Forbidden Fling (Wildwood Book 1) (2 page)

Hellhole.

Ethan smiled. Yep, he liked her better and better by the second.

She pushed those pretty legs into a march toward the bar, and Ethan crossed his arms and set his feet, watching and wondering what would come next. There was no turning back for him now. Not only did he have to know who she was and what that meant for this bar, but he now wanted to know what that meant for
him
. He may not have been in the mood to sweet-talk anyone a few minutes ago, but he was suddenly willing to become Prince Fucking Charming now.

She pounded those spiked heels up the rickety steps to an equally rickety porch as if she wore tennis shoes, then dropped into a crouch and started jimmying the door lock with whatever she’d pulled from the car.

The sight was so absurd, laughter tickled his ribs. His face broke into a grin, but he held a chuckle back. He wanted to see what she did next when she didn’t think anyone was watching. And the view of that sweet ass stretching her little skirt to its limits was admittedly quite enjoyable.

This was definitely the highlight of his day.

The scrape of metal against metal mixed with her disgruntled mutters.

“Can’t see a damn thing . . . place makes my skin crawl . . . stupidest thing I’ve done in a long time . . .”

A tiny crack broke the scrape of metal, and she paused, looking down. “God
dammit
.”

Ethan would bet his next epic brew she’d just broken a nail. But that didn’t keep her from trying again.

He closed the last hundred feet to stand in the circle of light, making sure his feet crunched on the gravel to give her a heads-up. But she was oblivious to everything as she attempted to force the lock.

Another nail snapped in the night. A growl of frustration rolled through the silence. Then she threw her lock pick of choice at the porch, and it bounced with a clank, clank, clank before it settled in the dirt. Ethan got his first good look at the tool: a bottle opener.

A grin broke over his face, but he held his laughter in.

Still crouched, the woman pressed her palms to her eyes and exhaled heavily.

Ethan cleared his throat.

But she was lost in her world of misery. She dropped her hands, leaned her forehead against the bar’s cracked front door, and moaned, “What the
hell
am I doing here?”

He purposely kept his voice level and light when he said, “I was going to ask the same question.”

Her head jerked up, and her gasp cut into the night. She hauled herself upright and spun toward him at the same time—or she tried—but her fitted skirt limited her movement, and one of her spiked heels caught in a gap between the warped porch boards. She teetered, leaning into a fall.

Ethan rushed forward, but before he could reach her, she squealed and threw her arms out, catching herself on a wall. Barely.

He stopped in front of her, unsure what to do. Touching her didn’t seem appropriate, even though he’d have to if he was going to help her out of that awkward position. “Jeez, I’m sorry.”

She turned her head a little, scanning him. “Shit,” she muttered, working to catch her breath. “You scared me.”

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, sure. Perfect. It’s been the goddamned day from hell.” She sighed, dropped her head, then started laughing. A tired laugh edged with hysteria. “And this is just the
perfect
ending.” She turned her head and glanced at him again. A smile tilted her lips even as deep-auburn strands fell from the twist at the back of her head and hung in front of her eyes. “Where did you come from?”

“Uh . . .” He almost didn’t hear the question. God she was breathtaking. “I’m in the warehouse next door. I saw the lights . . .” He set the beers down on the porch. “Let me help you out of this before you break an ankle.”

He stepped closer and held his hands out, testing her acceptance of the idea.

“You’ll miss my Weeble impression,” she said, her demeanor easy, self-deprecating. “And I have to admit—it’s pretty good.”

He grinned and grasped her elbows for support. Her scent drifted to him on her warmth—light, spicy, sensual. Her long, ring-free fingers closed around his forearms, and she turned a little more until she fully faced him. “There you go. Disaster averted.”

She pulled her foot from her heel, then stepped out of the other and sighed. Her body relaxed, and she sat on the top step, laying her skirt-bound knees to the side. Ethan took that as an invitation and sat next to her.

She tilted her head to smile at him, and even though Delaney Hart had never smiled at him before, never talked to him before, hell, as far as he knew, she’d never even
looked
at him before, he could swear he recognized Delaney’s smile.

But it couldn’t be. It was just the shadows and this property playing tricks on his mind. Then a few long, dark wisps from the mass pinned to the back of her head fell into her eyes again, and she flipped them out of her face. The move shot a sting of familiarity through his gut, and he focused on her face again . . .

“Delaney Hart.”
He’d meant to think the words, but now that they were out, he knew they fit, and a trickle of pure joy flowed through his veins and made him laugh. “Damn, I never thought I’d see you in town again.”

