Addicted to Love (8 page)

“Of course you do, Giada,” he continued, his eyes narrowing. “Just what in the hell is your beef with me?”

“Other than the fact you’re a narcissistic drama king who thinks the entire town revolves around him?”

“That wounds me deeply,” he said, and splayed a hand over his chest, but the expression on his face told her he had the hide of a rhino. “Everything I do is for the benefit of this town.”

“Ah,” she said. “A self-delusional, narcissistic drama king.”

Kelvin surprised her by throwing back his head and letting out a roar of laughter.

“What’s so damned funny?” She glared.

“You,” he said. “You look so feisty with your hands cocked and your knees bent like you’re gonna take a swing at me.”

“That’s funny?”

“I’m more than twice your size.”

“And that’s something to brag about? You should look into Lean Cuisine. The baked chicken is quite tasty.”

“I’m big all over.” He wriggled his eyebrows, his innuendo clear.

Refusing to rise to the bait, Giada bit down on her tongue.

“You know,” he said, “you and I could become friends.”

“Not in this lifetime.”

“Or we could skip the friendship and go straight to lovers.” His eyes drilled into hers. There was no missing the sexual interest.

“I’d rather poke my eyes out with a rusty knife.”

“You say that now,” he said, getting to his feet, “but that’s only because I haven’t kissed you yet.”

He moved toward her.

Giada reached for the pepper spray again but was dismayed to find it was not housed in the clip at her waist.

“Looking for this?” He waggled the small spray can in front of her.

“Bastard,” she said through gritted teeth.

“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that if you’re hoping to rile me up,” he said.

Giada glared and tried to stare him down, but he wasn’t going along with it. Instead, he was grinning at her like one of her unruly students. His gaze slid over her warm as hot fudge over homemade vanilla ice cream.

An edgy warm sensation, thrilling and unexpected, rolled through her. She snatched the pepper spray from his hand, stuffed it into the clip, grabbed up her dumbbells, and walked away as fast as she could, while the sound of his wickedly sexual chuckle rang in her ears.

F
OLLOWING A DINNER
filled with an undercurrent of sexual tension that Rachael hoped no one else could detect, she helped Deana wash dishes. Brody was a handsome man, no doubt. But she wasn’t in any position to be thinking romantic thoughts. In fact, ridiculous romantic thoughts were the very things that had landed her in this mess.

Once she and Deana had finished cleaning the kitchen, Maisy begged the three adults to play Chutes and Ladders with her at the dining room table.

When she had been Maisy’s age, Chutes and Ladders had been Rachael’s favorite board game. Her parents had dubbed Sunday family game night when she and her sister, Hannah, were growing up. It was a tradition she’d hoped to continue with her own children. The children she’d dreamed of having with Trace.

Dreams died hard.

Misery pushed into Rachael’s throat and she swallowed back the bitter taste of it as her game piece ended up on a chute and she slid all the way down, landing at the beginning square.

“Ha!” Maisy gloated. “Start over!”

“Maisy,” her mother chided. “Don’t be rude.”

“What?” The child shrugged and tried to look innocent, but ultimately, she was unable to hide her mischievous grin.

“It’s not nice to take joy in the misfortune of others, Missy. Next turn you might be right at the bottom of the chute alongside Rachael.”

That’s me, bottom of the chute. Starting over yet again.

Roll the dice. Take a chance. End up right back where you started. Story of her life. From now on she was finished with rolling the dice, taking chances, starting over. She was tired, discouraged, and fed up with romance.

“Your turn,” Brody said.

“Huh?” She was so wrapped up in thinking about how sexy his forearms looked with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up she hadn’t heard what he said.

She felt the heat of his gaze on her face and her cheeks heated. She rolled the dice without looking over at him, but her cheeks stayed strangely warm. One thing you could say about being back at the beginning, you couldn’t fall down any more chutes. Not until you ventured out from home base, put your heart on the line all over again.

But she was done with putting her heart on the line. It hurt too damned much to have your hopes dashed again and again.

Maisy ended up winning the game. Brody came in second, Deana third, and Rachael a distant fourth. But of course. She’d landed on twice as many chutes as ladders.

