Anything but Love (13 page)

“Thought Rocky might have mentioned. Or Sam.”

“No. No one…” She tried to sit straighter and failed. She did, however, home in on Luke’s expression and tone. “How is he?”

“Recovering. Thank God. The proud bastard kept it to himself. Given he’s a workaholic, we all thought it was fishy when he retired early to move down to Florida with Mom. Turns out there’s a specialist down there. Dad underwent radical treatment and, though it wasn’t easy, he’s beating it. Dev found out first and finally let Rocky and I in on the news not long after you left.”

He flexed his hands on the wheel. “They came up for Christmas. Dad looked thin and worn but he never complained and declared the topic off-limits. Mom seemed in good spirits, but a little twitchy. It was hard seeing them like that. Thinking how they’d weathered the worst part alone. Pisses me off just thinking about it.”

“I’m sure your dad had his children’s best interest at heart. Withholding as a way of shielding.”

“I’m a big boy, Rae. I may have a carefree approach to life but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of handling hard truths and challenging situations.”

Rae’s pulse kicked. Was he still talking about his dad?

“I just want you to know, I’m here for you.” He glanced over. “And the baby.”

It wasn’t a formal commitment. Certainly not a declaration of love. More like an offer of friendship. She didn’t know what to make of it. Or Luke. Every time she got a whiff of his devotion to family, her insides went all squishy. “You don’t know how lucky you are, Luke. Being part of a big nurturing family.”

“Not all sunshine and roses, trust me.”

She’d take it, thorns and all. Squeezing back tears, Rae palmed her stomach. “This baby is my family.”

He reached over and placed his hand on hers. “Mine, too.”

The Rothwell Farm.

It had taken less than three minutes to drive from the intersection of Swamp and Fox to the property now owned by Harper Day. Tucked away in a portion of the woods and butted up against a now-barren cornfield covered with snow, the two-story farmhouse looked nothing like the last time Sam had seen it—which had been almost a year ago.

Beside him Harper yammered on her phone. She hadn’t shut up since he’d buckled her into his truck, only now she was arguing with someone at her PR firm—not that he was paying attention. He could care less about some B-list celebrity bailing on rehab. Why would anyone care?

After parking, he swung out of the cab, desperate for a breath of fresh air. Harper’s perfume had been doing a number on him, a sexy scent that danced up his nostrils and shimmied through his blood. Too bad she was so damned annoying. She had to be hopelessly single. He couldn’t imagine any man withstanding her shallow preoccupation with celebrities, not to mention the incessant phone chatter. When he opened the passenger door she was still at it. He tuned her out and focused on the ground and the house as they carefully navigated her poorly shoveled walkway.

Sam had been intrigued by this property ever since he was a kid. At first, because of the haunted history. Later, because of the house itself. Originally built in 1880, even subsequent renovations hadn’t diminished its charm. The last time he’d been here, the place had been abandoned.
Again
. The roof had been minus random shingles and the gray clapboard siding had been faded and cracked. Since acquiring the property, Harper had had the roof replaced and the exterior painted—federal blue with snow white trim. Pleasantly historic. The floor of the deep porch that ran the length of the house had been stained red. A bold touch that had Sam itching to detail the stark white eaves with a splash of color. He wondered if Harper would be open to suggestions. Although that would entail spending more time here. With her. Couldn’t say he was up for that.

As impressed as he’d been with the exterior renovations, the interior was a different matter. The walls and floors were bare. Furnishings were a step below sparse. Sam took it all in, holding his tongue as he followed Harper through one unfinished room after another. Rocky had been working on this project since November, yet there was barely any evidence of her presence.

They came to the stairway leading to the second floor. Still talking on the phone, Harper paused, examined the clump of tissues she’d been holding to her head then stuffed them in her pocket and started climbing. Sam assumed the woman wanted him to follow. She didn’t wave him off or ask him to wait. Then again she was so damned focused on her call, maybe she’d forgotten he was even there.

