Bucking the Rules (12 page)

Trace looked at the dog. “And you're still alive?”

The dog licked his neck in response.

“Yes, because Peyton isn't heartless . . . completely. But I'm not willing to push it.” She stood and threw the paper towels in the trash can. “There. Hardly noticeable.”

Except for the fact the carpet was wet.

Bea seemed to sense this. “Okay, so . . . maybe she won't come in her office for a few hours.”

As if realizing that was a vain hope, Bea reached out for the dog. “Come here, baby. We'll go for a nice, long walk.”

“Why is it,” Trace mused, “when I hand you Seth, you act like he's a ticking time bomb? But you hold that animal in your arms like he's the most precious thing you've ever seen?”

“Because he is. Isn't he sweet?” She held the dog up for inspection.

What Trace saw was an underbite, those creepy bug eyes, and ribs sticking out.

“Whacha doing?” she asked, craning her neck around to see the computer.

“Nothing.” He quickly hit the power button to the monitor. “Go feed him something. He's too damn skinny.”

She shrugged, as if already forgetting she'd asked him anything. “He's on a specific weight-gaining diet. He'll fill out, won't you, sweetie?”

It amused Trace no end that his sister, who refused responsibility as easily as most people refused brussels sprouts at the dinner table, had willingly taken on another living thing as her own. And was willing to clean up the mess afterward in order to save the responsibility's worthless hide.

Maybe she was changing.

Bea headed out of the office, dog slung over her shoulder. The frog's legs flopped against her back. “Come on upstairs, Milton. I ordered you a cardigan online and it came in this morning. Let's go have a fashion show!”

Or not.

Trace pulled out his cell phone and quickly texted the name of the restaurant to Jo. She wouldn't answer right away, he assumed, since she was likely working. So he pocketed the phone, headed to the kitchen, and made himself a sandwich. Carrying the sandwich, wrapped in a paper towel, to the front porch, he found Emma and Seth playing with the still unnamed dog he'd brought home from the shelter.

“Hey, little man.” He sat down and watched in amazement as his son crawled to him. That he could get around on his own now was such an awesome thing. “Soon enough, you'll be too big to crawl. You'll be walking all over this place.”

Emma shook her head. “Don't remind me. I've gotta keep an eye on that one already, and he's just crawling. Once he gets his feet under him, I'm done for.”

Trace watched Emma over his son's head while Seth used his father as a prop to practice standing. She was unmatchable for strength, in his mind. Emma had been his mother-figure growing up. His soft place to land, his hard line for consequences, and everything in between. In the years between leaving home and coming back, he'd painted her as a conquering hero.

But she was a woman, same as any other. And she was getting older. Keeping up with both the housekeeping duties and chasing after a soon-to-be toddler couldn't be easy for her.

“Maybe it's time to look into an assistant for you,” Trace said, testing the waters. “Someone to run errands, to look after Seth while you cook dinner or whatever.”

Of course, by “assistant” he meant babysitter. And the job would come out of his own paycheck, just as Emma's raise had when she'd taken on the added task of nanny.

Emma's steely gray stare pinned him like a nail in a still-fluttering moth. “I'm not dead yet. I can handle him.”

“I didn't mean you couldn't.”
Retreat, retreat. Sound the alarm.
“Just that, as more people come into this house, it might be more work than any one person could handle. Even a superhero like you.”

Emma looked disappointed in him and his lack of faith. She bent down and scooped up a wobbly Seth. “Come on, boy. We have some vacuuming to do. Yes, you like the sound. I know you do.”

That went well. Trace let his head fall back to the porch rail with a
crack
. He deserved it, probably.

Why were none of the women in his life cooperating?

J
o watched the bar, surveying for signs of struggle, signs of impending trouble. Anything she could use to delay going out. Something to keep her tied to the bar.

An excuse. Yeah, it was an excuse. But damn, she wasn't ready for this. They could play with semantics, just calling it a nice dinner between lovers or whatever. But she knew what it was to Trace.

A date.

The words sent a chill down into her belly the way the words “serial killer” might another human. She didn't date. She'd tried that, and didn't care for it. She didn't do permanency. Her bar was the most permanent thing in her life. Even her friends—Stu and Amanda and the others—would eventually leave. Restaurant staffers were a fluid group. And so, she was resigned to the fact that she would be mostly alone, unless she invited someone into her life for a period of time.

But the way she'd arranged her life, she reminded herself, nobody would leave her. Nobody would kick her out with a teenage daughter and force her to find yet another sugar daddy to pick up the slack. Move her ass across the country to find the next meal ticket.

She would do this on her own, all the way. She was now a big fish in a small pond, not the other way around. And she liked it. So she would maintain the status quo.

“Hey.”

Jo jumped a mile in the air. “Jesus.” Turning, she looked up—and up—into the eyes of Bea Muldoon. “Are you on a stepladder or something?”

“Just tall. And you're short.” Her answer was given so easily, it didn't carry the sting of insult.

“Why are you behind the bar? Go. Go over there and sit down. Or go find a table. Is Peyton with you?”

