Love Me Tender (8 page)

He hated that kind of talk, but his erection apparently liked it, pulsing painfully against his fly. “D'you have to be so crude?”

“Oh, did you want to be romantic?” she teased.

“No! I don't want to be romantic. I don't want sex, either.” Though the aching organ behind his fly sure as hell did. “We can't have sex,” he said, as much to his erection as to her.

“Why not?”

He knew there were reasons, if only he could get his brain to work. Oh yeah, right. He waved his arm around the room. “You work for me.”

“This has nothing to do with work. It's personal.” She almost purred the last word. “Very personal.”

Of course it was. That was the problem. “Look, uh, the thing is . . .” He searched for words, then finished clumsily, “My heart belongs to someone else. I lost my fiancée.” He never talked about Anita, and it took an effort to force out those few words.

“I know, and I'm so sorry.” The compassion in her eyes looked genuine. “But it's not your heart I want, Dave. We like each other, we're attracted, so why not have some fun?”

“I'm not that kind of guy.” Despite his earlier thought that fun would be kissing her.

“But I think you could be, and I'd like to prove it.”

And what did a guy say to that? The offer was so tempting. Before he could figure out how to respond, he heard footsteps approaching. He grabbed his jacket from the chair and held it casually in front of his aroused body before turning to face the door.

Sam stepped into the dimly lit room. “Hey there, you two. I thought you'd gone home long ago, Cassidy. And didn't I say good night to you a while back, Dave?”

“You were buried in your novel when we came through the lobby,” Cassidy said. “We noticed the bar light and came in to turn it off.”

“Yup, I finished writing a chapter, got up to stretch, and saw the light as well.”

The three of them turned and stared at the light over the bar. Dave forced his feet into motion, first stopping the music and ejecting the CD, then clicking off the light.

“Okay,” Sam said, heading back toward the glowing light from the lobby.

Cassidy paused to glance at Dave, then followed.

He brought up the rear, noticing that she limped slightly. “I'll give you a ride home.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I can walk. I do it all the time.” It wasn't a yes or a no, more like she was trying to guess his intentions. Sam had interrupted before they'd resolved the issue between them. The
personal
issue.

In the lobby, Dave glanced around at the familiar surroundings. Several of the items there, as in the rest of the hotel, were refurbished antiques from the gold rush days. He and Anita had picked them up at collectibles shops and garage sales. She'd loved browsing for slightly battered treasures and giving them a new life.

Anita had valued tradition, stability. The woman had been the opposite of the rootless Cassidy. A newly graduated teacher, she had moved to Caribou Crossing to take a job at the high school. She'd joined the Heritage Committee, which was dedicated to preserving the town's history and historic buildings, a committee that Dave chaired. From the moment he met her, she'd owned his heart. And she still did.

But Cassidy said she didn't want his heart and he believed her. Unlike most women, she shunned any hint of permanence.

Sam's voice tugged him out of his thoughts. “Cassidy, it's after midnight. You're tired and it's chilled off out there. Let the man give you a ride.”

“If you insist,” she said to Sam, then turned to Dave, her dark eyebrows arched.

“Right. The Jeep's parked out back.”

After a round of good nights, he and Cassidy went out to the parking lot. When they'd climbed into the Jeep with the Wild Rose logo on the side, she said, “Well? I have my own entrance at Ms. Haldenby's. Want to come in and finish what we started?”

“No.” He grimaced at the brusqueness of his rejection. “I mean . . . Well, yes, but no.”

She snorted. “You know I'm going to ask why not.”

That was another difference between her and Anita. His fiancée had been subtle. Persistent, but subtle. Cassidy was more “in your face.”

“As if there's an easy answer,” he said ruefully.

She cocked her head. “I bet there's a one-word answer: Anita.”

“That's certainly one reason.”

“I bet she wouldn't want you to spend the rest of your life being miserable.”

How many times had he heard that from well-meaning friends? He even believed it. His mind told him that having sex with someone else, even falling in love, wouldn't mean being disloyal to Anita. But his heart had died. Oh yes, it had the capacity to love Robin, Jessie, his family, and his close friends, but the part of it that could sing with love for a life mate had shattered. And he was glad, because it meant he could never suffer that particular agony again.