A hint of surprise gleamed in her eyes, immediately followed by suspicion. She angled her body toward him a little more, and those dark-blue eyes drilled into his, guarded now. “I never thought I’d be back.”

The same butterflies he’d gotten every time he’d looked at her back then fluttered around his gut now, and he reached for the beers on the top step to fill the nervous space.

Popping the tops, he handed her one. “To nice surprises then.”

She hesitated, scanned the beer, then his face again, and smiled. “You’re the first thing that’s gone right for me all day. So, yes, this is a very nice surprise.”

She took the bottle and squinted at the label. “An IPA?”

“Made it myself.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, un-freaking-able to believe he was sitting here talking to his unrelenting high school crush. A crush who’d turned from a hot young thing into a gorgeous full-fledged woman. “That’s what I do over there at the warehouse. I just came over to check out the lights on the property.”

She glanced in the direction he’d pointed, then returned her gaze to his face, searching again. If his gauge wasn’t too far off, he was pretty sure she liked what she saw. And wasn’t this a thrill? Delaney Hart looking
at
him instead of
through
him for the very first time.

But the fact that she was here, nosing around the bar, smashed his little fantasy, making him realize she still had the power to kill his dreams, the way she’d killed them eight years ago.

TWO

The stress must have warped her brain, because Delaney was seriously crushing on this sexy little welcoming committee of one. And after years of exposure to every kind of man in existence through her many years working in bars and construction, it took something special to interest her.

But the fact that he knew her meant he also knew all her ugly secrets. Secrets that had sent her running from Wildwood to begin with. And her very troubling recent past still weighed heavily on her conscience.

Her gaze automatically darted to the ring finger of his left hand, even though she knew no matter what she found there, it didn’t mean anything. Though the absence of a band or a tan line was a step in the right direction.

“You’re a brewmaster, huh?” she asked.

“Among other things. I may be a little partial,” he said, tapping her freshly opened bottle with his own, “but it’s pretty good.”

He took a drink, and Delaney studied his profile, searching her mind for his identity. She scrolled through a mental list of families with boys her age when she’d lived here, but she couldn’t place him.

She returned her gaze to the simple label. “You need to hire a marketing firm to create a brand.”

Another one of those dynamic grins broke out across his face. The man had a killer smile. “Eventually. Never enough money, you know?”

“Oh, yes. I know.” He was good-looking enough to have rung a few bells in her memory, yet . . . “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Recognize me? I’m not surprised.”

“Sorry. It’s been a long time.”

He nodded but didn’t offer his name. “So what are you doing here? I heard this place was condemned.”

“I’m waiting for my aunt to discuss that very thing. So . . . are you going to tell me who you are?”

He zinged that grin at her again. “Tell me what you think of my beer first.”

Delaney considered his request while scanning his dress shirt, a casual pattern of thin plaid stripes on a white background. The sleeves were rolled up, showing nicely tanned and rugged forearms. His khakis were light, simple, and clean and fit him well. His shoes were some kind of casual work boot.

All in all, he should strike her as a cute, blue-collar guy. Maybe a couple of notches better-looking than average, but nothing that would normally hold her interest. She’d met hundreds, maybe a thousand or more, men like him over the years. But the way his clothes fit hinted at a strong body beneath. And his golden-blond hair was a little too long, his jaw darkened with a day or two worth of golden stubble—creating a sexy combination of symmetry and scruff.

He also owned an unusual kind of confidence. One that marked him as savvy. One that gave him charisma and implied he knew how to handle himself around a woman. One that pulled all Delaney’s nerves to the surface and created the sizzle of attraction along her skin.

And wasn’t that just the last thing she needed? A man in her life? After what she’d been through, she should be giving him a very clear, very cold brush-off. But it had been a really long time since she’d met a guy this relaxed and self-assured, so she sighed and brought the bottle to her nose for a sniff test. The complex, hoppy aroma filled her head. Her first tentative sip coated her tongue with a light floral taste, quickly followed by a bitter hit that mellowed faster than most IPAs. “Mmm.”

He rested his elbows on his knees, his own bottle dangling from his fingers.

She took a deeper drink, let it slide down her throat slower. Then hummed again.

“So?” he asked with the impatience of an eager four-year-old. “What do you think?”

She thought he was damned adorable. She thought she wanted to ask him out for a drink at Patterson’s after she’d walked through the bar with Phoebe. She thought she’d really enjoy a healthy night of sex with a fine male specimen like this one before she faced the task of planning the rest of her life—all over again.

