What a Woman Needs (6 page)

T
HERE
was something about a man cleaning a toilet.

Or maybe it was just
Bryan Manley
cleaning her toilet, but he had the best butt Beth had ever seen. And that was no disrespect to her husband. She and Mike had joked about it because Mike had been butt-challenged, though he’d had other good points to make up for it.

Beth sighed and leaned against the doorframe, crossing a foot over the other. The fact that she was referring to Mike in the past tense was reason enough to not list what those points were. She didn’t need more waterworks after the plumbing incident this morning.

“Is there something you need?” Bryan asked over his shoulder, sitting back on his heels from the on-all-fours stance in front of the toilet that really shouldn’t have been sexy but was.

Beth straightened and tugged the hem of her shirt down. “I was wondering if you would like something to eat.”

Seriously?
That’s
what she went with?

Though . . . actually . . . it
was
lunchtime so, it was as good an excuse as any.

“No, I’m good,” Brian said, returning to his toilet-cleaning pose.

She ought to leave. She’d asked the question, he’d turned her down, he had work to do. And she had no business hanging around Bryan Manley.

Of course that didn’t stop her from staying.

“Where did you learn how to clean? I didn’t think movie stars needed to know how to do toilets.”

“My grandmother.” He tossed the used paper towels into the trash can, then pulled a pristine cleaning brush out from his supply kit—and aimed it at her. “I wasn’t always a movie star, you know.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. I guess you had an apartment or something? Had to pull your weight with your roommates?” She didn’t dare ask if any of those roommates were female. It was none of her business.

And if she kept saying that, she might remember it.

“Actually, I didn’t.” He swirled the brush around the bowl with the cleaning solution and flushed it. “I lived at home until I moved to LA. My grandmother made us all clean. Every Saturday morning. We rotated the bathrooms. I got really good at it.”

He peeled the latex gloves off his hands and tossed them into the trash. “Which means I can tell when someone has cleaned before me. You did it last night, didn’t you?”

Beth could feel the blush blaze over her skin. “This place was, well, gross. You didn’t need to see that.”

“But that’s why I’m here. Why hire me if you aren’t going to use me?”

Don’t answer that, don’t answer that, don’t answer that.

“
I
didn’t hire you. My friends did.” There. That was a safe answer. And it let him know where she stood on the subject. She was perfectly capable of taking care of her own home—or she would be once this initial push was over. Once Bryan left, the house would be in perfect shape and, hopefully, the kids would help her take better care of it than they had for the last two years.

“Your friends?” Bryan took a step toward her and Beth had to look up at him.

“They thought I could use a break. Relax a little.” This was new for her. She was five-ten. Rarely did she have to look up at a guy. Even Mike had only been an inch taller.

She stuck her hands into her back pockets, then yanked them out because that movement stretched her shirt too tightly across her chest and she didn’t want him to think she was coming on to him. It was one thing to fantasize about Bryan in
that way
; it was another to actually go for it.

Besides, who was she to even
imagine
she’d have a shot with him? He had movie stars and models at his beck and call; he didn’t need a frumpy mom of five with a manic dog and a deranged cat.

Both of whom careened down the stairs just then.

Beth winced, waiting for the crash or screech, or the “Stop it, Sherman!” that inevitably followed Sherman’s chases after Mrs. Beecham. She was listening for it so much that she almost missed Bryan’s comment.

“It’s got to be tough without your husband around.”

She wouldn’t have minded missing that one.

Beth forced a laugh. It was either that or cry and she was not going to do that. Not anymore. She’d cried enough and not a single tear had brought Mike back. “We’re coping.”

Bryan looked at the top of her head. His gaze traveled over her face slowly. Beth’s breath hitched for the moment or two that he raised his hand hesitantly to brush a piece of hair off her face.

When his fingers grazed her cheek, she stopped breathing altogether.

This hadn’t happened in, well . . . Not since she’d met Mike. In college.