As they ascended to the second floor he mentally catalogued everything in need of—what were Rocky’s words? Oh, yeah. “A little work.” For one, the stairway needed an overhaul. That entailed ripping up worn carpet, sanding and staining the steps, replacing the balusters, handrail, newel post, and newel. At present, this main stairway was not only butt-ugly but a safety hazard.

“Whatever, Cecelia,” Harper said into her phone. “I have to go. What? No, I didn’t forget … I’m on it. I will. I have to go.” She signed off as they breached the last step. “I forgot, dammit.” She spun around, nearly knocking Sam back down the stairs.

He rooted himself, rooted her.

They were close enough to kiss. Yeah, boy, if he angled in, that lush mouth would be his for the taking. His heart pumped like a mother. Lust ravaged his calm. Casual sex wasn’t his style. Something told him it was hers, though.

Damn
.

“I need a ride into town,” she said with a manipulative smile and a pat to his chest. “That’s where I was headed when I wrecked. My cable’s out and I have to watch a show that’s airing at noon. I had dinner at the Sugar Shack the other night and there were plasmas hanging above the bar. I thought…” She faltered and frowned. “Is my lipstick smeared or something?”

“No.”

“Then why are you are staring at my mouth?”

“It’s a mouth worth staring at.”

“Was that a come on?”

“A compliment.” An observance he should have kept to himself. An observance that knocked her silent.

Miracle of miracles.

It was one of those moments when clocks stopped and time froze. When heartbeats were audible and skin prickled. Sam hadn’t experienced anything like this in a long while. He should’ve been thrilled. He wasn’t.

She stepped back, breaking the connection, angling her head and studying Sam as if seeing him for the first time. “What’s a man like you—”

“What kind of man is that?”

“The kind who could take on an action star’s role.” She eyed him like a prized bull. “If a spot opens in the
Avengers
or
Expendables,
I’ve got their man. So what’s a Rambo like you doing with tissues in his pocket? The soft lotion-y kind, no less?”

“I’ve got two young kids. Tissues are mandatory.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t do kids.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t strike me as maternal.”

“What do I strike you as?”

Sex on a stick. Self-involved. Manipulator. Control freak.
“Career oriented.”

“Funny, but that sounded like an insult.” She smirked. “So are you driving me into town or what?”

Sam resisted the urge to haul her into his arms and kiss her senseless. What the hell was wrong with him? “I’m not driving you anywhere until we clean that head wound. I guess that qualifies as ‘or what.’”

“I guess it does.” Looking irritated now, Harper turned on her heel and headed down the hall. “Fine. Follow me. I’ve got some peroxide and Band-Aids … Rocky said you’re handy. Does that extend to electronics? Maybe you can determine what’s wrong with my cable. When I called, those idiots said they’d be here between nine and five. Hello? Anything after eleven thirty is too late.”

“I’ll take a look.”

Ignoring her sexy figure as she peeled off her coat, Sam focused on where she was heading. As a kid he’d sneaked into this house with his cousins during the numerous times it had been abandoned. They crept though every room, recanting the haunted tale of Mary Rothwell, one of the original Cupcake Lovers, a woman who, according to legend, had died of a broken heart. Exploring the second floor had been especially creepy because the master bedroom, the room where Mary had spent her last years staring out the window and pining for her MIA husband, the room where she’d died, was located at the end of this hall. Sam was more than a little surprised when Harper pushed open that very door, revealing the one and only room in the house that was totally and beautifully furnished and decorated.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said then ducked into a connecting bathroom.

Sam did a quick sweep of the spacious room. A combination bedroom, office, and gym. He noted the array of fitness equipment, the twenty-inch plasma screen, laptop, copy/fax machine. State-of-the-art. High-energy. A techno-freak’s wet dream.

Considering the ultramodern equipment, one would expect contemporary furnishings and bold accents. Instead, there was a softer retro look. Coordinating muted colors of lavender and green. A plush, solid-colored area rug. A floral-pattered sofa. An antique mahogany bedroom set. An antique desk. The paintings on the wall, the knickknacks, the furnishings … the entire vibe was reminiscent of the WWII era, the decade in which Mary and Captain Joseph Rothwell had made this house their home.

