96 Hours (7 page)

Brian Caldwell thought that maybe it was time to stop being a decent guy. After all, what had that gotten him? A cheating wife and a one-bedroom apartment, that’s what. He’d been married to Carly for almost five years and she’d been unfaithful for at least three of them. He’d spent many, many months torturing himself by trying to figure out if there’d been more than the four affairs he knew about until finally his buddy Rafe smacked him upside the head. Literally.

“Bri. Enough, dude. Seriously. Let the bitch go. She took five years of your life, man, don’t give her any more. Pull yourself together. Take a trip or something. Be a playboy for a few weeks. Find some tail and fuck your brains out. It’s the best way to get through this kind of thing.”

Rafe would know; he was on wife number three and only thirty-five. Brian loved the guy, but the last thing in the world he wanted to be was Rafe. Still, there was something to be said about sex with no commitments. He wasn’t really that kind of guy; he liked having just one woman and being that one woman’s one man, but he had needed to cut loose, at least for a while. Get his mojo back, restore his confidence, which Carly had shaken in a bad way. So he’d taken Rafe’s advice and planned himself a three-week tour of Europe and it had been worth it. Anna Maria waitressed in a restaurant in Rome and Isabelle ran a bookstore outside of Paris. Each of them found his American accent enchanting, each of them rocked his world, and neither of them wanted any strings. It was the perfect scenario. Twice. He had no idea how he’d gotten so lucky, but he was about to return home a new man—or that had been the plan anyway. He’d wanted to be able to tell Carly to kiss his ass, but with all that had happened, a big part of him just wanted to be with her, to stand next to her and to hold her hand and to be outraged together, to mourn their fellow Americans. The rest of him thought, “Screw her.”

Now he wondered if he’d ever get back into America.

He still couldn’t believe it had happened. Fucking Middle Easterners. He never understood why the United States tried to bring peace to that part of the world. They obviously didn’t want it. Leave them alone and let them wipe each other off the face of the planet, that would be the best solution. But now they’d struck on American soil, the bastards. Who did they think they were? Well, that was the worst move they could have made, killing thousands of Americans. They were going to be sorry. You don’t go poking a bull unless you want to get gored by the horns, buddy. Simple fact of life.

Pulling his thoughts away from the mess back home, Brian focused on the present, specifically on those in the car with him. Michael seemed like a good guy. He was from somewhere outside of London and was traveling for business—on his way to Texas for a meeting, believe it or not. He was quiet and rather polite, though when you least expected it he’d toss in a zinger that left you blinking, wondering if he’d actually said what you thought he had. Abby was awesome already and he’d known the girl for only half an hour. She was charming, funny, and very friendly—not to mention hot. All that dark hair, the dark lashes, the dark brows and then those blue eyes. How could you not fall into those? Combined with the tall, lean body and killer smile, Abby made one hell of a package. Unfortunately, he wasn’t her type; she’d made that pretty clear when she told him about her last breakup—with a girl—hoping to make him feel better. But hell, that didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. He liked her. She was energetic and fun to talk to. Erica was much harder to read. She wasn’t just quiet, she seemed to be inside her own head, not paying a lot of attention to those around her. The way her eyebrows dipped and formed a V just above the bridge of her nose told him she was always thinking. The suit told him she was on some kind of business trip. The way she sat in the car all tucked into herself against the door told him she didn’t feel like having a conversation. She was just as hot as Abby (he had to admit the first time he’d noticed her had been in the airport the day before and that was because of her killer ass), but in a much cooler, much more unreachable kind of way. He suspected that she’d present a very large challenge to anybody who set his sights on her and wondered if he was up for it. Something to think about anyway.

“So, Tim,” he asked. “What do you do when you’re not carting around stranded airline passengers?”

“And bringing them to your house,” Abby added with a grin.

