Hometown Girl (8 page)

“Is she still trying to fix you up with her grandson?”

“Not since I convinced her I wasn’t Jewish. She wants Bernie to marry a nice Jewish girl.”

“Oh, that’s a real loss.”

Elyse stepped into her apartment and took the inner tube. “Mel, thanks for making me go to the beach with you.”

Mel followed her in, definitely not taking the hint. “What? Are you kicking me out?”

“No, I just thought you might want to go home.”

“Not particularly. How about some takeout?”

“Fine. Go ahead and get a shower. I’ll order in. What do you want, Thai, Chinese, Indian, or pizza?”

“Pizza.” Mel skirted around her on the way to the bathroom.

“Make sure you leave some hot water for me.”

Elyse put her things away, tossed her cover-up in the hamper, straightened up the kitchen and living room, and then grabbed the pile of take-out menus she found on her bedside table. She paged through them and heard a knock on the door. So much for Mrs. Friedman not needing anything. She looked through the peephole and groaned when she saw Simon. Her kegel muscles involuntarily contracted.

“Elyse, I know you’re there. Come on. Open the door. I just want to talk to you.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The bathroom door opened and Mel stepped out wearing a towel. “Is the food here already?” Of course this would be the one time Mel would listen to her and take a quick shower.

Elyse shook her head. “It’s Simon,” she whispered.

“Ignore him, maybe he’ll go away.” Mel hissed back.

Simon knocked again. “Elyse, I saw your lights turn on, I saw you walking around. Please, just let me in. After you hear me out, I’ll leave if that’s still what you want.”

She stood there next to the door wanting nothing more than to open it, but the last thing she needed to hear was him telling her what a mistake they’d made.

“Okay, if you won’t let me in. I’ll have to do this through the door. I don’t think Mrs. Friedman will mind. She likes me.”

What? When had he befriended Mrs. Friedman?

She looked through the peephole and watched Simon stuff his hands into the pockets of his jeans, looking incredibly edible. “I’m sorry, Elyse. More sorry than I can ever say.”

She looked over at Mel whose mouth had dropped open.

Elyse shook her head wishing she was Samantha Stevens and could make both of the Spragues disappear with the twitch of her nose.

Simon cleared his throat, drawing her eye back to the peephole. He raked his hand through his hair. “I handled the whole thing badly—I was shocked when I realized . . . I should never have said what I said about you and Mel setting me up. I was way off base. If it’s any consolation, Mel stopped by my place and damn, she ripped me a new one—not that I didn’t deserve it.”

Mel came up close, “He said he’s sorry?” she whispered.

Elyse nodded.

“He never apologizes. Ever. You know that.”

“So?” Elyse whispered back.

“Elyse, please.” Simon continued. Now he was leaning against the wall across the hall so she could see all of him. That was so not fair. “The time I spent with you . . .” He stepped forward and rested both hands on her door and looked as if he could see her through it. “Baby, please let me in. It would be a whole lot easier if I didn’t have to grovel in front of Mrs. Friedman.”

Mel nudged her.

“What?” she hissed at Mel.

“He’s apologizing,” Mel whispered back.

“I know that, I’m not deaf. Everyone of my neighbors knows it too.”

“Well, maybe you should let him in.”

“With you here? Mel, he’ll think it’s another setup.”

“I’ll hide in the bathroom.”

“Oh, that would be just great. That way when he catches you, it will look even worse.”

“Then go out there.”

“In my bathing suit?”

“You look amazing.”

“Right.”

“Elyse.” Simon knocked again. “I know it takes a long time for you to make a decision, but babe, you’re killing me here.” He turned away from the door. “Hi, Mrs. Friedman. No, everything is fine. I’m just waiting for Elyse.”

Mel pointed at the door. “Go out there. I’ve never heard Simon like this. At least hear what he has to say.”

“Elyse, please. Give me a second chance. I’m begging you.” He stepped closer. “Baby, I love the way you move and how you blush all the time. I love that little nervous laugh of yours and the way you tilt your head when you think I’m nuts. I love the way you have to sleep with your feet out, and then you stick them in between mine when they’re cold. I love your smile—it lights up my whole world. I lo—”

Before Elyse knew what had happened, her purse had been dropped over her shoulder and she was being pushed out her own door, right into Simon.

* * *

Simon
felt like a stalker talking to Elyse through her door. He’d broken down and called his mother knowing she would have Elyse’s contact information.