“I’m glad I can lend a hand,” he said softly, his green eyes searching for something in hers.

She didn’t know what he was looking for, wasn’t sure she wanted to know, and definitely knew she didn’t have to breathe ever again if he’d stay right where he was.

What
was she thinking?

That was the thing; she
wasn’t
thinking. Her body was on autopilot here. It remembered what to do around a hot guy even if her brain didn’t. And it didn’t. She’d never even looked at another man. Mike had been everything to her.

So who was this Bryan Manley to have crept under her defenses so much and so quickly that she was imagining him creeping under other things—namely the covers of her bed?

Now she felt the blush blaze through her entire body. She hoped to God he didn’t know it.

His eyes flared—just a second, but it was enough.

He knew.

And he wasn’t stepping back.

Beth needed to breathe. Desperately. Metaphorically and physically, and she didn’t care in what order. He needed to move away. Take even one step back. Give her some space.

Except . . . she could back away, too. She was the one in the doorway. All it’d take would be two simple steps and she’d be beyond his reach in the hallway. Away from these crazy thoughts and feelings.

He was, after all,
the
Bryan Manley. Heartthrob and ladies’ man. She was just Beth from the suburbs. Soccer mom, helper with the school play, PTA rep. Teacher.
Not
movie star material and definitely not model material. Merely someone who was tied to this house and this town with five pairs of very visible roots.

She took a step back. Away from temptation. From madness. From what-in-the-hell-was-she-thinking?

From
what if
 . . .

 • • • 

B
RYAN
let her go.

He didn’t want to, but, seriously, what right did he have to do what he’d done? She ought to smack him across the face. He’d gotten too close too fast. Too familiar. And he wasn’t even sure he
wanted
to get familiar with Mrs. Beth Hamilton.

The widow.

With five kids.

Bryan took a deep breath. “Well, I’m glad I can help out.”

Not quite the way he’d like to if he had the choice, but then, he didn’t. And shouldn’t. And couldn’t. And . . . Thank God she’d stepped back.

“It, um . . .” She absently re-tucked the hair that he’d tucked. “It’s gotten, well, not easier, but more normal. Time helps. Some. I’m just sorry you have to clean up after them. I’m sure your sister has other jobs that would’ve been easier. Did you lose a bet or something?”

Bryan forced a laugh to cover up how close she’d gotten to the truth. “Hey, well, you know, this is what they pay me the big bucks for.” He grabbed the toolkit of cleaning supplies. Mac ought to get those logo-ed. And the toilet brush handle, too. It’d come in handy if he accidentally left one behind.

And he was babbling in his head, trying to cover the very visceral reaction he had to Mrs. Beth Hamilton.

He wanted to buy out her perfume manufacturer’s entire supply. Or, better yet, invest in the company, because that scent—just one little whiff—turned him on faster than he’d been turned on in a long while.

And if she wasn’t wearing perfume . . . well then, his trouble level had just gotten a whole lot higher.

“Mommy, can Bryan clean my room next?” Maggie, thank God, poked her curly little head out from the room next door, pulling the thumb from her mouth with a loud
pop
! She sucked that thumb a lot, he’d noticed yesterday. When she was thinking about something or considering him or watching TV or taking a nap, her thumb was never far away. He would’ve thought that, by her age, she’d have outgrown it. Perhaps most kids whose father hadn’t died would have. He couldn’t begrudge Maggie that small comfort.

What did Beth do for comfort?

Bryan gripped the toolbox harder and turned away, looking for something to occupy his other hand. And his mind. Because he didn’t need to be worrying about Beth’s comfort. He had to worry about her toilets. Yes, that was it. Toilets. Nothing sexy about a toilet. Or dust. Or baseboards. Or return registers. Or stovetops. All items guaranteed to require his full attention.

“Sure, Mags. Bryan can do your room next.” Beth raised perfectly arched eyebrows that he’d bet had never seen a makeup artist in their life.