“Nope.” Bea took her sweet time walking back around the counter to lean on the edge. The pose would have looked practiced, if it weren't so easy and fluid. She looked like a Vargas girl from the forties. At least a dozen male eyes took advantage of her position, ass out, to visually devour her.

“Do you do that on purpose?” Jo asked before she could think better of it.

Bea didn't bother pretending ignorance. “I used to. Now it's just habit.” She winked. “Casting directors love a femme fatale, don't you know?”

“No, I don't know, said the short girl,” Jo responded.

“Oh, men love a tiny woman, too.” Bea waved that off.

“Tiny, I am not.” Jo put a hand on her hips. “These are not tiny.”

“You've got curves in your small package. It's the best of all worlds. Stop comparing yourself to me. The female race is like a buffet.”

“Come again?”

Bea nodded. “To a man, females are a buffet. See, you have all sorts of different women. But there are men with different tastes. The broccoli should never feel bad sitting next to the French fries on the table, because there's always going to be a man who wants broccoli. Man after man might come for French fries. But eventually, a guy who has been dying for the perfect plate of broccoli is going to come by.”

“Am I the broccoli, or the French fries?” Jo was pretty sure she knew the answer.

Bea ignored that. “You shouldn't compare yourself to me. I'm offering something entirely different.”

Jo couldn't help but smile. “What's that?”

“Fantasy B. You, my dear, are Fantasy A.”

Jo laughed, despite herself. “You're something else.”

“In this town, I would have to agree.” Bea reached out and touched one fingertip to Jo's right ear with its four piercings. “But so are you. Are we going to do the bonding thing now?”

Jo shrugged. “I'm working.”

“No, you're not. You've got a date with my brother.”

Jo shushed her and looked around the bar, waiting for people to start throwing questions—or rotten fruit—in their direction. “Shut up, loudmouth.”

Bea looked insulted for a moment. “I didn't realize it was a big secret. Are you embarrassed?”

Jo's eyes closed a moment as she gathered patience. Then she reached in her pocket and handed Bea her set of keys. “This one opens my apartment. Go up there and wait for me.”

Bea raised one brow. “Full disclosure—I have to tell you I'm going to snoop.”

“Just stay out of the nightstand drawer.”

“Done.” Bea trotted easily on high heels out the door. Jo waited to see if any slobbering males would follow like little lambs following Mary, but they managed to resist the urge.

After checking with her night bartender, Jo concluded there was nothing holding her back. Damn it. She headed up the stairs to her own apartment.

Instead of rifling through drawers, Bea was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, waiting.

“Thought you were going to search my things.” Jo headed to her kitchen for a bottle of water. She held it up and shook. “Want?”

“Yes, please.” Bea squealed when Jo tossed it her way. “Watch it!”

“Such a girl.”

Bea picked up the water and rolled her eyes. “If I wanted to be insulted, I would have stayed home and hung out with my sister.” She glanced at her watch, a cute silver sparkly thing that caught the light with every twist of her wrist. “If I'm not mistaken, you don't have much time to get ready.”

“First off, how do you know I'm going out with your brother?” Trace wouldn't have said anything. Jo knew that much for certain. She took a sip of water and wondered if Bea had as big a mouth as Jo thought she might have.

Bea shook that off with a smirk. “He was being secretive with his computer time. I went back through the computer history, found the name of the restaurant he looked up, and snooped in his phone to see who he was going out with and when.”

“Could have been a friend,” Jo reasoned.

“Hardly. Not a place like that. He'd go to the diner with Red, or here. Not out of town to a nice place like that.” Bea scowled. “Give me a little credit.”

“Which brings me to my second question, why were you so interested in what your brother was up to?”

“Boredom, mostly.” Bea let one foot swing, lightly kicking the coffee table with her toe.

“You could get a job.” Jo smiled slowly, an idea forming in her mind. “You could serve. I'm sure I can find a few shifts a week for you.”

Bea's face had Jo doubled over in laughter. “God, the look on your face . . .” she managed to gasp between hiccups.

“Hilarious, I'm sure.” Bea picked at the edge of her top, smoothing it down, then flipping it over again. “I could be useful.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask
so why aren't you?,
but she pulled back. Something in Bea's eyes told her now wasn't the time for sarcastic truths.

“I just don't know where I fit in here,” her friend went on, looking around the apartment rather than at Jo. “I don't belong here, that's for sure.”

Jo played silent supporter and sat in her armchair.

“But apparently I don't belong in Hollywood either. So . . .” Bea let her shirt drop from her hands. “Where?”

Jo shrugged. “I could tell you where I don't belong. New York, San Fran, Dallas, Salt Lake—”

Bea laughed. “Right, right. I know. My problem, nobody else's.” She rubbed her hands together, then threw them apart, like she was clearing the space of negative energy. “Time for something more fun. What are you wearing tonight?”

Jo grimaced. “I haven't gone out in months. Probably a year. Everything I have is totally out of date.”

Bea smirked. “Honey, if it's from this decade, Trace won't notice. They're not much up on haute fashion here. I'm guessing your years of city living have at least given you some sense of style.”