He couldn’t believe he’d been reduced to professing his love through a closed door with Mrs. Friedman watching, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He was just going to have to do it and hope to hell she was listening and not sitting around with headphones stuck in her ears. “Elyse,” he raised his voice a little more. He was well past the point of total embarrassment. He may as well give all the neighbors something to talk about.

Then, she was there, pushed into his waiting arms, pressed tight against him. His arms went around her as if by their own volition.

She blinked up at him, her cheeks turning even brighter red than her sunburned chest.

“I love you.”

She didn’t say anything; she just stood barefoot, wearing a little black bikini with her purse thrown over her shoulder.

He tugged her tighter and kissed her until he felt her relax. “Remind me to thank Mel.”

“You knew?”

“I recognized the hand she almost slammed in the door.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Not if she was instrumental in getting you on this side of the door, I’m not. I love the bikini by the way.”

If it was possible, Elyse turned even redder.

“Are you going to let me in or am I going to have to kiss you again in front of all your neighbors?”

Elyse looked up and down the hallway and her jaw dropped. Every door within earshot was open.

“Oh, Elyse.” Mrs. Friedman stepped closer. “He seems like such a nice boy, and since Bernie’s moved on, you should let him in. It’s not like you get many gentleman callers.”

“Who’s Bernie?”

Elyse’s door opened and Mel stood there with her keys in hand and her backpack slung over her shoulder. “Don’t ask. Just come in. I’m leaving—I so don’t want to see the kiss either.”

“Tough.” He picked Elyse up, her yelp of surprise opening her mouth just enough for his purpose. He carried her inside, kissing her until they were both breathless. By the time he set her down Mel was long gone.

* * *

Elyse
pulled herself away from Simon, she was sticky and sandy and probably getting suntan oil all over his clothes. She still couldn’t believe he was talking to her, no less standing there in her apartment looking at her as if he wanted to toss her over his shoulder and take her to bed.

“Are you going to give me another chance or am I going to have to grovel more? It’s okay. You’re worth it. I’m just happy to be doing it face-to-face.”

“No.”

“No more groveling, or no, you’re not going to give me another chance?” He pulled her closer and when his lips slid over her shoulder, her train of thought completely derailed.

“Stop it. I can’t think when you’re touching me.”

He dropped his hands from her waist, stepped back, and his face fell. “I’m sorry. I won’t touch you. Or at least I’ll try not to. God, Elyse, I’ve missed you. I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve never felt like this before. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t even work—I thought Pete was going to fire me today because I was a complete screwup all week. I can’t stop thinking about you. Can you forgive me?”

She stepped closer. “Can you forgive me? I lied to you . . . by omission. Though at first, I had no idea you didn’t recognize me. I didn’t know until you called me Fitz. If I had told you—”

“I would never have given you the time of day. You were right. I’m so damn glad you didn’t say anything—this one time.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Pete told me I fell in love with a woman who I just happened to grow up with. There’s nothing wrong with falling in love with a hometown girl.”

“Smart man.”

Simon smiled and kissed her. “So what’s it gonna be?”

“A shower. I’m sticky and greasy and sandy.”

“And gorgeous. But that’s not what I’m talking about. What’s it gonna be? It’s like the curse of the relationship question.” He kissed her again and steered her down the hallway toward the bathroom.

She knew her smile was so wide she probably looked like a mental patient. “I don’t know. It’s a big decision.” She nipped his lower lip.

Simon groaned. “Are we going to have to do another list of the pros and cons? Pros first. I’m great in bed.”

“Sure, but how are you in the shower?” She started the water.

“You’re in love with me.” Simon kissed her like she’d dreamed of all week as he untied her bikini top and slid her bottoms down.

She pulled her mouth away from his and tugged his shirt from his pants. “There you go again. Are you always so sure of yourself?”

“No, Mel told me.”

“I’m gonna kill her.”

“So it’s true?”

“Simon, I thought I was in love with you since I was a kid, but I was wrong. What I felt for you back then can’t even compare to what I feel now.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It wasn’t last week, that’s for sure. I knew I’d end up hurt, but I never imagined it could be like that.”

He pulled her close, as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t finished undressing. “I’ve proved that I excel at groveling and I’m getting over my fear of saying I’m sorry.” The joking face fell away; there was desperation in his eyes. “I really do love you. So much so it scares me.”

He looked so serious. Way too serious. “Okay, let’s move onto the cons.”

“Of you saying no or yes?”

“Yes.”

“If you agree to resume our relationship, we have to go to my parents for dinner on Sunday.”

“Seriously? Why? Oh, God, did Mel tell them?”