Trying to be polite, he said to Cassidy, “Look, no offense, but I don't talk about Anita.”

“So people say, but I'm not sure it's healthy.”

Dave gritted his teeth. Of course Cassidy, being Cassidy, wouldn't be warned off the way
considerate
people were.

She went on. “Gramps died when I was fifteen. I was closer to him than to anyone else.”

Her words distracted him briefly from his annoyance. She talked more about her grandfather than about her parents. Dave gathered that he'd been the one person who had always let her know that she mattered and was loved.

“When he died, it helped to talk about him with JJ and my parents,” she said. “It kept him close. Don't you think maybe—”

“Anita's in my heart,” he burst out. “She'll always be there. And talking hurts.” Even thinking about her dredged up those horrible dark feelings of anger, guilt, desolation.

After a moment, Cassidy said, “Okay. We're all different.”

Dave breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” Now she'd leave him alone. He turned the key in the ignition.

Cassidy studied Dave's profile. The Wild Rose parking lot was illuminated only by security lights, but there was enough light to see that the tense line of his jaw had relaxed.

She lowered the window on the passenger side. The nights had warmed up since she'd arrived in Caribou Crossing, but the air still had a refreshing touch of coolness.

He drove out of the parking lot. It was only four blocks to Ms. H's house. Should she leave the poor guy alone? Usually, when she could tell that his thoughts had gone to a dark place, she tried to cheer him up. But that was like sticking a bandage on a wound that wasn't healing. It was obvious he was stuck. She'd bet everything she owned—which wasn't much, but did include the battered Winnie-the-Pooh that Gramps had given her when she was a toddler—that Anita would hate to see Dave like this.

And so did she.

She clicked off the radio. “The gossip mill thinks you're dating Sally.”

His jaw clenched again and he didn't speak.

“They think the two of you are taking it slow but likely will end up together.” Though he seemed to be trying to ignore her, she went on. “Some people aren't sure if that's a good thing.”

“Huh?” He cast a quick glance in her direction. “Everyone's been after me to date. Now they don't think it's a good thing?”

“It's Sally. No one dislikes her, but they don't know her. She holds herself apart.” Maybe it was shyness, but it made the woman hard to relate to.

He snorted. “Seems to me there's something to be said for that. As compared to being a busybody.”

She chuckled. “I refuse to take offense. People mind each other's business because they care.” And she did care about Dave Cousins. He'd become a friend and she wanted him to be happy. To unstick himself, loosen up, let that dimple break free. To lighten up on being so protective of his daughter, his inn, anyone and anything he cared for. To have fun.

To have sex, for God's sake! With her, preferably.

When he didn't respond, she urged, “Think about it. Let's take—oh, how about Mr. Dave Cousins, for example?”

He shook his head, clearly confused. “What are you on about now?”

“He could mind his own business and leave Sally alone, struggling to keep things going since her husband died. But no, he pokes his nose in, helps her out every week.”

“We're friends.”

“And he gives Madisun Joe a summer job.”

“Madisun's a damned fine employee.”

“Absolutely. But she's going back to university in the fall, which means Dave'll have to hire and train another assistant manager, or do without. And, let's see, he gives Karen a huge discount on her wedding reception, and—”

“It's my wedding present to her and Jamal.”

“Of course it is. Then there's the way he gives his staff extra time off when they have family issues to deal with, or how there always happens to be a seniors special when Mr. Bertuzzi comes for a meal. Or remember last month, how he hired this drifter who turned up on his doorstep, and fronted her the first two weeks' pay so she could find a place to stay?”

While she'd been talking, Dave had pulled the Jeep up in front of Ms. H's green rancher, with its neatly kept garden. He didn't turn off the engine. “Good night, Cassidy.”

Undeterred, she said, “It's good to get involved with people, to try to help those you care about—the way you do, and the way I'm trying to, if you'd let me.”

“I don't need help, damn it.”

“Did Sally say the same thing when you first messed around in her life?”

His mouth, which had been tight with anger, opened in a silent “oh.”

Point made. “You care about everyone else, but you need to care more about yourself.” She touched his arm below the rolled-up sleeve of his white shirt. “Dave, you're stuck and you're not doing anything to fix yourself.”