“I’m surprised you’re asking a stranger.” She met his eyes and watched for telltale signs of deceit. “Hasn’t your wife tasted all your beer? Doesn’t she give you feedback?”

Without a millisecond’s pause he shook his head. “No wife.”

“Surely your girlfriend loves—”

“No girlfriend.”

He was just too attractive and too sexy to be single. Of course, there was one other possibility. Slim, but . . . She grinned and lifted her brows in silent question.

“No.” He chuckled. “I’m not gay either.”

She definitely believed that. He threw sexual energy her way like a carnal powerhouse. “Take my opinion with a grain of salt. I stopped for a shot of Sierra Silver before I came.”

“Where in the hell did you get that quality of tequila around here?”

“Patterson’s. I needed a little help finding the nerve to walk onto this property.”

“They’re getting a lot of business since this place shut down.”

“I’m sure the residents of Wildwood are thrilled about that.”

“Most, yes.”

She sipped again, considering. “It’s really different. I can’t compare it to anything exactly. I mean, maybe a little like Sam Adams but, wow, so different. It sort of, okay this is going to sound weird, but it reminds me of the inside of a floral shop. Soft and sweet to begin with, but turning bitter and funky as you near the workroom. Overall, it’s really special, but not something mainstream beer drinkers would eat up.” She cut a look his way, hoping she hadn’t offended him. “You know what I mean?”

Those pretty eyes of his were dancing with pleasure. “Exactly what you mean. You really know your beer.”

“If you know who I am, you know how I grew up. In which case you know that I
should
know my beer. And my vodka, and my rum, and my whiskey . . .”

Rich laughter rolled from his chest, making Delaney smile. “Which is exactly why I’m asking you for your opinion.”

She hadn’t had this kind of easy comfort with a man in a very long time, and after what she’d been through, this felt better than good. It felt amazing. If it weren’t for that damned shadow lurking like a stain on her soul, she would ask him out right now.

“Are you going to tell me who you are now?” she asked.

“Who do you think I am?”

“Another game, huh?”
What the hell?
Phoebe would be here soon anyway. “Okay, but only because you’re so pretty to look at.”

That made him laugh again, and man, she did love the smooth sound of it.

“Let’s see . . .” She narrowed her eyes and scanned his face again. Every time she looked at him she found something new to like. This time it was his light eyes, shining clear green in the dim light. “You’re obviously not a Valencia, a Ruiz, a Washington, or a Chen.”

“You got that right.”

“Just the fact that you’re still sitting here means you can’t be part of the Hayes or Ryan families. Are you a Murphy?”

He shook his head.

“Oh, I know—you’re a Hogan boy.”

“Nope.”

She frowned, her mind toggling between his looks and her memories. “Ward? Bickler? Koller? O’Neil? Buchanan?”

“None of the above.”

“Give me a hint.”

He thought for a second. “We don’t know each other, but we know
of
each other.”

“What kind of lousy hint is that?”

He laughed. “I was a couple of years ahead of you in school.”

She frowned, reassessed the Rolodex in her mind, then shook her head. “Give me another.”

“I had a
wicked
crush on you for-freaking-ever.”

She leaned away, as if the distance would give her perspective. “No way, handsome. I would have remembered you.”

“I wasn’t your type.”

“Ah. Then you must have been a good kid, because my sole purpose in life as a teen was to piss off my father by dating the cream of the crap. I was completely self-absorbed at the time. Consider yourself lucky.”

He glanced toward the driveway. “When’s your aunt coming?”

Her mood dropped a notch. Maybe she’d brought up one memory too many and popped his balloon of interest. “I’m not sure. She’s with her bridge club, and, apparently, she’s winning—”

“Oh, hell.” He turned his gaze back to Delaney. The sight of that pretty smile and those twinkling eyes made her stomach twist and jump. “You could be here all night. Want to get in and look around?”

“Yes, but she has the keys, and as much as I’d love to break a window—or twenty—in this place, I left my bad-girl ways behind when I left town.”

His gaze sharpened, and an almost challenging look came over his expression. “Really.”

Oh, the tequila was tickling her brain. The flirty smile came out of nowhere, as if she had no control over it. “Well, maybe not
all
of them.”

“Thank God. Life is too damn short to waste it being good. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.” His mouth kicked up again, and a definite flare of heat warmed his eyes. “Besides, I saw you trying to jimmy the door.”

She lowered her gaze to the worn wood of the porch. “Oops.”

“With a bottle opener?” he added. “Seriously?”

“Shut up. It’s all I had. I was desperate.”