“No, I did. How do you think I got your address? Besides, I needed to talk to my dad. I wanted to tell him that I finally understood what it was like to fall in love. You see, he told me when I was sixteen, and I never believed him.”

“What did he say?”

“Other than it took me long enough?”

“Yeah.”

“He laughed his ass off. He said you were perfect for me. Only you could bamboozle me into getting out of my own way.”

Elyse laughed. “Since I can’t come up with any more cons, I guess the pros win.” She slid her hand over his jaw and looked into his silver-grey eyes. “I love you, Simon. I always have and I always will. Now come on, the water’s getting cold.”

Read on for an excerpt from

Robin Kaye’s

next charming Bad Boys of Red Hook romance.

Available in January 2013 from Signet Eclipse.

“I think you killed him.”

Ten-year-old Nicoletta said it with such immutable calmness, Breanna Collins wondered if this wasn’t the first time a strange man had entered Nicki’s room at three in the morning and been taken down by a woman wielding a cast-iron frying pan.

Bree’s heart traded punches with her sternum, winding her more than a ten-mile run uphill. She sure as hell hoped Nicki’s assessment of the intruder was right. Better a dead burglar than a live one.

The dim glow of a streetlight outlined the shadowy figure lying facedown on the carpeted floor between Bree and Nicki. Dropping the skillet, Bree skirted the body before grabbing Nicki’s arm, pulling her off the bed, and shoving her toward the door.

The man groaned, and, like something out of a horror flick, a viselike grip closed around Bree’s ankle. She landed hard, kicking and screaming. She reached for the frying pan, only to be flipped like a tortilla on a hot griddle and covered with one extra-large serving of man.

“Get off me!”

He held her hands on either side of her head as his breath washed her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m going to hurt you.”

“You already have.”

Light flooded the room, causing temporary blindness. When Bree’s vision cleared and she saw he wan’t an intruder, she wanted to crawl under the pink princess canopy bed and hide. Instead, she dove right into the turbulent, ocean blue eyes of an enraged Storm Decker—the past occupant of Nicki’s room. Storm Decker—a man Bree had known since before she started wearing sexy underwear. Storm Decker—a man who epitomized the reason women bought the lacy, uncomfortable stuff in the first place.

“Breezy, a frying pan? That was the best you could do?”

Bree hated that nickname—maybe because Storm was the only one who dared to use it. It didn’t help matters that the sound of it rolling off his tongue had always been enough to make her breath catch. She struggled, trying to slide from beneath him, but succeeded only in pressing her body against his. His heat scorched Bree through her Mr. Bubble boxers and matching tank top. She couldn’t believe Storm would be a witness to the remnants of insanity caused by a wild shopping spree at the Walmart in Secaucus. Women built like her shouldn’t wear tank tops—not even to bed.

Storm didn’t move a muscle, keeping her pinned beneath him. He didn’t behave like a gentleman should and get off her, help her up, and make sure she was all right—not that she was surprised. Storm Decker was a bad boy, and he had the rap sheet to prove it.

He had the nerve to shoot her his guaranteed-good-time grin, the one that made any woman in the vicinity want to remove the sexy underwear she’d purchased with him in mind. “If I were out to hurt you, you’d be in a real tight spot right about now.”

“No, she wouldn’t.”

Storm’s attention snapped to Nicki standing in the doorway, holding the phone in one hand and the frying pan in the other.

“You’d be out cold again, and the cops would be on their way. Now, do you want to get off her, or am I gonna have to use this?” She waved the frying pan and did her best to look menacing.

Nicki was too cute to manage that, but Bree gave her points for trying.

Storm turned back to Bree, their noses almost touching. “Who’s the kid?”

“Storm, this is Nicki. Nicki, meet Storm Decker, Pete’s son.” She tried not to think about Storm’s proximity and concentrated on the pained and confused look on his face. He wasn’t the only one confused. “What are you doing here?”

Storm rolled off her. She thought she’d be able to breathe better without two hundred pounds of man crushing her, but she was wrong. No, the breathlessness was still there. Crap. She was twenty-eight and a far cry from that seventeen-year-old caught in Storm Decker’s wake.

“Logan couldn’t get away from the vineyard—something about harvest season. He got ahold of me and told me Pop was sick. Since Logan was unable to make it, I was elected. I’ve been traveling for”—Storm glanced at his watch—“twenty-three hours, and this is the welcome I get? No wonder I haven’t been home in years—”

“Eleven years.” Bree sat and hugged her knees to her chest.

“So you did miss me.”

“Yeah, like a rash.”

“I might not have seen you, but I’ve been home a few times. The last time was five or six years ago. You were probably away at school.”