Since when had he noticed a woman’s
eyebrows
?

“Sure, Maggie. I’ll be right there.” No way was he going to brush by Beth. She had to leave first.

Thankfully, she figured that out and moved out of his way.

Bryan took a deep breath, hiked the toolbox, and tried to burn the image from his brain of Beth’s perfectly shaped backside as she walked down the hall.

B
RYAN
groaned as his alarm went off the next morning. It was only day three of the twenty he was slated to spend at Beth’s house and already it was too much. He’d cleaned Maggie’s room from the top of the princess canopy draping over her bed, to the fluffy pink chair that had more cat hair than fabric on it, to the dozens of costumes spilling from her closet. She’d assured him that her room had been clean the day before, but she’d had a “wardrobe malfunction” last night and had to find something else to wear to bed.

Given the new sheets on her bed, Bryan had an idea of what she was talking about, but didn’t let on that he did. She might only be five, but she knew enough to be embarrassed by bed-wetting.

Was that a residual from the trauma she must have gone through when she’d lost her father?

Then the twins had come in just as he’d finished up, arguing yet again who was the best lightsaber fighter, and he’d been roped into refereeing. Lunch had been an event, reminding him of when he and his brothers had been kids. He’d laughed at the surreptitious dog-feeding going on under the table, the cat perched on the room divider keeping a wary eye on the dog and any scraps that fell to the floor, the constant banter between the twins with Maggie’s voice chiming in every so often, and Beth wiping bread crumbs off her nose—and smearing peanut butter on it in its place.

He’d jumped up to help her clean up, but she’d shooed him away, telling him to enjoy his lunch.

That was the problem; he’d enjoyed it a little too much. He’d spent last night hard and aching and chastising himself the entire time. Beth was off-limits. He couldn’t care how pretty she was or how amazing she was to take care of those kids and keep her house and work at her teaching job. Granted it was summer vacation and the house was dirty enough that her friends had hired him, so she wasn’t handling it as well as she obviously had been able to do before her husband’s death, but still. Beth was holding it together when he could tell how much she’d loved the guy.

Something twinged inside him. What would it be like to have someone care about him that much? To be there every morning and every night? To share the little things of life with: making coffee, doing the crossword puzzle, watching the dog chase rabbits in the backyard first thing in the morning?

Watching the sun rise from the king-sized bed upstairs in her bedroom . . .

He groaned again and it had nothing to do with the early morning. Sure, he was used to getting up for early calls, but once the film wrapped, he liked to sleep in.

He swung his feet off the bed just as his phone rang.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair. Didn’t recognize the number, but it was local. Hell, he hoped it wasn’t a reporter. “Manley.”

“Bryan?” Beth. Out of breath.

Every cell in his body went on high alert. “Beth? What’s wrong?” All sorts of catastrophes were running through his head. Had one of the twins skewered the other with an impromptu dangerous sword? Had Jason taken the car out? Had Maggie choked on something?

Already he was yanking on a pair of running shorts—fuck the stupid uniform. He didn’t need to spend the day in the ER in that concoction, plus the shorts were easier to pull on one-handed.

“It’s Sherman. I have to take him to the vet.”

Sherman. The dog. Bryan’s adrenaline took a nosedive as the immediate threat to Beth and the kids dissipated. But then the worry in her voice registered. “What happened?”

“I . . .” Her voice broke. “He got himself tangled in the clothesline and I don’t know . . . He’s not . . . I don’t know how long he was without oxygen.”

Oh God. The kids would be devastated. “Did you give him mouth-to-mouth?” Even as he said it, he knew it sounded ridiculous.

Beth didn’t laugh. “Yeah. And he’s breathing again. Coming around, too, but, I don’t know. I think I should take him in just to be sure. The rope marks around his neck are pretty bad.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“You don’t have to hurry. I just wanted to tell you I won’t be here and I’ll leave a key under the mat. I know it’s cliché, but it’s the easiest place and I’ve got to get the kids to their friends’ houses so I can do this. I just wanted you to know why we wouldn’t be there.”