He laughed. “Then let me get you in.”

“Not if you’re going to break anything. I don’t need trouble with the only member of my family who still talks to me, and I’d like to get her on board with my plow-this-POS-into-the-ground plan, which will be easier if she’s not pissed.”

Something changed in his expression. A sort of comprehensive look of . . . she didn’t know what to call it. Ease? Relief? She was still trying to figure it out when he set his beer down and pushed to his feet. “I love the way you think, beautiful.” Drawing his wallet from his back pocket, he pulled a couple of small sticks from the billfold. “I might be breaking and entering, but I won’t break anything.”

She lifted a brow. “You carry lock-picking equipment in your wallet?”

“A Boy Scout is always prepared.” He grinned down at her. “That was another hint.”

“You were a
Boy Scout
? No wonder you never blipped my radar.”

He turned toward the bar’s front door, and the old wood creaked under his weight. After only a few seconds, a metallic pop sounded, followed by the familiar groan of the door. A sound that transported Delaney back in time and opened an icy vein down the middle of her chest.

Be careful what you wish for.

He turned and offered his hand. With a lump in her throat, Delaney set down her beer and took his hand, but she couldn’t fully appreciate his touch as she got to her feet. Then she glanced at her heels, trying to decide if it was safer with them or without them.

“Probably with them,” he said, reading her mind.

She slipped into her shoes with an almost overwhelming sense of angst rolling inside her now.

“Watch your step.” He glanced at her car—the lights still shone their direction—and his hand firmly wrapped around hers. It was big and rough and warm, and she preferred to think about those rough hands on her body than venturing into a coffin of nightmares. “You probably won’t be able to see too much in this light, so don’t go too far. I’ll wait out here while you look around.”

“Thanks.” The offer of space provided a sliver of relief. She turned a smile on him, holding tight to his hand. “Maybe I can take you out for a drink when we’re done here.”

The heat in his eyes sparked again, but something else clouded his expression. “Hold that thought, beautiful, but don’t be surprised if you change your mind.”

She tilted her head, not sure she’d heard him right. “What?”

“Nothing.” He pulled his hand from hers. “Go on.”

When she focused on the half-open door, a knot of dread tightened at the center of her chest. She blew out a slow breath. Twisted her fingers together. Cleared her throat.

But she couldn’t get her feet to move.

“You don’t have to do this tonight,” Brewmaster said behind her. “You could come back in the morning.”

She shook her head. “Better to just get it over with.”

With determined focus, she approached the door and paused on the threshold. That’s when the stench hit her. Stale alcohol. Corroding wood. Mold. She pressed one hand to the doorjamb and covered her nose and mouth with the other, forcing her feet to take two more steps into the bar. One sweep of the main seating area and the knot in her gut tightened. Everything was so familiar, yet not. The bar had always been as grungy as the customers it attracted, but now it looked decrepit. The ceiling bowed in places; the floor sagged in others. Even the walls seemed cockeyed.

Once her mother had left them, her father had lost all interest in keeping up the bar or their home. And Delaney could tell by looking at the state of the bar how far her father had fallen between the time she’d left town and the time he’d died.

An unexpected pang of sadness curled in the pit of her stomach, and seemed to twist the top off a container holding all the painful, heartbreaking memories from her childhood. Suddenly she was grateful she wasn’t alone, and she glanced back, half expecting to find the handsome stranger gone. But he stood right there, his expression pensive. He didn’t say anything, but she felt his support. And it helped.

On a deep breath, she faced forward again and moved into the space. Along the bar, bottles of liquor still lined the mirrored wall in a haphazard mishmash. Tables still bore the remnants of empty beer bottles and shot glasses, chairs stood askew, and peanut shells littered the floor, as if aliens had sucked every inhabitant into their spaceship and vanished.

The initial stench of the place seemed to fade with fresh air, and she lowered her hand from her face, venturing a little deeper, searching the haphazard light and shadows.

Her gaze held on the wood. Far more worn than the last time she’d seen it. And as if her eyes were drawn by a magnet, she stared at the spot where Ian had died. To where his blood had soaked the wooden floorboards. Floorboards that had clearly been replaced with newer wood that seemed to mark the spot like the stain her father had tried to remove.

All the memories flooded back at once, filling her head and jumbling her thoughts. All the guilt and shame she’d harbored all these years rushed back, squeezing her guts until they knotted. The flood of regret pushed her feet forward until she stood in the same place she’d dropped to her knees beside Ian that night. The same place she’d thrown her body over him to stop the violence.