Maisy interlaced her fingers, raised her arms, and walked around the room shaking her clasped hands over her head like a cocky, triumphant prizefighter.

Deana rolled her eyes. “Sorry for the poor sportsmanlike conduct,” she apologized to Rachael. “When it comes to competition, Maisy takes after her father.”

“No need to apologize. She’s just passionate about the game,” Rachael said.

“Let’s play again.” Maisy hopped up and down beside the table.

“No way,” her mother replied and tickled her under the rib cage. “The competition is too stiff.”

Maisy giggled.

“Come on, Muffin.” Deana ruffled her daughter’s hair. “It’s time for bed.”

“Aw, Mom, can we please play just one more game?” Maisy pleaded.

“Well,” Brody said and stretched out his long arms. “I’ve had enough ladder climbing for one day.”

Rachael raised her head.

He caught her eye and winked. An inside joke. He was sharing an inside joke with her. A clutch of something dangerous hooked somewhere in the general vicinity of her heart.

Stop it.

But no matter how much she scolded herself, Rachael couldn’t prevent her gaze from taking him in. Brody Carlton wasn’t a man you could easily ignore. She was so busy staring at him, in fact, she barely noticed when Maisy said good night as Deana led her upstairs for her bedtime rituals.

Brody was still dressed in his sheriff’s uniform, looking every inch the public servant, except for the turned-up sleeves. He watched her. She could see him sizing her up in that calculating, sheriff-y way of his.

A shaft of light slanting in from the kitchen threw a shadow over his profile. His hair was the color of maple syrup, his eyes equally as dark. He looked serious, dutiful, manly. On alert, forever on guard.

Rachael’s heart fluttered and she had to dig her fingernails into her palms to remind herself where she was and how she’d gotten here.

He consulted his watch. “It’s nine-thirty. You ready for bed?”

Those words, spoken in his rich, deep, masculine voice, sent perilous mental pictures clicking through her brain. She imagined him leading her upstairs to his bedroom and kissing her with those hot, firm lips as his nimble fingers undressed her. She thought about peeling his shirt over his head, exposing his bare chest, running her fingers along the taut muscular ridges.

“Who, me?” she squeaked.

“It’s a little early, I know,” he said. “But I get up at five every morning.”

“So go on to bed.” She waved a hand. “I’m a night owl.”

“That’s not going to work. You’re my prisoner.”

“And that means . . . ”

“You sleep when I sleep, wake up when I wake up.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Not at all.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.” He gave her a look that sent all the blood rushing to her pelvis.

“Where will I be sleeping?”

“In my bed.”

“What?” The word flew out of Rachael’s mouth in a breathless gasp.

“Don’t look so panic-stricken.” An amused smile curled his lips. He was enjoying teasing her. “I’ll be sleeping on the floor.”

She felt her heart slip and slide right down into her shoes. “No. No way.”

“Those are the rules,” he said. “You’re in my custody. Unless you’d rather go back to the jail.”

“I can’t let you sleep on the floor in your own home,” she said. “I’ll take the floor.”

“Hey, when I was in Iraq I dreamed of sleeping on my own floor. It’s a privilege.”

Was he teasing her again?

Part of her — the stupid, starry-eyed part — almost told him they could share the bed
It Happened One Night
–style. Just the thought of reenacting the classic movie made her heart race with romantic notions. Rachael pressed a hand to her forehead. God, she was a hard case. Totally brainwashed by fairy tales and lippy billboards and the fanciful mush of moonlight and violins and grand gestures.

Lies. It was all a pack of lies.

And yet, she yearned for those fairy tales.

What she needed was a support group. Like alcoholics had. Or overeaters or gamblers. She needed help to talk herself out of these crazy romantic cravings.

Brody got up from the table, moving a little stiffly. “My bedroom’s downstairs. You can use the adjoining bathroom. I’ll put out one of my T-shirts for you to sleep in and I keep a new toothbrush in the middle drawer, just in case of unexpected visitors.”

Rachael wondered what that meant. Did he have a lot of unexpected, overnight guests?

What do you care?

Right. She didn’t care. His overnight guests were none of her business.