Odd that Rocky hadn’t mentioned restoring this room to how it would have looked when the Rothwells lived here. Because, hell, this was creepy.

Harper stepped out of the bathroom and Sam’s senses spiked. Dressed in a chic dress and black leggings, she looked equally at home amid the high-tech media equipment and retro 1940s décor. In that moment, Sam sensed a mysterious duality to Harper Day.

“Since purchasing this place, I’ve only visited a few times,” she said while handing Sam a medical kit. “I prefer living on property during renovations as opposed to a hotel. So I picked a space and made it my own.”

“You’ve got a thing for vintage Americana?”

“Not really. But in this case, it felt right. I like what Rocky did. Don’t you?’

“Sure.” He perched next to her on the small sofa, damning the intoxicating effects of her exotic perfume.

Her phone blipped and she shifted her focus, reading and texting. Reading and texting.

Sam opened the kit, soaked a cotton ball with peroxide then attended the scabbing bump near Harper’s temple. He shook off a wave of déjà vu. He’d tended bumps and scratches and much worse in his lifetime.
Of course,
he’d done this before.

“For the…” Harper texted like a fiend. “I leave town for a few days and all hell breaks loose.”

Since she seemed adept at multitasking, Sam spoke over her lightning-speed thumbs. “I assume you know the history of this house.”

“That’s why I bought it. This house, this room was lonely. Now it’s not.”

“Rocky said you don’t believe in ghosts.”

“I don’t. But I believe in kindred souls.”

Sam didn’t ask what she meant by that because he was afraid she’d break into a ramble about psychics or some other metaphysical bunk. She probably represented some semifamous TV medium or an actor who played one. She probably believed in that woo-woo shit. Probably practiced yoga on the beach and subexisted on tofu and pine nuts. He kept ticking off West Coast stereotypical attributes while she compulsively texted. He kept waiting for his sexual interest to wane.

His nads twitched, telling him that wouldn’t be anytime soon.

Damn
.

“Are you going to check my cable, Rambo, or what?” she asked without looking up.

A ballbuster and seductress rolled into one.

For a split second, Sam thought about taming that sass. Except Harper struck him as a wild card and, because of the kids, he needed to play it safe. Moving toward the plasma screen he conjured visions of nuns and puppies and sweet-natured Rae. Yeah,
that
cooled his jets. As did the realization that he’d never once fantasized about hot and dirty sex with the woman he hoped to marry. Lovemaking, yes. No-holds-barred sex, no.

Not that he was having second thoughts, but he was.

He cursed the kink in his strategic plan.

He blamed Rocky.

Luke hated hospitals. He especially hated cooling his heels in the waiting room. Waiting to learn if a friend or family member was okay. A prognosis on a surgery or the verdict on an injury.

The last time he’d been here had been in October. Daisy had been transported to Pixley General after pedaling a rented bicycle down a steep hill for the thrill of it. Although she regretted losing control and skidding into a tree, she didn’t regret the adrenaline rush. Even though that rush had cost her a broken ankle, fractured ribs, scrapes, bruises, and a gash on her forehead. The winter before Daisy had taken Rocky’s snowmobile for a joyride. She’d fared better than the mangled Artic Cat, walking away from that wreck with several bruises and a broken wrist. Because of Luke’s grandma’s advanced age, the doctor had held Daisy overnight for observation.

Some of Luke’s uglier memories were tied up with Sam’s wife, Paula, who’d endured an invasive operation and extensive chemo treatments before ultimately losing her battle to ovarian cancer. The family had lost Grandpa Jessup, Daisy’s husband, to cancer as well. If Luke’s dad hadn’t hightailed it to Florida, the family would have been haunting this hospital every time the old man, who wasn’t even all that old, came in for treatment. But no. Jerome Monroe had spared his children and assorted relatives that misery. Rae had praised the man’s good intentions, but Luke damned his pride. Luke’s mom shouldn’t have had to bear that weight on her own. Not wanting to cause tension over the Christmas holidays, Luke had held his tongue. But, damn, he resented the way his dad had handled the situation.

“
Just be glad he’s coming out of it,
” Dev had said.