Outside the Lines (8 page)

She shoots me a glare. “Better,” she says with a flick of her green tank top.

I nod. “What is that?”

“I'm making potato gnocchi. I'm even doing the marinara from scratch,” she adds, holding up a ripe tomato.

The scents wafting from the stockpot bring me home, before Mom died. She was a good Sicilian mother, learned to cook all the classics at her mother's knee. Everything from scratch. Our home always held the comforting smell of tomato sauce and seasonings that simmered in the stockpot all day long. Next to the stove, there was a loaf of crusty bread for dipping so that anyone passing through could tear off a chunk and sample her creations. Everything changed after she died. We had a cook, and the smells were different. Sudden and overpowering sadness hits me when I realize none of us picked up that mantle and learned from Mom when we had the chance.

“Since when do you cook?” Grant sneers.

“Since when do you run?” she shoots back.

They glare at each other, then Grant turns for the stairs.

I tip my head at her. “So, where's all this Rachael Ray coming from?”

She shrugs, goes back to kneading dough. “I need something to do. This is something.”

It shouldn't surprise me. Ulie's the kind of person who needs a creative outlet. Since she hacked up Mom's best cocktail dress to make a ball gown for her Barbie when she was five, it's always been fashion design, but the opportunities for that are pretty limited right now. It still tears me apart that I took that from her.

She mistakes the self-loathing on my face for distrust of her cooking skills, apparently. “It may not be as good as Mom's, but I promise it will be edible.” Her curious eyes flick to me. “I saw you guys head down to the beach. Thought one or the other of you might not come back.”

I tug open the fridge, twist the top off a bottle of water. “We've come to an understanding.”

“Not to kill each other?”

“Something like that.”

“Hey, Sherm,” she says, holding doughy hands up for him to see. “Want to help?”

He comes over and looks at the mess in front of Ulie.

She tears off a hunk of dough and starts rolling it between her palms and the counter. “Wash your hands, then roll all this dough into a bunch of long snakes, like this,” she says, showing him the one she's rolling. “I need to finish the marinara.”

“Anything I can do?” I ask as he goes to the sink to wash.

She huffs out a laugh. “If I knew what I was doing, the answer would probably be yes, but since I'm flying by the seat of my pants, I wouldn't even know what to tell you to do.”

When I don't say anything, she looks up from her work. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes, and they tell the real story. She's miserable. I haven't asked if there was anyone special in New York. Knowing I'm responsible for forcing her to give up her dream is hard enough. I couldn't stand to know she'd given up even more than that because of me. Ulie's never been one to let herself get tied down, but if she had someone, I don't want to know.

“Where's Lee?” I ask, just realizing the Beetle was gone from the driveway when we came up from the beach.

“She had an interview, she said.”

“Where?”

Ulie shrugs. “Didn't ask.”

“How long till dinner?”

She surveys the mess. “I have no clue. Maybe an hour? You really need a shower,” she adds, pinching her nose. “Sherm and I have things under control. I'll call you when it's ready.”

I take my time in the shower, letting all the crap that is my life wash down the drain with the last of the hot water. It's an hour later when I come downstairs.

“Smells good,” I tell Ulie, my stomach growling.

“Where's the switch for the garbage disposal?” she asks, searching the wall under the kitchen window.

“There is no garbage disposal,” Lee says, just coming through the door.

Ulie's eyes widen as she dumps gnocchi into the pot of boiling water on the stove. “Oh, shit.”

Lee peers into the murky water. “What happened?”

“Julia Child,” I say, gesturing to Ulie.

She shrugs and brushes a lock of dark hair out of her face. “I didn't know.”

“I've got to change, but there's a plunger in the laundry room,” Lee says, heading for the stairs.

I retrieve it, then stick my hand into the water and sweep it over the drain. I come out with a handful of white glop. “What did you put in here?”

“The extra dough,” she says, fishing the first batch of gnocchi out of the pot. She dumps the rest in as I start on the drain, and after five minutes of hard plunging, the clog finally gives way.

“Next time,” I say shaking the plunger off, “you get the honors.”

“Then I'll leave the cooking to you,” Ulie shoots back, dumping the sauce from the stockpot onto the steaming mound of gnocchi on the bowl on the counter.