His Adam's apple worked as he swallowed. He stared down at her hand, which she didn't remove. Finally he lifted his arm, shut off the Jeep engine, then put his hand back on the steering wheel. When he spoke, the words grated out. “Fine, I'm stuck. But I get through every day. That's the best I can do.”

She'd felt that way once—when Gramps had died, her parents had split up for the second time, and her father had barely noticed she was alive. JJ had thrown himself into activities with his buddies, but she'd withdrawn. She'd gotten through each day, counting them until she could break free and strike out into the world. The solution for Dave Cousins clearly wasn't to go explore the world, because that would mean leaving everyone and everything he loved, but he did deserve a happier life.

Gently she squeezed his arm, feeling the tension of rock-hard muscles. “It's not fair to you. Not fair to Robin or the others who care about—”

“Robin?” He jerked his arm off the wheel, away from her, and glared at her. “You're saying I'm not a good father?”

“Of course you are. But she sees how sad you are. Everyone sees it. They tiptoe around it; they try to cheer you up.”

Dave had turned to stare out the front window again. His face was so still that he could have been a statue.

“Your daughter's eleven. She should be having fun with her dad, not having to be careful what she says to him.”

After a moment, he said slowly, “What do you mean?”

Cassidy bit her lip. She was hurting him. And if she kept going, she might lose his friendship, not to mention her job. But there were things he needed to hear. “She loved Anita too. You lost the woman you were going to marry and Robin lost the woman who was going to be her stepmom. She can talk to the rest of us about Anita, but you two were the closest to her. She told me she can't even say Anita's name to you, and that's tough on her.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. As if weighing each word, he said, “Robin talks to you about Anita?”

“Yes. She told me about—”

“No!” He held up a hand. “I don't want to hear.”

“Ask yourself this,” she said quietly. “For three years, you've avoided talking about Anita. Maybe even tried to hold back the memories. Has it made you feel any better?”

He didn't answer. She hadn't expected him to. At least he had let her have her say without throwing her out of the Jeep.

Suddenly, fatigue swamped her. As she reached for the door handle, she realized that her left leg had gone numb. Determined not to let Dave see her weakness, she opened the door and turned her body sideways to face out. Keeping a tight hold on the door, she slid to the ground, letting her right leg take her weight until she got her balance.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, then closed the door.

She stood on the sidewalk and waited until he drove away. Then, moving slowly and cautiously with her gaze fixed on the path in front of her, she made her way to the side door that led to her studio apartment. It was tough walking when one foot didn't feel the ground, but she was getting used to it.

Inside, she paused in the tiny kitchen area to drink a glass of cold water. She noticed that one of the freesia blossoms had fallen out of her pocket somewhere. The other was half wilted, still sweet smelling when she held it to her nose. She filled a smaller glass with water and stuck the poor thing in it.

Tonight, she couldn't be bothered removing her make-up or brushing her teeth. It was all she could do to unfold the hide-a-bed and pull off her clothes before sliding between the sheets.

“Night,” she murmured to Pooh Bear, who sat on the end table.

She didn't set the alarm on her cell. Thank heavens Madisun had given her the day off on Sunday. A good rest would get her healed up and reenergized.

On Monday she'd find out if she still had a job.

 

 

Sunday, Cassidy woke to the sound of firm knocking on the door of her apartment. Not the outside door, but the one that led into Ms. Haldenby's house.

“Coming!” She rolled out of bed, warily testing her left leg, which now behaved just fine. Sunlight filtered through the blinds and she hummed as she grabbed her robe from a hook and wrapped it around her.

“Good morning,” she said as she opened the door.

Her white-haired landlady, dressed in a blue-and-white-striped shirt tucked into a blue skirt, greeted her with a frown. “Are you sick? There's no excuse for lying in bed past nine o'clock unless you're sick.”

Ms. H had a brusque manner, a keen intellect, a soft heart, and firm opinions on many subjects. She had no patience with wimps, and fortunately Cassidy wasn't one. “How about working until past midnight?” Okay, it wasn't exactly the truth, considering the nap she'd taken in Dave's office, but close enough. “What time is it?”

“After ten. You have yesterday's make-up around your eyes. Wash up and put on some clothes. Breakfast's in ten minutes.”

“If that's an invitation, I'd be delighted to accept.”