Tim MacDougal chuckled from behind the wheel. He was a robust-looking man of average height and solidly built. Red-gold hair was losing the fight to silver and his ruddy complexion was tinted a light pink as if he was continuously blushing. Like his wife, kindness radiated off him in waves.

“I’m a high school English teacher,” he said proudly.

“Did you take the day off?” Brian asked.

“Oh, no. School’s closed for the time being. They’ve got more of you folks housed in the gymnasium and the cafeteria.”

Brian shook his head. “I forget that there were other planes.”

A couple moments later, two tractor trailers rumbled by them, heading into town.

“Looks like food,” Abby observed, following the trucks as they passed, watching them out the back window.

“They’re using the hockey rink as a giant refrigerator,” Tim told them.

“Brilliant,” Abby whispered in awe. She turned back around, her thigh pressed tightly against Erica’s, whose gaze hadn’t left the window since they began the ride. Again, Abby wondered what was going on in that beautiful head, but knew better than to ask. Erica obviously wasn’t the kind of woman who thought about effect before saying what was on her mind, so Abby had decided to think twice before asking. Damn if the girl wasn’t a lot of freaking work.

Not long after that, they pulled into the driveway of a modest, white, two-story house on a quiet street. The landscaping was simple and neat, pots of red geraniums adding splashes of color along the front walk and at the side door. The five of them poured out of the car and Tim popped the trunk so they could retrieve their belongings. One by one, they followed him into the house.

The MacDougals weren’t rich, but they were happy and they took pride in their home. That much was obvious as soon the four guests set foot in the cheerful red, white, and yellow kitchen. Everything about it was bright, sunny, and inviting. Abby glanced at Brian and read the homesickness that was written all over his face, the sense of longing for his old life. Her heart ached for him and she patted him absently on the arm, hoping to offer comfort.

The vividness of the kitchen gave way to more relaxed and warm muted greens and gentle ivories as they followed Tim, single file, through the house and up the stairs.

“We’ve got two spare bedrooms up here and a guest bathroom,” he told them. “You two guys can fight over who gets which room.” Either one was a far better option than a cot at the Lions Club. Brian gave a nod of his head and a gesture toward Michael, respectfully allowing him to choose, then dropped his duffel on the twin bed in the second room and smiled at Abby. Tim gave them a quick tour of the bathroom and the location of clean towels, then said, “Ladies, follow me.”

Back down the steps and through the kitchen they went, where Tim opened the door to the basement.

“When our daughter, Kate, turned sixteen, she told us she felt like she needed more independence.” He rolled his eyes good-naturedly to show what he’d thought of that. “So, we converted the basement for her. Corinne and I called it the Inner Sanctum.” With the chuckle that Abby was beginning to think of as his trademark, he hit the light switch and led the way down.

The MacDougal’s basement was like a studio apartment minus the kitchen. Spacious and surprisingly bright, it boasted a wall of books, a treadmill off to one side, and its own full bath. A small sitting area with a loveseat, a chair, and a television was tucked into a corner. Kate MacDougal had been one lucky teenage girl—one who apparently liked the color peach. The walls looked creamy smooth and sweet, like sorbet, and Abby was tempted to lick one, like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory. A thick, rich cream carpet blanketed the floor and begged for bare feet, for wiggling toes. Cream and peach striped the shower curtain that was partially visible through the bathroom doorway and exactly matched the pillowy down comforter that covered the one queen-sized bed in the room.

“Yoo hoo!” Corinne’s voice was sing-songy and cheerful, like everything else about the woman. She came down the stairs and stood next to her husband, a hopeful grin on her round face. “Everything look all right?”

“This is awesome,” Abby said.

“Well, I didn’t think the guys would appreciate sharing a bed, but you two are . . . friends, so I hope this is okay.”

“We’re not friends,” Erica said.

“Oh,” Corinne said. “I just assumed.” Her ever-present smile faltered.

