he retired early to move down to Florida with Mom. Turns out there’s a specialist down there. Dad underwent radical treatment and, though it wasn’t easy, he’s beating it. Dev found out first and finally let Rocky and I in on the news not long after you left.”

He flexed his hands on the wheel. “They came up for Christmas. Dad looked thin and worn but he never complained and declared the topic off-limits. Mom seemed in good spirits, but a little twitchy. It was hard seeing them like that. Thinking how they’d weathered the worst part alone. Pisses me off just thinking about it.”

“I’m sure your dad had his children’s best interest at heart. Withholding as a way of shielding.”

“I’m a big boy, Rae. I may have a carefree approach to life but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of handling hard truths and challenging situations.”

Rae’s pulse kicked. Was he still talking about his dad?

“I just want you to know, I’m here for you.” He glanced over. “And the baby.”

It wasn’t a formal commitment. Certainly not a declaration of love. More like an offer of friendship. She didn’t know what to make of it. Or Luke. Every time she got a whiff of his devotion to family, her insides went all squishy. “You don’t know how lucky you are, Luke. Being part of a big nurturing family.”

“Not all sunshine and roses, trust me.”

She’d take it, thorns and all. Squeezing back tears, Rae palmed her stomach. “This baby is my family.”

He reached over and placed his hand on hers. “Mine, too.”

The Rothwell Farm.

It had taken less than three minutes to drive from the intersection of Swamp and Fox to the property now owned by Harper Day. Tucked away in a portion of the woods and butted up against a now-barren cornfield covered with snow, the two-story farmhouse looked nothing like the last time Sam had seen it—which had been almost a year ago.

Beside him Harper yammered on her phone. She hadn’t shut up since he’d buckled her into his truck, only now she was arguing with someone at her PR firm—not that he was paying attention. He could care less about some B-list celebrity bailing on rehab. Why would anyone care?

After parking, he swung out of the cab, desperate for a breath of fresh air. Harper’s perfume had been doing a number on him, a sexy scent that danced up his nostrils and shimmied through his blood. Too bad she was so damned annoying. She had to be hopelessly single. He couldn’t imagine any man withstanding her shallow preoccupation with celebrities, not to mention the incessant phone chatter. When he opened the passenger door she was still at it. He tuned her out and focused on the ground and the house as they carefully navigated her poorly shoveled walkway.

Sam had been intrigued by this property ever since he was a kid. At first, because of the haunted history. Later, because of the house itself. Originally built in 1880, even subsequent renovations hadn’t diminished its charm. The last time he’d been here, the place had been abandoned. Again. The roof had been minus random shingles and the gray clapboard siding had been faded and cracked. Since acquiring the property, Harper had had the roof replaced and the exterior painted—federal blue with snow white trim. Pleasantly historic. The floor of the deep porch that ran the length of the house had been stained red. A bold touch that had Sam itching to detail the stark white eaves with a splash of color. He wondered if Harper would be open to suggestions. Although that would entail spending more time here. With her. Couldn’t say he was up for that.

As impressed as he’d been with the exterior renovations, the interior was a different matter. The walls and floors were bare. Furnishings were a step below sparse. Sam took it all in, holding his tongue as he followed Harper through one unfinished room after another. Rocky had been working on this project since November, yet there was barely any evidence of her presence.

They came to the stairway leading to the second floor. Still talking on the phone, Harper paused, examined the clump of tissues she’d been holding to her head then stuffed them in her pocket and started climbing. Sam assumed the woman wanted him to follow. She didn’t wave him off or ask him to wait. Then again she was so damned focused on her call, maybe she’d forgotten he was even there.

As they ascended to the second floor he mentally catalogued everything in need of—what were Rocky’s words? Oh, yeah. “A little work.” For one, the stairway needed an overhaul. That entailed ripping up worn carpet, sanding and staining the steps, replacing the balusters, handrail, newel post, and newel. At present, this main stairway was not only butt-ugly but a safety hazard.

“Whatever, Cecelia,” Harper said into her phone. “I have to go. What? No, I didn’t forget … I’m on it. I will. I have to go.” She signed off as they breached the last step. “I forgot, dammit.” She spun around, nearly knocking Sam back down the stairs.

He rooted himself, rooted her.

They were close enough to kiss. Yeah, boy, if he angled in, that lush mouth would be his for the taking. His heart pumped like a mother. Lust ravaged his calm. Casual sex wasn’t his style. Something told him it was hers, though.

