A Man for the Summer (2 page)

“Don’t make fun of their troubles over at the paper,” Rosie chided.

“Come on, it never was much of a paper even before the economy tanked and the editor landed in the hospital with a heart attack.”

“Junior! Ed Blethers has been a newspaperman longer than you’ve been walking so—”

“Sorry, sorry,” Junior said. “I’m just out of sorts.”

“Well. Okay.” Rosie exhaled, a short puff that Junior knew was forgiveness. Her aunt could never stay mad, least of all at her.

Rosie lifted a shoulder in the direction of their patient and smiled slyly. “Looks like he meets all the requirements.”

“What, you mean male and breathing?”

“Hey, I think he’s pretty nice lookin’. For a city type.”

Junior snorted, and looked away. With the grimace smoothed off his face, Griff Ross looked entirely too much like her type, the type that had busted her heart and then mopped the floor with it a few too many times.

Coal-black stubble shadowed a strong jaw. Thick hair, a little too long, ended at shoulders whose outline was evident even under that ridiculous faux-mechanic designer plaid shirt. A solid outline. A really solid, firm, outline of shoulders that no doubt flowed into thickly built biceps and well, the forearms were right there for the world to see, roped with muscle even as they lay loosely sprawled on the arms of the chair.

“I mean…it wouldn’t hurt, to, y’know, give him a go. What did the doctor say this afternoon, anyway?”

“Jeez, Rosie,” Junior protested in mock indignation, glancing at Griff’s eyes. Still closed. His thoughts no doubt somewhere far more interesting than her problems.

“Hey, don’t worry about him, he’s out. It’s just us girls, so spill.”

“No beating around the bush with you, is there? If you must know, he says I’ve got a year, tops. Probably more like a few months if that. And that’s with him trying to make me feel better and all, so who knows if I’ll even make it that long. Oh, well.”

“Come on, Junior, you sound like you’ve already given up,” Rosie reproved. Griff stirred slightly in his chair, and Junior’s hand automatically went to his face, pressing a finger to the pulse point below his ear. Even, deep.

“Well, for heaven’s sake, what do you suggest I do? Just, you know, jump on the next guy to walk in the door?”

“Junior, I’m not suggesting anything of the sort, and you know it! But there’s no sense wasting time, either. You don’t really want to go your whole life never knowing how it would be, do you?”

“Come on, Rosie.” Junior focused on her work, expertly moving about the tooth, creating the mold for the crown she would build. “You, of all people, I count on not to pressure me. Can’t you respect that?”

Rosie sighed, a long, sad sigh. “It’s just that…me and your Uncle Roger…well, we were so blessed.
So
blessed. And I just don’t think your life will be full until you experience what we had.”

“Look, Rosie, it’s not for everyone, okay?”

Rosie reached over and patted her shoulder gently. Junior sighed and glanced up into her Aunt’s eyes, the same pale blue that was the hallmark of every Atkinson in Poplar Bluff.

“You can’t fool me, Sugar,” she said. “You know that you want this more than anything in the world. I’d give anything…but it’s not in my power to give. You need a man. A man like this one, not some skinny-assed chew-chawin’ local boy—”

“Rosie!”

“Well, come on, it’s pretty much public knowledge that you’ve already dated all the eligible men of Poplar Bluff.”

Rosie felt color flood her cheeks; she busied herself with her instrument tray, studying with sudden interest the implements she knew like the fingers of her own hand. The fact that it was true didn’t take away the smarting sense of rejection she felt whenever she thought about her romantic history.

“Aw, now, honey, don’t feel bad.” Leave it to Rosie to know what she was thinking, even when she was trying so hard to hide it.

“How would you feel?” Junior mumbled.

“Well, lucky, I guess. I mean, you know I love every living person in this town, but some of the guys around here wouldn’t recognize a classy woman if she bit ‘em. They don’t know quality. You really want to get hooked up with one of those characters?”

Junior bit her lip, banished the thought from her mind, and adjusted the overhead light.

“Come on, Rosie. Let’s get this here show wrapped up.”

Griff could hear sounds. That weird jingly music, and the laughter of the women from the other room.

It was the damnedest thing. The pain was gone, but in its place was a sensation of trying to pull himself out of an extremely comfortable nap. When he’d really rather just stay put. But that wouldn’t be right, would it? For a man who really hated to lose control, Griff found it oddly tempting to just ride this lulling high.

And yet, even through all that, Griff’s skin still registered the way Junior Atkinson had traced her long, cool fingers along his brow, and the sensation of her touch seemed not the least bit dulled by the medication. Griff struggled to keep his eyes open even as a wavery image of Junior above him flitted through his mind.

What the hell kind of name was Junior for a grown woman? Especially one like her, a long lean spill of milky-white legs, their outline tempting even under the filmy volumes of her skirt. With a warming sensation Griff remembered his last vision before he closed his eyes, the fascinating map of her freckles on that incredibly smooth skin.

And then other memories came tumbling back. Voices, Rosie’s and Junior’s, the play of their words weaving patterns in his brain.

Wait.
A virgin
.
He remembered that. A dying virgin! Months…she had only months left. And Rosie had been trying to help her…Griff knit his eyebrows together in concentration—to help her figure out how to get laid.

That couldn’t be right, could it? In his semi-stupor Griff felt his eyes misting at the thought. Junior had seemed so brave, her voice not even breaking as she discussed her plight with her aunt. Such a young woman, such a beautiful woman.

It didn’t make sense. How had a woman like that, a woman whose fingers had a silken touch, whose lips invited further speculation—how had she managed to stay, you know….

But—

Griff’s eyebrows shot up even as he lolled in his semi-aware state. Could he be remembering right? But yes, Rosie had as much as said so. None of the guys in town would do it with her. Incredible! Either he’d read the redneck male psyche completely wrong, or there was something truly awful, completely repugnant about the strange yet alluring Doctor Atkinson.

