Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel (10 page)

So, just him.

The dribble, dribble,
thunk
of the ball alternated with the solid
thwack
of Gabe’s mallet. He pounded again at the jamb—the dog raised its head from its paws at the noise, ears on alert
—
and tugged again at the bottom. Wood creaked. Cracked. His arms took the weight as the window broke loose, his legs bracing as he lowered it to the ground.

The kid missed a shot and went running after the ball. Gabe half hauled, half slid the heavy window to the side, ready for the Dumpster. The light glared off the glass, pink and gold. He looked at the sky. Six o’clock. Gabe’s stomach, spoiled by two whole days of regular meals, growled.

He wondered if Jane had plans for dinner.

Not that he had plans to ask her out. He’d never in his life had to buy a woman dinner in exchange for sex. And while he’d never hooked up with anybody’s mother before, he had this idea that you didn’t take a kid along on a date to a restaurant. At least not a first date. He’d have to ask Luke how he had managed with a kid.

Not that it mattered to Gabe. He had no business getting involved with a woman like Jane.

The problem was she stirred him, rousing old hungers to life. She was so soft, all of her round and pink and touchable, that she woke all his crazy caveman protective instincts. The last time he’d acted on those instincts, he’d spent nine months in jail.

Which was another reason to stay away from her. She had an ex-husband with a restraining order who was getting out of prison in a month. A kid to raise. A business to run.

And a badge-wearing, gun-toting daddy who wanted to run Gabe out of town.

He had come here to find his feet, to make a fresh start. To figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

You could get certified
, Meg Fletcher had said.

He shook the thought away. The GI Bill covered tuition—he was fuzzy on the details—but he needed a real job to pay the bills. Anyway, chasing a piece of paper to prove he knew what he already knew, starting at the bottom with a bunch of fresh-faced premeds who had probably never dealt with anything more life-threatening than a hangnail . . . Not for him.

He had enough baggage of his own without taking on Jane’s.

But there was that moment, God, that moment, when she looked at him with those soft gray eyes, when all his muscles clenched and every cell in his body whispered,
Yess
. That look that said she was interested in him, like he was worthy of her interest.
Tell me about you
.

He whacked the guide board into place. He needed to get laid.

Because what were the odds, really, that a woman like her would give a guy like him the time of day?

From what he’d seen of her today—with the teenagers, with the old guy who’d lost his wife—bakers must operate like bartenders, making them all feel better, making them all feel special. Treating them all with that same warm, focused attention, feeding them all out of her bounty and the goodness of her heart. Maybe she was simply being nice to him. Or worse, felt sorry for him.

He set the depth of the circular saw and ran it up along the board, buzzing through the cedar shake siding.

No wonder that his sex-starved brain, his eager dick, mistook her sympathy for something else. He’d probably imagined that moment of electric awareness.

But he hadn’t imagined that blush.

Gabe released the trigger, stopping the saw. So . . . Yeah. There was that.

He moved the ladder to work on the other side. From the corner of his eye he could see the kid, Aidan, creeping closer.

The pull of power tools on the American male, Gabe thought.

When he was that age, he used to sit on an upturned bucket, watching Uncle Chuck at work. Even then, his uncle found him things to do, little shit that would make him feel useful.

At least let me take him for the day
, Uncle Chuck would say to Mom, lowering his voice to avoid waking Pop, sleeping it off in the next room.
He’ll be safe with me
.

And Mom, moving stiffly, a bruise on her arm like the shadow of a hand, would wince and agree.

You must miss him very much
.

His throat burned. Ah, Christ. He couldn’t afford this kind of distraction. Not unless he wanted to lose a finger. He blinked and went back down the ladder.

The kid stood watching from a few yards away, eyes gleaming beneath that straight fringe of hair.

“Circular saw.” Gabe held it up for inspection before
swapping it for the next tool. “Reciprocating saw.” Like he was doing freaking show-and-tell at the kid’s school. “You don’t touch either one. Got it?”

The kid nodded, solemn as an owl.

Gabe cleared his throat. “Good.”

He went back up the ladder. Sawdust flew beneath his blade. The vibration shook his hands. The noise filled his ears and rattled his brain.

When he had finished the cut near the header board, he climbed down the ladder and grabbed the crowbar, prying away the cedar shakes to expose the sheathing beneath. He picked one up, winged it away. Both the dog and the boy turned their heads to watch its flight. Pry, tug, toss. It was dirty, tedious work, but the stack of shingles grew slowly, along with his sense of accomplishment.

“You missed the pile,” Aidan said.

Gabe pushed up his safety goggles. “You think you can do better?”

“Can’t do worse.”

Gabe bit back a grin. “How old are you?”

The boy’s chin stuck out. “Seven and a half.”

Anybody who still counted their age in months was too young to work with splintering wood and rusty nails. But it wasn’t Gabe’s job to explain that to the kid. “How about you work on your jump shot instead?”

“The hoop’s too high.”

Gabe eyed the hoop, which listed slightly below regulation height. In Helmand Province, he and his buddies had spent some downtime shooting a soccer ball at a tire mounted on the combat outpost wall. Of course, they were all over four feet tall.

“You’re not shooting from the pocket,” Gabe said.

Aidan looked blank.

“Get your elbow under the ball. Up and down,” Gabe instructed, demonstrating in the air. “Yeah, like that. Now raise your arm. See? Straight line from your eye to the ball to the basket.”

Aidan glanced at him uncertainly.

Gabe bit back a grin. “Don’t look at me. Look at the target. Good. Bend your knees. Now shoot.”

The ball arced short of the rim.

“Not bad.” Gabe corralled the ball before it could roll into the pile of shingles and bounced it back to the kid.