“Which vet do you see?”

“Dr. Bingham on Harvest.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“That’s not necess—”

“I want to, Beth.” Because if the dog’s prognosis wasn’t good, she was going to need someone with her. He’d seen how much she cared about that dog. And he knew how much the kids did. Beth would hurt for herself
and
for them if something happened to the mutt.

“Oh, but Bryan, that’s not necessary.”

“Time’s wasting, Beth. Get in the car and head over. I’ll meet you there.”

 • • • 

A
N
hour later, Beth was very glad Bryan had insisted on coming.

Maggie, who was the only one of her kids who hadn’t had any friends home this morning and had to come, was a mess. She wasn’t even talking for the furious thumb-sucking she was doing, and she was pacing just like Mike used to—just like she had when the police had shown up that day with the news about Mike’s plane.

And just like then, Beth had tried to pull her daughter into her arms, but Maggie wouldn’t take the comfort—also like Mike. He’d dealt with things in his own time and his own space and Maggie was just like him, right down to the curly black hair.

Sometimes genetics could be a real pain in the ass when she had the spitting image of the man she’d lost staring back at her from across the kitchen table every morning.

Still, Beth’s fingers itched to reach out to Maggie and draw her into the circle of her arms, and she was just about to do that when Bryan returned from the reception desk where he’d asked for an update on Sherman and swung Maggie into his arms. “Hey, Mags. The vet said Sherman’s going to be all right.” He looked over at Beth and nodded.

She exhaled. He was telling the truth. Not sugarcoating it to make it easier to take.

“Can we take him home? I wanna leave this place.”

“Not today. They’re going to keep him overnight for observation just to be sure. But they said he’s up and drinking water, and we can come get him tomorrow.”

“But who’s he gonna sleep with tonight?” Her thumb went back in her mouth.

Bryan gently pulled it out and kissed the back of her hand.

Beth’s stomach thudded. Women the world over would
kill
to have him do that to their hands. And she was one of them.

She was a rotten mother, being jealous of her own daughter. The daughter whose world had been turned upside down with the death of her father and now the danger to her dog. Yet here Beth was, wanting what had so generously been given to her daughter.

Maggie giggled. “That tickles. Your beard is all scratchy.”

Bryan put her palm on his cheek. “That’s what happens when I don’t have time to shave in the morning.”

Now Beth’s tummy fluttered. She missed watching Mike shave. Missed having a man in her life for those things that were so, well, dare she say it? Manly.

Bryan
Manley . . .

Oh God. She had it bad. Just like half the women in America. And millions more across the globe.

She’d laugh if this situation were funny, for the fact that she had a movie star in the vet’s office for a silly dog who liked to chase underwear. You couldn’t
write
a story like this.

“So, what do you say we go grab breakfast?” Bryan asked Maggie. “I could use some pancakes, how about you? With lots of ice cream and whipped topping?”

Maggie giggled again. “That’s dessert, silly.”

“It is?” Bryan hiked her again in his arms, her curls bouncing around her head. “In my world, that’s breakfast. And I’ve missed mine. So what do you say?”

“Mommy, too?”

They both looked at her, the smiles on their faces interestingly similar. Which shouldn’t be, since they weren’t related, but . . . were.

“Mommy?” Bryan asked with his tongue firmly planted in his cheek. “Wanna join us?”

She ought to be asking him that question.

Beth shot to her feet. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
Sure
for breakfast. Him joining them—?

No. No way. Forget about it. Bad idea.

Well, actually, it was a good idea. It was just pointless to consider because he was, after all,
Bryan Manley, Movie Star
.

 • • • 

T
HE
point was driven home—with nails pounded into the coffin of
what ifs
—the moment they stepped into the diner for those pancakes he was so eager to eat.