Thirty minutes later, she emerged from his bathroom, scrubbed clean after her unsavory day in jail. Tomorrow was a new day, an opportunity for a fresh start.

While she’d been in the shower, Brody had made a pallet on the floor near the door, boxing her in. If she had the urge to make an escape, she’d have to do it through the window. But she had no inclination to run. She might as well be here as anywhere. She’d vandalized the sign. She’d take whatever lumps the judge dished out when she was arraigned. She just hoped Jillian would get to Valentine in time to stand in as her lawyer. She didn’t mind facing the music. She just didn’t want to do it alone.

Brody was sitting up with his back against the door. Apparently he’d used another bathroom. His hair looked slightly damp from his shower and he had on a pair of pajamas that thankfully revealed very little of the hard body she knew lurked beneath. Knew because she’d felt his muscles when she’d straddled him after they’d fallen off the ladder together.

She was standing in the doorway between the bedroom and the bathroom wearing his University of Texas T-shirt, the hem skimming just above her knees. She watched his gaze drift slowly over her and she realized the light from the bathroom was shining through the material of the thin cotton shirt. He could see straight through it to the outline of her body beneath.

He moistened his lips.

Rachael gulped. Quickly, she reached back and flipped off the bathroom light. Brody let out an audible breath.

The bedcovers were turned back. He’d done that.

For her.

The thought made her go all soft and squishy inside.

Stop it!

She slid into bed, pulled the sheets up to her neck. Listened to the blood strumming through her ears.

“Lights out,” he said and flicked off the overhead lamp, dousing them in darkness. In the silence, in the inky black of night, she could hear him breathing. It was a rough, deliciously masculine sound that sent chill bumps up her spine.

The bedside clock ticked, counting off the seconds until dawn. The pillow smelled of fabric softener, Egyptian cotton, and Brody. The mattress was neither too soft nor too firm. It was just right. She rolled over onto her side. The box springs squeaked.

Brody coughed.

Was he as aware of her as she was of him?

The silence elongated. Awareness stretched from her to him and back again. Then quietly, unexpectedly, he said, “I have a question for you.”

“What’s that?”

She couldn’t help wondering if he was going to ask her about Trace. Why she’d been foolish enough to get engaged to a man who obviously did not love her. She hoped he didn’t ask that. She didn’t have an answer for it other than she’d been swept away on fairy-tale promises and foolish romantic ideals.

“How’d you get on top of the billboard?”

“Oh, that.” Rachael laughed, relieved he hadn’t asked her about Trace. “I climbed on top of the boxcar.”

“How’d you get on top of the boxcar?”

“I climbed on the roof of my VW.”

“The boxcar is parked that close to the sign?”

“I had to do a bit of jumping,” she admitted.

“In a wedding dress?”

“I was pretty determined,” she said.

“Carrying a can of black paint?”

“The paint can was on the ground attached to a rope. I had the other end of the rope in my hand. When I got to the billboard, I just hauled the paint up.”

“You’d thought it out.”

“I had a four-hundred-mile drive to put it all together.”

“You were determined.” Was that admiration she heard in his voice?

“That sign represents all that’s wrong with Valentine.” She rolled onto her back again, tucked her palms underneath her head, and stared up at the ceiling. “It symbolizes the wreck I’ve made of my life due to all the wrong values and starry-eyed beliefs this town instilled in me.”

“You sure this isn’t just a stress reaction to getting dumped and finding out your parents are getting divorced?”

“It’s more than that.”

“How are you feeling about your parents’ divorce?”

Rachael took a deep breath. Good question. What was she feeling? She lay there letting the emotions flow over her—betrayal, sadness, guilt. Yes, guilt. She couldn’t help thinking that somehow this was all her fault. She should have recognized that all was not right in her parents’ marriage. She should have done something, said something. She should have been more aware of what was going on, not been so self-absorbed.

“Don’t you think you’re throwing the baby out with the bathwater?” Brody asked. “Romance is what kept this town alive after the oil dried up. There wouldn’t be a Valentine without it.”

“It might have been a bit rash,” she admitted. “But a bold statement needed to be made. Someone has to take a stand. A balance must be struck.”