“It’s fine. It’s great,” Abby said, willing her thanks to show on her face. “Please. Thank you so much for your generosity. You and Tim have been so amazing.” She turned to Erica. “Haven’t they?”

Erica blinked. “Yes. Absolutely. Thank you.”

Corinne looked uncertain, but said, “I’m going to make an early dinner. I imagine you can all use a decent meal at this point. Three o’clock in the dining room. Everybody okay with pork chops? You two aren’t vegetarians, are you?”

“I’m not,” Abby replied, looking toward Erica.

“No.” Erica shook her head. “Pork is fine.”

“Terrific. I’ll go tell the boys, then.”

A couple quick gestures toward the linens and then Corinne and Tim took their leave, waving off Abby’s continued thanks.

When they were out of earshot, Abby turned to Erica. “Are you always such a bitch?”

Surprise registered on Erica’s face. “Excuse me?”

“They’re being so nice. They’re giving us a place to stay. You could try to at least pretend to be grateful. Jesus.” She dropped her backpack and Walmart bag on the floor and looked around. It wasn’t long before Erica’s silence made her feel bad and she felt the need to fill it. “Sure beats the hell out of the Lions Club, huh?”

“Yeah. I suppose it does.” Erica’s eyes seemed drawn to the bed.

“What’s the matter now?”

“Nothing. There’s just, there’s only one bed.”

“Yep. But it’s pretty big.” Abby scratched under the rubber band in her hair, studied Erica, and barely kept from rolling her eyes.
Okay, time to mess with the Little Princess.
“Are you worried that I might attack you in the middle of the night? Try to have my way with you?” She waggled her eyebrows lasciviously.

Erica’s head snapped around. “What? No. No, of course not.”

“Ah. I see. You’re worried that you might attack me.”

“
What?
” Erica narrowed her blue eyes and a little anger twinkled around the edges. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Hey, I just call ’em like I see ’em.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You don’t know anything about me.”

“No, I don’t know a lot about you, but I’d bet my last dime you don’t have a boyfriend or a husband at home. Maybe a girlfriend or a wife, but not a boyfriend or a husband. No.”

Erica stood for several seconds with her mouth hanging open in disbelief, the expression so comical it made Abby bark out a laugh.

“Oh, please. Don’t look so shocked. You pinged my gaydar the second I saw you in the airport.”

Still at a loss for words, Erica just shook her head.

Abby rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. There are plenty of extra blankets in that drawer Corinne pointed out. You can have the bed. I’ll be just fine on the loveseat.”

“What—” Erica cleared her throat. “What caused the pinging?” At Abby’s squint, she said, “I’m curious as to why you think you can label me so easily.”

With a shrug—and trying hard to hide a smirk of victory—Abby explained her reasoning. “Straight women love their clothes and heels, their makeup and pretty hairstyles.
Love
them. You don’t. You like them okay, but you don’t love them. That was my first clue.”

“Well, that’s a gross overgeneralization.”

“And yet, totally true.”

“Hey, I paid a lot of money for this suit and these shoes.” Erica pulled her heels out of her bag and held them up as if they were the key evidence in a murder trial. “And I look damn good in them.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t nice, that they weren’t expensive. And I didn’t say you don’t look
fabulous
in them. I said you don’t love them. You’re a little uncomfortable in them and some of us can see that. It’s no big deal. I hate them, too.”

“I don’t hate them.” Indignation crept into Erica’s voice, into her face, etching lines across her forehead.

“Okay. Okay.” Abby held up her hands in surrender. “Whatever.”

“What was the other one?”

“What?”

“You said my clothes were your first clue. What was the other one?”

“In the airport, you never once checked out a guy. And there were a lot of them there, but you never showed even an ounce of interest. Not once.”

“How would you know that? You were busy chatting up every person with a pulse.”

“And that was my third clue.” Abby’s victorious grin spread into a full-blown smile. “While you were pinging
my
gaydar, I was pinging
yours.”