Bree rose and brushed herself off, just to have something to do with her hands. “You must have left quite an impression. Funny, no one mentioned it to me.” She took the phone and the pan from Nicki. “It’s late, sweetie. Go back to bed.”

“Aw, Bree.”

Dropping a kiss on Nicki’s forehead, Bree cut her off. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Storm rose to his feet. He’d looked a lot smaller when he was out cold. He picked up his duffel bag with a grunt, one hand held against his head over what must have been one hell of a lump.

Bree waited for Nicki to climb into bed and curl around a big teddy bear before pulling up the light cotton blanket and brushing a hand over her hair. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me.”

“Okay.”

Bree followed Storm out, doused the light, and closed the door behind her. Without looking at him, she headed straight to the kitchen, grabbed a bag of frozen peas, and tossed them at him. “Are you okay? Do I need to take you to the emergency room to have your head examined?”

He sat on a barstool and winced when he placed the bag against his head. “I’m fine.”

She looked him over—his pupils were equally dialated. “Any nausea?”

“Why, Breezy, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you cared.” The side of his mouth quirked up.

“I don’t. I just don’t want to be charged with murder. Now answer the question.”

“No, I’m fine.” His phone rang, sounding like a foghorn. Pulling it off his hip, he checked the caller. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”

“Fine.” Bree started out of the kitchen, but he wrapped his fingers around her wrist and held on. The tingle shot straight to her breasts. She didn’t dare look down.

“Storm Decker.” He listened for a moment, and a smile spread across his face as her cheeks ignited. His black hair was cut short, much shorter than she remembered. It only served to accentuate the chiseled features of his face, while his strong, square jaw covered with dark stubble added to his dangerous look. Blue eyes watched her and changed color with his mood. When he’d been on top of her, it had been like looking into an angry sea, and now his eyes were the color of a summer sky—deep blue and full of promise. When he smiled, his perfect teeth gleamed white against his tan skin. His voice was as soothing and buttery as a bottle of Macallan’s fifty-five-year-old single malt scotch. At $17,500 a bottle, she’d bet a case of it that the person on the other end of the line was female.

“Hi, Sandy.”

Bingo
. Bree twisted her wrist and pulled away, breaking his grip.

“How are things at home? Any problems today?” Storm’s gaze lingered on Bree’s chest before moving to his pricey watch. She wondered if they sold cheap knockoffs on the street corners in Auckland. She doubted it. It looked more expensive than the run-of-the-mill Rolex. They probably charged extra for the dive watch to withstand the pressure of the ocean’s depths or the corner office. Then again, maybe his watch had been a prize for winning the Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race. So okay, she’d Googled him and found a picture of Storm and his team holding the Rolex Cup. It was just her luck the photo hadn’t done him justice.

“Tell Laurel I’ll be back in plenty of time to go to the yacht club dinner. This should only take a week, two tops.”

Bree did a quick boob check while she wiped the already-clean kitchen counter and tried to look as if she weren’t listening to every word of his conversation. Unfortunately, the girls were standing at attention. Still, it didn’t keep her from wanting to smack him upside the head with the damn frying pan again on general principle. A one – or two-week visit was no help. She had called Logan because she needed someone responsible to stay for the next couple of months at least. It sounded as if Storm’s plan was to blow in, stay just long enough to assuage his guilty conscience, then leave for the next eleven years or until Pete’s funeral, whichever came first. It was disappointing, but not unexpected. He probably had Peter Pan tattooed on his incredible ass.

Storm snapped his phone shut. “I guess I should thank you for the great homecoming. Now, do you want to tell me just what the hell is going on and who that kid is in my old bedroom?”

“Who are you to walk in here and start demanding answers? You ignored Pete for years, and now . . .” Storm was . . . God, he was
here
. Her energy level bottomed out, and she leaned against the counter for support. “Why couldn’t Logan have come? And if he had to send someone, why couldn’t he have called Slater?” After all, Slater was safe. “Slater’s in Seattle. And last I checked, Seattle is a hell of a lot closer to Brooklyn than New Zealand, if you’re still in New Zealand.” With the Storm Chaser, one never knew.

“I get that you’re not happy I’m here. Deal with it, Breezy, because like it or not, I’m all you’ve got.”

“Lucky me. When it comes to helping someone other than yourself, you were always as useless as an inflatable dartboard.”

Storm’s head snapped back, and his chin followed, as if Oscar De La Hoya had hit him with a right cross. “People change.”