Everyone stared. And waved. And called out as if he were a returning hero. Though, actually, he was. The town called him one of their own. He’d been born and raised here, with just enough return visits to make it legit. They loved their Hollywood heartthrob.

It was evident in all the smiles. In the wistful glances of the teenage girls—and some of their moms. And the jealous ones from other women. Beth had never felt the glare of animosity so much as she did then, as if they were wondering who
she,
an outsider whose husband had come under suspicion,
was to merit dining with
the
Bryan Manley.

Stop it! Stop thinking like that! Mike was proven innocent, and the onus is on them to acknowledge that, not for you to convince them of it. Be friendly. Smile.

“What do you think about this booth, Beth?” Bryan put his hand on her back.

Her smile suddenly came naturally. “It’s fine.”

They chuckled at that word.

She stopped chuckling when he slid in across from her and his leg brushed up against hers. His bare, manly, hairy leg against her equally bare, smooth, newly shaven one. (Yes, she’d shaved that morning when she’d gotten up, and no, it hadn’t had anything to do with the fact that Bryan would be spending the day at her home, and why was she defending herself to her conscience?)

“You okay?” He tilted his head slightly, his concern zipping along her nerve endings right into her heart.

Why did he have to be so perfect? Sure, it helped in his line of work, but wouldn’t physical perfection be enough? Did he have to be so incredibly nice and thoughtful and caring? Able to win over small, hurt five-year-olds with one kiss to the back of the hand?

Come to think of it, that would work with tall, middle-aged women by the boatload.

“Um, yes, I’m fi— Good. I mean.”

His laughter broke the tension, and Beth finally let herself relax. He was still a guy. Another human being. All the trappings of Hollywood didn’t define him. They were just window dressing.

Though what a nice window it was.

The waitress—or actually it was Claire, the owner—came over to take their order. “Hey, Bry. Haven’t seen you in a long time.” Insinuation dripped like maple syrup off every word.

“Claire. How are you? How’s Roddy?”

Claire’s left hand disappeared inside her apron. “Don’t know. Moved upstate with his new girlfriend.”

Okay, then. Single and letting Bryan know it. Yes, jealousy simmered just below Beth’s skin. Jealousy she had no business feeling.

“Oh, man, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Claire shrugged. “I’m not. He was drinking me out of house and home. That’s what happens when you don’t have enough drive to go after what you want outta life. Not that you know anything about that from what I can see.” She glanced at Beth. “Aren’t you that pilot’s wife?”

Beth couldn’t help the cringe. That’s what she’d become:
that pilot’s wife
. It hurt. Denigrated their marriage and Mike’s reputation and never let her forget a minute of the scandal that had surrounded his death.

“This is Beth Hamilton,” said Bryan, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her.

Beth shook her head slightly. Now wasn’t the time.

“Did you know my daddy?” Maggie’s thumb popped out and she leaned forward on her elbows. “My daddy was a pilot.”

“Yes, sweetie, I know.” Claire did, thank God, give Maggie a sweet smile.

Some of Beth’s animosity faded. At least the woman was kind to her daughter. That went a long way toward Beth giving her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Claire didn’t know the effect
that pilot’s wife
had on her. Maybe she hadn’t meant anything by it.

“And this little urchin is Maggie.” Bryan ruffled her curls. “And she wants a big stack of pancakes covered in vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, chocolate fudge, chocolate chips, and a bright red cherry on top.”

Maggie’s eyes widened and she yanked her head around to look at him in awe. “I do?”

Bryan tweaked her nose. “Sure you do. And you’re going to share them with me.”

“Do I have to?”

Bryan patted the seat beside him and just like that, Maggie sat. No begging. No pleading. Not even a word to tell her what to do, something Beth hadn’t been able to manage with her headstrong (just like her father) daughter.

“Yes, you do. Or you’ll end up with a tummy ache and we’ll have to take you to the doctor’s instead of bringing Sherman home from his.”

“Oh. I don’t wanna do that.” Maggie nodded solemnly.