Hell, in his state, she could have had a third eye in the middle of her forehead and he wouldn’t have known the difference. Pain did funny things to you. He’d been riveted by the scary-looking tray of sharp objects before Junior had administered the anesthetic, barely able to tear his eyes away from the lethal-looking tools.

On the other hand, he had a vivid recollection of glossy red curls gathered into a haphazard ponytail. Crazy-colored silk sliding along those lean, pale arms. Lips like satin flecked with tiny dots he longed to lick right off…

Details were his business, after all. And Griff was skeptical that he would have missed a grotesque deformity.

He made a mental note to take a closer look. And then shut his eyes and decided he might as well enjoy his little nap. Although, as he drifted off again, his thoughts were troubled by images of beautiful virgins holding power tools.

“So, what are you going to do with him?” Rosie was finishing up her late afternoon ritual, checking the dozen or so flourishing houseplants, straightening the stacks of paper on their desks into some semblance of alignment, shutting down the computer. Their patient had finally woken up in a fairly alert state, although he seemed to have trouble building a complete sentence, much less keeping his eyes off Junior. They’d allowed their patient to make his way the three blocks to the motel only after calling over and making sure the proprietor would be standing out front waiting for him.

There was silence for a few seconds after the door shut. Junior could feel Rosie’s gaze fixed solidly on her. She shrugged.

“I’ll give him a call in the morning and send him on his way. I can forward the crown on wherever he’s headed. The temp ought to hold him at least a week. For being such a mess it turned out to be a pretty clean fix.”

“Damn shame, then.”

Junior bit her lip. In some far recess of her heart, she had to agree. It
was
a shame that a woman couldn’t just latch on to whatever reasonably intelligent, reasonably able-bodied man happened into her life when it was time to have a baby. If that woman didn’t have a man of her own, that is. And if her doctor had just explained in painstaking detail why fibroids had whittled her fertility down to a window that was rapidly closing.

It wasn’t fair. That much went without saying. But who’d be naïve enough to expect life to deliver what was fair? Certainly not the youngest child of the Atkinson clan of Poplar Bluff.

“Look, Rosie,” Junior protested, with a little more spirit than she felt. “Who says I’m even ready for a baby? I’m only twenty-eight. Hardly anyone has kids at that age any more. I know, I know—” she held up a hand defensively—”you did, and Mom and Dad, but that was different.”

“I don’t know about that.” Rosie crossed her arms and leaned back against her desk, the familiar blue blaze in her eyes. “Seems to me the basics are still the same. You meet a fella, you fall in love—or not, in your case—and you do what comes natural. Bam! Babies.”

“Wasn’t there supposed to be something about marriage in there?”

Rosie stuck her fists on her hips and gave Junior a searing look. “Oh, so now you want to go all traditional on me? Well, little missy, I hardly think I need to remind you that your brother Charlie Earl and my Sandra were both love children, and your mama’s wedding dress fit me just fine because we were both five months along when we wore it.”

“Rosie, you’re impossible.” Impulsively, Junior reached for a hug, and was rewarded with the wonderful old sensation of being held tight and cherished.

“Not so. I’m just your devil’s advocate. Every gal needs one.” Rosie gave a final squeeze before holding Junior at arm’s length. “Besides, we make one hell of a team.”

CHAPTER TWO

The shower felt good. He’d stayed in at least a half hour, idly counting daisies on the old avocado green tiles. The towels, if also old and a faded shade of pink, were clean and fluffy and smelled as if somebody’s grandmother had hung them out to dry in the spring air.

In fact the sense of some benevolent grandmother was so strong that Griff found himself making the bed and wiping down the sink, making sure to clean up after himself, smiling to catch himself in the act.

And why not smile? He felt good. No, he felt great. Nothing like getting over debilitating pain to make a man appreciate his health. Griff stretched luxuriously, rifled through his open suitcase and found a clean shirt.

When he finished dressing Griff made a last sweep of the tired motel room. He was constantly forgetting things. He’d left so many razors behind in hotel showers that he’d finally given up and switched to disposables.

He turned up nothing this time, though. Zipping up his suitcase he grabbed his courier bag, the black ballistic nylon he used instead of a briefcase.

A sheaf of papers fell out. The stuff from the dentist.

Picking them up, Griff hesitated before replacing them. On top was an incomprehensible series of instructions, notes written in the margins. Damn, even the woman’s handwriting was outlandish. It meandered in a crooked line, some of the t’s crossed and I’s dotted, some not. Her signature was rendered in a loopy scrawl, finished with a flourish.

Junior T. Atkinson.

Griff shook his head. A crazy woman with a crazy name and a crazy set of problems. Problems that had nothing to do with him. Problems he’d soon be leaving behind in his rear view mirror.

He sighed heavily and sat down on the bed. Junior. Don’t go there, the warning voice in his head signaled, but it was already too late. His mind was full of her, the red hair and the translucent skin and the freckles, and he could almost smell her, the mixture of the drug smell and her perfume, something flowery and spicy at the same time.

And all she wanted was to have sex
.

Griff felt himself respond to the thought, perspiration beading at his brow as he considered Junior’s problem. And how it might work out if he was the one to solve it. Just to be nice.
It would be the decent thing to do to help her out, that’s all,
he tried, but the inner voice chided him. Griff had the conscience of the altar boy he’d once been, and as hard as tried to shake it off, it was always there.

And it was his pesky conscience that caused the lovely image of Junior to slowly fade to another, the red hair giving way to dirty-blond shag, the luminous blue eyes morphing into a set of huge Granny Smith green ones, one of which sported a mean shiner.