Damn.

“I need a ride into town,” she said with a manipulative smile and a pat to his chest. “That’s where I was headed when I wrecked. My cable’s out and I have to watch a show that’s airing at noon. I had dinner at the Sugar Shack the other night and there were plasmas hanging above the bar. I thought…” She faltered and frowned. “Is my lipstick smeared or something?”

“No.”

“Then why are you are staring at my mouth?”

“It’s a mouth worth staring at.”

“Was that a come on?”

“A compliment.” An observance he should have kept to himself. An observance that knocked her silent.

Miracle of miracles.

It was one of those moments when clocks stopped and time froze. When heartbeats were audible and skin prickled. Sam hadn’t experienced anything like this in a long while. He should’ve been thrilled. He wasn’t.

She stepped back, breaking the connection, angling her head and studying Sam as if seeing him for the first time. “What’s a man like you—”

“What kind of man is that?”

“The kind who could take on an action star’s role.” She eyed him like a prized bull. “If a spot opens in the Avengers or Expendables, I’ve got their man. So what’s a Rambo like you doing with tissues in his pocket? The soft lotion-y kind, no less?”

“I’ve got two young kids. Tissues are mandatory.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t do kids.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t strike me as maternal.”

“What do I strike you as?”

Sex on a stick. Self-involved. Manipulator. Control freak. “Career oriented.”

“Funny, but that sounded like an insult.” She smirked. “So are you driving me into town or what?”

Sam resisted the urge to haul her into his arms and kiss her senseless. What the hell was wrong with him? “I’m not driving you anywhere until we clean that head wound. I guess that qualifies as ‘or what.’”

“I guess it does.” Looking irritated now, Harper turned on her heel and headed down the hall. “Fine. Follow me. I’ve got some peroxide and Band-Aids … Rocky said you’re handy. Does that extend to electronics? Maybe you can determine what’s wrong with my cable. When I called, those idiots said they’d be here between nine and five. Hello? Anything after eleven thirty is too late.”

“I’ll take a look.”

Ignoring her sexy figure as she peeled off her coat, Sam focused on where she was heading. As a kid he’d sneaked into this house with his cousins during the numerous times it had been abandoned. They crept though every room, recanting the haunted tale of Mary Rothwell, one of the original Cupcake Lovers, a woman who, according to legend, had died of a broken heart. Exploring the second floor had been especially creepy because the master bedroom, the room where Mary had spent her last years staring out the window and pining for her MIA husband, the room where she’d died, was located at the end of this hall. Sam was more than a little surprised when Harper pushed open that very door, revealing the one and only room in the house that was totally and beautifully furnished and decorated.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said then ducked into a connecting bathroom.

Sam did a quick sweep of the spacious room. A combination bedroom, office, and gym. He noted the array of fitness equipment, the twenty-inch plasma screen, laptop, copy/fax machine. State-of-the-art. High-energy. A techno-freak’s wet dream.

Considering the ultramodern equipment, one would expect contemporary furnishings and bold accents. Instead, there was a softer retro look. Coordinating muted colors of lavender and green. A plush, solid-colored area rug. A floral-pattered sofa. An antique mahogany bedroom set. An antique desk. The paintings on the wall, the knickknacks, the furnishings … the entire vibe was reminiscent of the WWII era, the decade in which Mary and Captain Joseph Rothwell had made this house their home.

Odd that Rocky hadn’t mentioned restoring this room to how it would have looked when the Rothwells lived here. Because, hell, this was creepy.

Harper stepped out of the bathroom and Sam’s senses spiked. Dressed in a chic dress and black leggings, she looked equally at home amid the high-tech media equipment and retro 1940s décor. In that moment, Sam sensed a mysterious duality to Harper Day.

“Since purchasing this place, I’ve only visited a few times,” she said while handing Sam a medical kit. “I prefer living on property during renovations as opposed to a hotel. So I picked a space and made it my own.”

“You’ve got a thing for vintage Americana?”

“Not really. But in this case, it felt right. I like what Rocky did. Don’t you?’

“Sure.” He perched next to her on the small sofa, damning the intoxicating effects of her exotic perfume.

Her phone blipped and she shifted her focus, reading and texting. Reading and texting.

Sam opened the kit, soaked a cotton ball with peroxide then attended the scabbing bump near Harper’s temple. He shook off a wave of déjà vu. He’d tended bumps and scratches and much worse in his lifetime. Of course, he’d done this before.