“I missed.”

“So you need a little practice.”

Movement at the back door. Even before Afghanistan, before jail, Gabe had always had excellent peripheral vision. His body tensed and then relaxed.
Jane
.

The mutt, recognizing the source of its food, lunged joyfully to greet her.

Jane stiffened instinctively, thrusting out her hand to deflect its nose from her crotch. The dog cringed, head shy.

“Easy,” Gabe called.

Jane shot him a dry look. “Are you talking to me? Or the dog?”

He grinned. “Both.”

She took a deep breath—
Hello, breasts
—and reached out gingerly. The mutt ducked its head before submitting to her touch.

Gabe watched her fingers stroke the dark fur, an unfamiliar yearning tightening his chest. “Lucky bas—” He remembered the kid in time and shut up.

“Is that your dog’s name?” Aidan asked. “Lucky?”

“Uh.” Gabe cleared his throat. “Yeah.” Why not? He had to call it something.

Jane sidled around the dog, her gaze slipping past Gabe to the edge of the construction. “Is everything all right out here?”

Her view was blocked—mostly—by the corner of her building. But all she had to do to see the full extent of the destruction was step into the bakery’s dining room. Gabe had done his best to protect the space with tarps and plastic curtains, but demo was always messy.

“It’s all good,” he promised. Which wasn’t much reassurance, but it was all he could give her. For now.

She regarded him with those wide, considering eyes, still absently petting the mutt panting at her side.
Stroke, stroke
. Every muscle in Gabe’s body sat at attention and begged. “Aidan’s not getting in your way, is he?”

What?
Gabe shook his head, trying to dislodge the image of those fingers on his skin. “Nope.”

“Mr. Murphy’s teaching me how to make a jump shot,” Aidan said.

Jane tilted her head. “More guy stuff?”

She didn’t
sound
annoyed, Gabe thought hopefully. “You never played basketball when you were a kid?”

Color tinged her face. “Do I look like a basketball player to you?”

“Well . . .” Given permission to roam, his gaze dipped down to her amazing breasts, her round, full hips. He’d pick her to play on his team any day. He grinned. “You’re a little short.”

“Mom, watch!”

Aidan threw the ball, which rattled off the rim.

Gabe snagged the rebound. “Almost there, sport. Try again.” He watched the kid fumble. “Like this.” He got behind Aidan, adjusting his stance, positioning his arm. “Ball in the pocket. Eyes on the basket. This hand—your free hand—you’re not throwing with this hand, okay? It’s just there to guide the ball. Right. Now bend your knees. And . . . shoot.”

Aidan launched the ball.

This time Gabe followed it to the basket and tipped it in. “Good job.”

The kid beamed, cracking his split lip. “Go, team!”

“Yeah.” Jesus, he had a smile like his mother’s. “Nice assist.” Gabe bounced the ball back to him. “Do it again.”

“Show me.” Jane’s voice was quiet and firm.

Gabe’s head snapped around. “What?”

“Would you show me, too, please?” Her cheeks were pink, but she didn’t back down.

He liked that about her. Liked damn near everything about her, in fact. Which was why this was such a bad idea.

“Why?”

She raised her shoulders in a small, frustrated shrug, which did nice things to her chest. “Because I need to do things myself. I can play with him. I can help him. I’m his mother.”

Aidan’s mother. Hank Clark’s daughter. It would be really, really stupid of Gabe to get involved.

But the kid’s daddy was in prison. It couldn’t be easy for her, trying to be both mother and father to the boy.

“Sure. Fine.” He took a deep breath, inhaling vanilla and . . . and something. He could do this. It wasn’t like teaching her to shoot pool, bending her over a table . . .

Or baseball, getting up close behind her, teaching her to choke up on a bat . . .

His mind blanked.

Fuck. He was just getting his life back under control. He was not losing it over soft, appealing Jane Clark.

The fact that he wanted to bone her into next week didn’t mean he couldn’t teach her how to shoot a damn ball.

Even if she did smell good enough to eat.

“So, you want to shoot the ball into the basket,” he said.

The corner of her mouth indented in one of those tiny, controlled smiles. “Yes, I figured that’s why it’s called basketball.”

She was killing him. “Right. Okay. Stand with your feet about shoulder-width apart. Line your fingertips up with the long seam of the ball. Don’t grip so hard.” Did that sound dirty to her? Because, with her sweetness filling his head, with all that softness close enough to touch, it sounded dirty to him. “You want a little air here. Like this.” He demonstrated. “Balance the ball on one hand.”

“Your hands are bigger than mine,” she complained good-naturedly, but she followed his instructions, stretching her small fingers to span the ball.

Gabe frowned, laying one finger on a small discolored circle near the crease of her thumb. “What’s this?”

She glanced down, distracted. “Oh. A burn.”

“And this?” A series of thin silver scars at the base of her little finger.

“It’s nothing. Just a cut.”

More than one. A slippery knot tied itself in his gut. He’d figured her hands would be like the rest of her. Smooth. Unblemished. Or like her pastries, pretty and perfect. But this close he could see they were covered in nicks and burns, calluses and scars.

“How did you cut yourself?” he asked, dreading her reply. Already knowing her answer.

Inside, he felt like he was freaking five years old again, trying to make sense of the noises in the night, the bruises on his mother’s throat, her arm.
“You hurt yourself, Mommy?”

“It’s nothing, honey. Hush. Mommy bumped into a door.”

Or,
“I tripped on the stairs. It was an accident.”

Never,
Daddy backhanded Mommy onto the floor
, or shoved her hard against the cabinets or knocked her down and made her bleed.

“I don’t remember,” Jane said. “It must have been an accident.”