“Oh, God, no,” Lee mutters with a roll of her eyes, stepping off the last stair. She tugs me over to the table. “I want to check your wound.”

I sit. She hikes up the leg of my jeans.

“Looks good. I can pull these stitches if you want,” she says, prodding at them. She gets up and grabs scissors from the drawer. She snips each stitch and tugs it loose from my leg. “Okay?” she asks after the first few.

“It's fine.”

“Fine,” she repeats with a roll of her eyes. “Everything is fine.”

“Dinner's ready,” Ulie says. “Don't bleed on the table.”

Lee corrals Grant and we slide into seats.

“How was the interview?” Ulie asks Lee as we serve ourselves.

Lee shrugs. “It was with a small tax accountant in Fort Myers. With tax season coming, they need some extra help. Depends on how desperate they are. The résumé they made for me at Safesite sucks, and I obviously can't talk about my real work experience.”

The only work experience either of us has is in the family business, though her role was more brains, whereas mine was more brawn.

Turns out Ulie doesn't suck in the kitchen. Dinner is actually edible. Once everyone's devoured Ulie's masterpiece, our younger siblings settle in front of the TV while Lee and I clean up the kitchen, which is a sizable job.

“Do you think there's any shot you'll get the job?” I ask, rinsing a dish and loading it in the dishwasher.

She scowls at me. “When your whole life is a lie, it's really hard to come off convincing in an interview.”

“I thought the Feds were trying to get something set up for you.”

Her expression goes all exasperated. “Data entry? That's what I'm supposed to do with three quarters of an MBA from the most prestigious business school in the country?”

I brace my hands on the counter and look at her. “You were the one who pushed for this, ever since Pop went away. You've been wanting to run for months.” That night, I wanted to disappear to our vacation home on the lakeshore and rally the guys I know are loyal to me. She convinced me if I wanted to protect Sherm, that wasn't enough.

“Because I could see it coming, Rob, even if you had your head so far up your ass you couldn't,” she grinds out under her breath.

My jaw clenches tight as I fight for control. “You didn't think I could handle the business?”

“The business was handling you. It was taking you over. You were becoming Pop.”

“I'm not seeing the problem.”

Her expression softens. “That's what you want? To be like Pop?”

A tight knot forms in my chest. I remember Mom and Pop's arguments. She didn't want that for me, or any of us. But she's not here anymore. My choices died with her.

Lee is watching my hand, and I realize I'm thumbing my birthstone ring. I push off the counter. “I think we should switch rooms.”

She goes back to wiping the counter. “You want me to share with Sherm?”

“He ends up in your bed every night anyway.” I hear the pain in my voice even though I'm trying not to give in to it.

She breathes deeply, holds it for a second before blowing it out. When she lifts her eyes to mine, they're unfathomably sad. “Give it time, Rob. Everything's still so fresh. You were his idol. It was a shock, what he saw. In time he'll realize you didn't have a choice—you did it to protect him. Just be patient with him, okay?”

The whole scene flashes in front of my eyes. Coming in from the kitchen. Finding the thug in the living room, the silencer at the end of his piece pointed squarely at Sherm's chest. Grabbing him from behind as he turned. The round firing, hitting the wall inches above Sherm's head. The sickening pop and crack of bone as I cranked on his neck with all my weight.

I try to imagine how it would look from Sherm's perspective. “He'd be better off if I left.”

She grasps my arm, shaking me out of the memory. “No, Rob. We stick together.”

“I shouldn't be around him,” I say, looking at Sherm.

“He needs you. We all do.”

When I shift my gaze to her, she's got a panicked gleam in her eyes. I open my mouth to tell her that I'm going back, but what comes out instead is, “We need to switch rooms tonight. You should handle all his day to day . . . getting him back and forth to school and dealing with his teacher. I'll pick up some of the slack around here.”

She shakes her head. “I'm not going to let you abandon him, Rob. I'll switch rooms because he needs his sleep, but no matter how scared he is, he needs to know that you won't leave him. You need to be there for him, even if you think he doesn't want you to be.”

My insides are cement. She's wrong. The only thing I can do for him now is make the fuck sure no one ever dares touch him again, no matter what it takes. I have to take care of the threat in Chicago and get our lives back.