She’d won this round. She’d pinned him against the ropes with the two-ton weight of her gaze, willing him to explain his disappearance years ago, but his eyes told no tales. “Pete collapsed at the Crow’s Nest. Heart attack. They did bypass surgery, and he’s not handling it well.” She threw the sponge into the sink and wiped her hands on a towel. “I have a hard enough time managing the restaurant and Nicki single-handedly. I can’t take care of Pete too. I need help. I’m surprised Logan called you, but I’m even more surprised you came.”

“Why wouldn’t I have come? Just because I moved away doesn’t mean I’m not close to Pop.”

“Oh, yeah, I heard you friended him on Facebook. I’m sure that means so much to him.” Bree took a deep breath and released it slowly. “He’s at Methodist Hospital, and with any luck, he’ll be out in a few days. He needs to heal, and I don’t know how much he’ll be able to do once he’s back on his feet.”

Storm stood and in two steps was around the breakfast bar. “Breezy? Is Nicki yours?”

“Mine?” She stepped back. “Why would you think that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Bree ran her hand through her hair and tucked it behind her ear. “No. Nicki is Pete’s.”

“Pop’s? Since when?”

“It’s been a few months now.” If Pete hadn’t told him about Nicki, it wasn’t her place to do it. “Look, I’m tired. I’m going back to bed. Help yourself to whatever you want. There’s beer and leftover pizza in the fridge. The guest towels are in the linen closet. I’m in Logan’s old room. You can stay in Pete’s room tonight—the sheets are clean. Good night, Storm.” She brushed by him on her way out of the small kitchen.

“Good night, Breezy.”

Bree felt his eyes on her the whole way back to her room. She closed the door and thought about locking it—not sure whether it would be to keep him out or keep her in. Climbing into bed, she fought the searing memory of the last time she’d seen Storm Decker. He’d been running out that same door and leaving her behind.

* * *

Storm’s gaze locked on Breezy as she moved away. Reddish brown hair framed her face and gave her that hot, tussled, just-rolled-out-of-bed look women spent a fortune to duplicate—Breezy did it without trying. But then she
had
just rolled out of bed. He couldn’t help but smile at the way her big green eyes sparkled with humor or anger whenever she hit her target. She had a hell of an aim, and not just with frying pans.

Her face had softened with time but still showed off those high cheekbones, short, upturned nose, and wide, full mouth. Her face wasn’t the only thing that had changed. At seventeen, she’d been a skinny kid, but she’d filled out in all the right places. Her tank top showed off an abundance of cleavage, and those breasts were one hundred percent natural. He could tell. The rest of her body did anything but disappoint, and it put her in the realm of fantasy material. Damn, leave it to Breezy to be the only woman alive who could make those stupid cartoon pajamas look better than anything he’d seen as a teenager in the Victoria’s Secret catalogue—the poor man’s
Playboy
.

Storm fingered the goose egg on the back of his head. Shit, he was going to kill Logan when he got his hands on him. Logan failed to mention Breezy worked for Pop. But then, Storm had never asked about her either. The last thing he needed was a reminder of Breezy—hell, he’d dreamed about her every night for at least a year after almost having sex with her.

Storm pulled the phone off his belt and called Logan. He didn’t give a shit what time it was. While the phone rang in his ear, he looked around the apartment he’d grown up in. It hadn’t changed much except for some new carpet, paint, a big-screen TV, and a leather couch. Pop’s favorite recliner still sat in the corner. Even though smoking in New York had been outlawed, since the apartment was above the Crow’s Nest, it still held the faint scent of stale tobacco and beer. It smelled like home—something he hadn’t realized he missed until he’d walked through the door. That was . . . right before Breezy beaned him with the frying pan.

“Do you know what time it is?” Logan didn’t sound happy. Good, neither was Storm, and it was three hours earlier in California. Hell, Storm didn’t even want to know what time zone his body thought it was in.

“It’s twelve forty-five your time. I guess the better question would be, do I care? I’m home, and you have a lot of explaining to do.”

“What do you need explained exactly? Pop’s in the hospital, and one of us needs to help him until he’s back on his feet. I’m in the middle of a harvest, and Slater is doing an internship for school. You were elected. Besides, it got you out of the winter blues down under, so what the hell are you complaining about?”

Storm raked his fingers through his hair, momentarily forgetting about the goose egg until his hand traveled over it. He sucked in air through his teeth, the ones he was currently grinding. “Logan, you never told Bree I was coming. The first thing she did when I got here was hit me upside the head with a frying pan. She thought someone had broken into the apartment.” The deep chuckle on the other end of the phone irritated him.