Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (19 page)

None of them had.  At least, not until her father cleaned himself up, picked up the tattered shreds of both his heart and his pride.

Noah, she realized, was the man her father might have been if life had been kinder. Or at least less cruel.

Her brother turned away from the bar, caught her looking, and s
hot her a self-satisfied smirk.

“Excuse me.”

“Oh, sorry.”  Sarah backed up a couple steps to let the waitress with a loaded tray move past.

And found herself sitting on someone’s lap.

“If you’re going to make a habit of this, I’m going to have to invest in a new wardrobe.”

Stung by realization, Sarah leapt back to her feet.

She turned to find Tucker, sitting on a banquette, watching beer seep into his shirt.  Between the black fabric and that dark mop of hair, she could hardly be blamed for not noticing him in the shadows.

He was the kind of man, she realized, who went out of his way to avoid drawing attention to himself.

To the point that she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him since he’d walked out of her kitchen that night.

I
t was a relief, she told herself now.  A relief that he hadn’t come by the store, waved at her from the porch.  Looked out the damn window.

She didn’t need any follow-through, any
solicitude, any questions.  She didn’t need – didn’t want – to be treated like a victim.

So he’d seen her at a particularly bad moment.  Had overheard
, almost certainly overheard, a number of things she’d preferred to have kept to herself.

And if that was why he’d avoided both her and the store – even going so far as to send Mason over to fetch what had to be gallons of coffee – then he could just –

“If you’re going to be at it awhile, you might as well sit down.”

Train of thought deraili
ng abruptly, Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been around enough women to know when on
e is working herself into a snit.  How’s your foot?”

He said it so casually that it took the
fire right out of her… snit.  Damn it.  “It’s fine.  Mostly fine,” she qualified when he zeroed in on the flats she’d been wearing all week.  “A little sore when I’m on it all day.” 

He simply looked at her.  Waited.

“Right.”  She started to take a seat across from him, but he kicked the chair aside with his foot.  Then scooted over.

Unsure of whether to be alarmed or flattered, Sarah settled for amused.  And slid, with cool dignity, onto the
complete opposite end of the banquette.

He took a pull on his beer, those smoky eyes watching her over the rim, and Sarah’s pulse stuttered.

“Is that something they teach women in the schools down here?  The art of the nonverbal
fuck you
.”

“Oh, we say it, too.  But being polite, as a rule, we usually use code phrases like
bless your little heart.”

“And here I thought that was an expression of sympathy.”

“That too,” she agreed.  “Or in some instances, it can mean that we find you dumber than a box of rocks but have too many manners to say so outright. Or we use it as a disclaimer.  It’s a versatile phrase.  Sort of like our version of aloha.”

Instead of the scowl he usually wore, Tucker’s hard mouth slid into a grin.

And it was like a miracle of physics.  One moment, he was a solid lump of overbearing man, the next he was pure, liquid heat.

“Nice cave y
ou have here,” Sarah said, looking around the dim alcove.  Looking anywhere but at him.  There were several glasses on the table along with empty bottles of beer. Unless Tucker had a hollow leg, she thought it likely that Mason was nearby. “All you need is a burnt stick to write on the walls, and you should feel right at home.”

Instead of taking offens
e, he actually chuckled.  “More than you could possibly guess.”

Disconcerted,
Sarah grabbed the bottle of Newcastle he’d just set down and sniffed the top. 

“Problem?”

“Just trying to figure out if there’s a little something extra in your beer
that’s causing you to act human.”

“Are you implying that I need a chemical stimulant to enhance my natural charm?”

“I’m implying that you have no charm, natural or otherwise. Bless your little heart.”

He grinned again, and shot heat straight down to her toes.
  Then she tilted her head forward, wondering if her eyes were playing tricks on her in the dim light.  “Looks like someone else found you nearly as charming as I do.  Run into a door?”

“Mason’s fist.”

She stared.  “Mason punched you in the face.”

“He’s fast
er than he looks.”

Having a brother, Sarah was somewhat wise to the ways of men
.  “Why do you people do that?  Engage in physical violence, and then buy each other a drink.”

“Why do
women go to the bathroom in pairs?”

“Point taken.”
 

“So.
”  He reclaimed the beer, tipped the bottle her way.  “Big week for you.”

“
The biggest,” she agreed.  “Open my dream business with my best friend and have to relive my worst childhood nightmare in front of an audience.”

“And here I was politely trying to ignore the big, ugly elephant in the room.”

The words were light enough, but his eyes showed a sort of latent anger.  For her, she realized.  He was angry on her behalf.   It made it easier than if he’d shown her pity.

“I guess I’ve learned that ignoring something doesn’t make it any less real.  Tucker.
”  Might as well go ahead and just say it.  “Thank you.  For helping out the other night.”

“If I see that bastard anywhere near your place, I’m going to kick his ass.  And you can bet I won’t be buying him a drink afterward.”

“Oh. No. You don’t –”

“Why books?”

“What?”

“You said the bookstore was your dream business.”

Subject closed,
she thought, and had to admit it was a relief.  “Why not?  Education, entertainment.  Possibilities.  Whole worlds at your fingertips.” 

He stared at her for several beats.  “
A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies.
”

“You noticed the sign over the door.”