I spin for the stairs and move my stuff out of Sherm's room, making room for Lee.

Adri

I put on makeup this morning. I think the last time I did that was when the one and only real boyfriend I've ever had took me to a concert our freshman year at Clemson. It seems especially stupid because we're going on a field trip to the water, but here I am, all dolled up, nonetheless.

But, as I watch Sherm and Rob make their way from the parking lot to my classroom, I suddenly feel like scrubbing it off. It feels like a big neon sign that says, “I'm interested.”

He's attached. And maybe dangerous. And even if he weren't, I don't think I'm his type—not if that bombshell he was with the other day is. She's everything I'm not.

The door opens, and I struggle to keep my hand from gravitating to cover my face.

“Hi, Sherm,” I say as he leads the way through.

“Hi, Miss Wilson,” he answers. He's started talking more over the last week, volunteering things that shed a little light on his life before. I now know he misses his friends and his Legos back home, and he likes to skateboard. His favorite movie is
Transformers
, and he wants to be a pilot when he grows up.

It's progress.

Sherm crosses the room to his desk, and my eyes drift of their own accord to his big brother, who stops in the door. I catch my tongue darting over my lower lip and pull it back into my mouth. Today, instead of his standard button-down dress shirt, he's wearing a snug T-shirt with the image of a melting Rubik's Cube on it.

“You watch
The Big Bang Theory
?” I ask, recognizing the shirt as one of Sheldon's from the show. Chuck got me into it when we started hanging out after he got back from the marines.

“Grant does,” Sherm says.

I take a step closer to Rob. “So, if your brother watches the show, why are you wearing the shirt?”

“It's possible I borrowed it from him,” he answers, glancing down at the shirt in question.

The button-downs he usually wears are tailored and fit him in a way that shows off the taper of his body, from wide shoulders, down the V of his back, to a narrow waist and hips, but the way the black brushed cotton of this T-shirt hugs his chest makes me want to touch it.

I clear my throat and remember Sherm is my focus. I move closer and lower my voice. “Sherm seems to be doing better. As you probably noticed, he's talking more. He's also starting to make some friends,” I say, thinking of Macie. “Overall, he seems to be adjusting.”

“Good,” he says, but a mournful shadow passes over his face as I speak.

“But academically, he's struggling a little in math. Do you know what math they were studying in his class in Philadelphia? If it's just that their curriculum is a little behind ours, I can catch him up on what he's missed.”

He physically bristles at the mention of Philadelphia, and all the edges that had softened a little harden to sharp points. “He's good about doing his own homework, so I wasn't really keeping track.”

“We'll sort it out. Maybe I can give him some of our past chapter tests and see where he gets hung up.”

The bell rings, and students excited for the field trip start streaming in. Theresa and I get both classes organized, and when the bus rolls up, we load them on.

With thirty-eight students, plus teachers and chaperones, we have the bus full. Once everyone's seated and I get my final headcount, I look around for a spot. Rob stands and lets me slide into his seat up front, then lowers himself back down. I look across the aisle and see Theresa giving me a “holy fill-in-the-blank” look.

I lean back against the window to make room between us. “Did you decide to go for that job?”

“No. Not yet.”

“I sort of filled Chuck in about you and he said his boss definitely wants to talk to you. She said you can come by any time.” I lift my phone and jiggle it. “I'll text you the address.”

He gives a slow nod and his eyes narrow a little. I'm suddenly afraid Chuck and I have overstepped and he's going to close down altogether, but then I realize it's curiosity I see in his eyes as they sweep over my face. “Something about you is different today.”

“I'm sorry?” I say. And then I realize.
Crap
. The Maybelline bottle lied when it said “natural finish.” I fold my hands in my lap to keep them away from my face, but I can feel myself blush, drawing more attention to the evidence. “I don't think so.”

He leans a little closer. “It is.” His gaze becomes more scrutinizing, and I feel trapped in this tiny space. Recognition flashes in his eyes and a smile tugs at his mouth. “Makeup. You never wear makeup.”

“I've got a date after school,” I blurt.

Oh my God, just shoot me. I don't even know where that came from. I'm a total basket case, putting on makeup to attract a potentially married man, then telling him I have a date. Talk about mixed signals. I'm even confusing myself.