Humor danced in Ms. H's sky-blue eyes, but all she said was, “Don't be late.”

Under the warm spray of the shower, Cassidy mused about last night. Hopefully, Dave wasn't too pissed off. She could live without having sex with him—though, man, dancing with him and kissing him had sure been a turn-on—but she'd hate to lose his friendship and her job. Maybe she should call and apologize, but she'd only said things he needed to hear. Surely he'd realize that. Best thing to do was show up for work tomorrow as if nothing had happened.

Resolved not to let worry spoil her day off, she dressed in shorts and a purple tank top worn over a pink bra. No make-up. With her coloring, she didn't need it, so she wore it only on special occasions. With a couple minutes to spare, she put last night's clothes in the laundry hamper, folded up the hide-a-bed sofa, and moved the coffee table back in place in front of it.

Her studio apartment had been created from the house's original dining room and spare bathroom. The furniture wasn't fancy, but it was clean and functional. The sofa and a reading chair were grouped with a coffee table, an end table, and an old TV. A small table with two upright chairs served either for eating or as a desk. The mini kitchen had a sink, fridge, microwave, and toaster oven. Her landlady had told her that, if she wanted to do any real cooking or baking, she was welcome to use her kitchen.

The place was perfect for a nomad like Cassidy, and she loved having her own space rather than sharing an apartment.

She gave a quick double-knock on Ms. H's door, then entered the main part of the house. The welcome aroma of coffee and frying bacon met her. It had become a habit for the two women to have breakfast on Sundays if Cassidy wasn't working at the Wild Rose.

“Mmm, smells good,” she called as she walked down the hall toward the kitchen. Most mornings, Cassidy had yogurt and some kind of Wild Rose leftover. Chef Mitch let staff take unsold goodies at the end of the day: cranberry bran muffins, peach Danish, gooey cinnamon buns, chocolate croissants. Delicious, but not the kind of real meal Ms. Haldenby believed in.

The woman, now wearing a navy bibbed apron over her blouse and skirt, turned from the stove. “I had some stale bread that needed to be used, so I made French toast.”

“That's one of my faves.”

The woman's lips curved momentarily, but then she straightened them and said briskly, “The word is ‘favorites'. If you'd been my student, young lady, you'd speak like a civilized human being.”

“Civilization's highly overrated.” Cassidy noted that the table was already set. Glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice and a milk jug, sugar pot, pitcher of maple syrup. Bone china plates, cream colored with gold rims, and matching cups and saucers. Empty cups. She went to the old-fashioned drip-through coffeemaker on the counter, removed the cone and filter, then poured from the full carafe into the two cups. By the time she'd put the carafe back on the stove element with the heat set to low, Ms. H had dished out French toast and bacon and taken her apron off.

The two women took their usual spots at the table. Ms. H said a quick grace. She'd told Cassidy that it wasn't because she was religious—she only went to church at Christmas and Easter—but because it reminded her of her mother.

And this ritual of turning Sunday breakfast into something special reminded Cassidy of how things had been when she and JJ were little kids and their parents were getting along.

“Tell me all about the wedding reception,” her landlady said.

Cassidy took her time swallowing a delicious bite of maple syrup–slathered French toast and crispy bacon. Then, as the two of them savored breakfast, she described Karen's dress, everyone else's clothes, the food, the toasts.

Over second cups of coffee, Ms. H asked questions and shared snippets of information, including fourth-grade stories about some of the wedding guests. She was an astute observer, had the memory of an elephant, and was often wryly humorous but never cruel.

Cassidy rose to clear the table and refill their coffee cups. When she sat down, Ms. H said, “Well, I do hope Karen and Jamal will have a long and happy life together.” There was an unaccustomed note in her voice. Envy? Yearning?

For a moment, Cassidy felt something similar. “Me too,” she said quietly. Maybe the newlyweds would beat the odds and turn out like Dave's parents rather than her own multidivorced ones. Then, because she and her landlady had hit it off from day one, Cassidy dared to say, “You never married, Ms. H. I can't believe it's from lack of opportunity.”

“A nice compliment.” The woman, who wasn't normally a fidget, toyed with her coffee cup. “Lack of opportunity. In a way, I suppose that's true.”