“I did.  Buy you a drink?”

“What?”

“You’re having an awfully hard time keeping up with the conversation.  A drink.”  He lifted his.  “I noticed that you’re empty handed.”

“Right.” She guessed she was
a little unsettled by the companionable waters they seemed to be sailing.  “Thanks, but I’ve got that covered.”  She gestured toward where Noah had gotten hung up talking to one of the guys from his baseball league, his beer and her club soda forgotten in his hands.

“You’re here with someone.”  Now
both his words and his eyes were annoyed.  And this time she didn’t have to decide.  She was unexpectedly flattered.

She could have toyed with him
, but she just wasn’t that kind of woman.  “My brother, Noah.”

“Ah.  The one with the hands.”

“Well, I guess if those women who stick to him like white on rice are any indication.”

He shot her a look.  “I was talking about the work he did on your porch.
  However.”  He nodded.  “It’s true that carpenters have to have a certain amount of… manual dexterity.”

“Is that so?”

“Believe it.”

Sarah grabbed his hand. 

“If you wanted me to demonstrate, all you had to do was ask.”

“
Har.  I take it you punched Mason, too?”

“No, I just stood there
and let him hit me.”

She shook her head in disgust at his battered knuckles.  But then she flipped his hand, ran her thumb along his palm.  “You have calluses.”  A thick, hard ridge of them.  The kind developed over time.
  Noah’s palms looked remarkably similar.  Hell. 
“You’re
the one doing the work on your house.”

“As op
posed to, what, renovation elves?”

“
As opposed to Mason, you jerk.”

“Mason.”  He grinned, then chuckled at her sharp look.  “Mason is a quick study – and likely bored – so he’s been making himself useful.  But he wouldn’t
know a coping saw from a ball peen hammer, were both to smack him in the head.”

That explained the element of disconnect she’d felt trying to reconcile the elegant
Englishman with his apparent profession. “I thought something was off.”

“
He must not have been making a concerted effort.”

“Pardon?”

He waved it away with his free hand.  Which made Sarah realize she was still holding the other.  But when she started to slide hers away, Tucker linked their fingers in a move that was as casual as it was surprising.

“Smooth.”

“I have some experience taking off rough edges.”

“As that was another not-so-thinly veiled reference, I’m going to go out
on a limb.  You’re a carpenter.  Or have worked as one in the past.”

“Among other things.”

“Like, what, Broadway singer?  Oh, don’t give me that look.  You’re the one who chose to sing while your window was open.”

“One of my first jobs was building sets for a theater.  Musicals are popular.  I picked up some of the songs.”

“No desire to move from behind the scenes to in front of them?”

“What do you think?”

“
Right.  How silly of me.  But I have to say, as difficult as it is to reconcile your scowling countenance with
that
voice, it’s somehow easier to believe than you schlepping boards around for a living.”

“There might be a little more skill involved than your basic
schlepp.”

“You know what I mean.
”  Although it certainly would explain his physique.  A physique that was even more appealing now that she knew it had come from actual work instead of hours spent with a personal trainer.

S
he gave in to curiosity.  “Tell me what Carlton Tucker Pettigrew – the fifth – was doing working as a non-schlepping craftsman in New York.”

“Earning a living.”

When she crossed her arms, he said “Tell me why this is any of your business.”

She gazed at him down her nose
.  “Clearly, it’s not.”

He grabbed her hand agai
n when she started to slide off the banquette.  “The implied
fuck you
again.  You must have passed that test with flying colors.  What is this – you inadvertently showed me yours so now I have to show you mine?   Fine.  But I already told you the other day.  Just because I share a name and some DNA with the old man, doesn’t mean we share anything else.  That includes bank accounts.”

W
ell. She really
had
made some big assumptions.

And wasn’t it
lowering to realize that she was guilty of what she’d so often decried with regards to herself.  Judging a book by its cover.  Or more accurately, in this case, by its name.

“Disappointed?
”

“Only by the fact that I can no longer
find you loathsome just on general principal.  Now I’ll have to focus on specifics.”

“There.”  He toasted her with his drink.  “A female in this town with some sense.”

“I would take issue with that, except that I’ve managed to capitalize on a number of senseless females in this town, to my financial advantage.  Having an eligible Pettigrew next door has been great for business.”

“So glad I could help.”

Appreciating the dry remark – appreciating
him –
Sarah thought
screw it. 
Might as well grab the bull by the horns. “I’ve been annoyed with you for several fairly minor good reasons, and for one big one that was wrong.  I’m going to apologize for that.”

“Let me order the champagne.”

“You’re a smartass,” she continued without missing a beat.  “Which I don’t mind, as I tend to believe that Alexander Pope was wrong about sarcasm being the lowest form of humor.  Your grandfather, however, is a jackass.  And a greedy jackass at that.”

“On that we can agree.
”  He eyed her with mild curiosity.  “Personal experience?”

“Enough.” 
She turned to face him more fully.  “If you and your grandfather are… estranged, then why are you here?  Why did you come back to Sweetwater?”

“Good question,” he muttered, then took a long pull from his beer.  “
At the risk of sounding like a bad cliché, I guess I wanted to explore my roots.”