“My sense,” Jo agreed. “Not quite Paris runway but . . .” She shrugged and angled her head to the bedroom. “Any idea what your brother is wearing? That might help me narrow down choices.”

“Hopefully not something with throw up on it.”

“What?” Jo froze and looked over her shoulder. “Is Trace sick?”

Bea's eyes widened. “No, why?”

“What's with the throw up talk?”

“Because of . . .” Bea froze, as if someone had pushed the pause button on the remote. “Because of the dog,” she finished slowly. “He got a dog the other day.”

“Oh.” Odd. Why would a dog throw up on his things? Wouldn't it be outside? “I'm assuming you're inviting yourself in for a fashion consultation.”

“That I am.” Bea stood and followed her into the bedroom. “This might be almost as much fun as dressing
my
dog.”

Jo stopped short. “You got a dog? You mean the same dog as Trace, right?”

“No. A cute little Boston terrier.” Bea looked proud and flipped through her cell phone a moment before holding out the screen. “See? His name is Milton, and he's adorable.”

Jo stared at the face only a mother—or someone squinting—could love and her heart melted a little. “Aw, he's cute.”

“See!” Bea pumped a fist. “I told them he was cute, but nobody believed me. He's going to be even cuter in the new sweater vest I'm giving him.”

“Too far.” Jo took another step, then paused. “Uh, is Peyton or Trace helping you take care of him?”

Bea looked offended. “Why does nobody think I can take care of another living thing?”

It was too easy. She let the softball pass her by.

Bea scowled. “I can hear what you're thinking. I'm not a screwup.”

Jo dug through her closet, searching for outfits she would have worn to meet a man a year or so ago. They were deep in the recesses of her closet, she realized. Wow, she'd really packed that side of herself away, literally.

“I'm not a screwup.”

“Okay.” Her voice was muffled by a sweater.

“Everyone just thinks I am because I let them.” The superior tone in Bea's voice made her smile. “It's easier to get out of things if people assume you don't know what you're doing.”

“I think I just heard every feminist in the Western hemisphere gasp and cough.”

“I'm not a feminist. I'm a Bea-ist.”

Jo had to sit down before she laughed so hard she fell into a pile of last season's boots.

“What?” Bea crossed her arms and stared at her. “It's a real thing. My yoga instructor told me it was. Something about being your own advocate and finding your inner goddess and blah-blah-blah.”

“Your yoga instructor was high on granola and downward dogs.” Jo brushed at her eyes. “Okay. Let's do this.”

 

Trace waited not so patiently on the small front step of Jo's apartment. He'd dusted off his only pair of dress slacks and a nice button-down shirt. No tie, too formal. No snaps, too informal. Just the right balance, he thought, pleased with himself.

He wondered how Jo would dress. He imagined she'd try to keep it as casual as possible, with her allergy to relationships. Somehow he could easily see her showing up in jeans and a T-shirt that said “FU” or something equally vulgar. Probably she'd assume he would rather stay home and slip into bed than take her out.

He grinned. He'd take her out, vulgar shirt and all. There was no way he would let her escape this important step.

After another few moments, he knocked again. The light was on, that much he could see. But the shades were closed, so he didn't know where she was in the apartment.

Finally, he heard footsteps approach the door, and the locks disengage. All—he counted with each sound—five of them.

Five? Huh. Then again, she did live above a bar.

When she opened the door, he prepared himself to compliment her regardless of what outfit she'd decided to go with. But the predetermined words stuck in his throat at the sight that greeted him.

Her hair was down, waved and lightly curled in some just-out-of-bed look. Her makeup was more pronounced than he'd seen on her before, with smoky eyes and deep lips. The number she wore left her shoulders mostly bare but for thin straps that were sheer black, almost invisible when paired with her dark hair. The neckline was low, though not plunging. And the skirt hit right above her knee. The outfit complimented her body, showing off the curves he knew she disliked to their full potential.

But the heels. Oh, he would dream about those later. Slender straps, impossibly high heels, delicate little things that made him imagine all sorts of macho, politically incorrect things like sweeping her into his arms to carry her over puddles.

And he was losing his damn mind.

She chewed on her lip a little. “Too much?”

“No. Right. Very much right.” He pulled one hand from behind his back and presented her with the flowers he'd picked out earlier. Yeah, they were from the grocery store. But it wasn't like Marshall had a first-rate florist. “These are for you.”

He'd decided against roses—too cliché. Jo lived to sneer at clichés. Anything pale was out, not her style. So he'd settled for a cheerful flower—damned if he knew what it was called—in a deep purple. As she held the arrangement to her, the flowers skimmed her cheek and he knew they were the right choice.

He watched her eyes, the momentary panic followed quickly by reserved pleasure. “Thanks. I'll, uh, go put these . . . somewhere.” She darted back in and closed the door on him. Then she opened it again with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Come in.”

He stepped through the door and pressed a light kiss to her lips. She was nervous. It pleased him as much as it made him want to calm her. They'd spent plenty of time together. Alone, not alone. There was no reason to be so worried.