He nods slowly and his honey eyes turn a shade darker as they regard me, lingering a long heartbeat over my glossed lips. “You look . . . nice.”

“You don't sound too sure about that,” I say, feeling three parts self-conscious and one part defensive.

He tips his head a little and hesitates before saying. “If he thinks you need it, he's wrong.”

“What?”

“Your date. You don't need makeup. You're beautiful without it.”

My stomach flips and I can't form a coherent thought.

He clears his throat and looks past me out the window. “I've never been in the ocean.”

I'm thankful beyond words for the sudden change of topic. “Neither have I . . . at least past my knees.”

He gives me a curious tilt of his head. “Where did you grow up?”

“In the same house I live in now.”

His eyes grow wider. “In Port St. Mary?”

I nod.

“So, how have you never been swimming in the ocean?”

“Just never felt like it,” I say with a shrug, trying to play it off as no big deal.

“So it's your first time too.”

There's subtle innuendo in his voice that sends a shudder through me. But then I realize it had to be wishful thinking. He's spoken for.

“No, actually. The teachers aren't allowed to go in.”

If the fact I'm a terrible liar didn't give me away, the glance he shoots at Theresa, who's in a cover-up over her one-piece swimsuit, does. “Really.”

“Okay, no. That's a lie.” Finally I give in and cover my face with a hand. “I just—”

“She's got a shark phobia,” Theresa offers, and I'm not sure if I'm more mortified that she exposed me, or that she was eavesdropping.

Rob turns back to me and quirks an eyebrow. “So you're sending your fourth graders to the slaughter while you remain safe on dry land?”

Theresa points at Rob. “Exactly what I said!”

Rob smiles and there's that dimple again. My heart stalls in my chest. The smile is still in his eyes when he turns them back on me, deep pools of warm honey that I want to sink right into. He leans closer and says low in my ear, “You don't trust me to protect you?”

I breathe a shaky sigh at both his words, and his warm breath on my cheek. “How do I know you wouldn't sacrifice me to save yourself?”

Instantly, his gaze changes. The storm is back. “You're perceptive,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “I'm generally an ‘every man for himself' kind of guy.”

There's a sadness in the storm that I'm not sure I've ever seen there before.

“So, what else are you scared of?” he asks, his expression returning to a practiced neutral.

You
. The thought skitters through my head and I can't deny it's true. His intensity is intimidating. But it's more than that. He impairs my judgment and makes it hard to think straight. He intoxicates me just by his presence. I don't make good decisions when I'm under his influence. I say things I shouldn't. But as I stare past the deep pools of his eyes, I see what he's hiding behind all that intensity. He's hurting. His pain is like a battle scar. And again, I can't help but wonder if it has to do with the death of his parents. Mom's death still haunts me, even if her spirit doesn't.

“Public speaking,” I answer, because I can't tell him anything I was just thinking.

He barks out a laugh. “Interesting career choice.”

I cringe a little. “It's different with kids.”

A cynical smile curves his lips. “Because they don't listen to anything you say anyway?”

As he says it, he leans in a little and his arm presses against mine, and there go my synapses, short-circuited by his touch.

I shake my head a little harder than I mean to. “That's not true. It's just, they're more open-minded, usually. I don't always get the feeling they're judging everything I say.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “So, what you're really afraid of is being judged.”

“Maybe.”

His eyes search my face, lingering over my mouth before lifting back to my eyes. “You have nothing to be afraid of.”

My heart skips, then sputters when I remind myself he's not single.

“And,” he adds, his eyes lifting to the window behind me, “from what I can see, you're great with kids, so this was a good fit for you.”

“Do you want kids?” I ask before I think better of it.

He looks at me as if I just asked if the moon is made of cheese. But as he holds me in that gaze, it clouds a little. “I've never really thought about it.”

“You've never pictured what you want your life to be when you grow up?”

His lips press into a line, and the liquid pools of his eyes harden. “I've always known exactly what my life was going to be.”

Raised voices meet us from behind and I turn to see Sherm hunching over Macie, protecting her from Jason and his fifth-grade partners in crime, who are trying to give her a wet willy.

Theresa is up and charging down the aisle. She takes her two boys by the arm and separates them, putting one behind Rob and me, and the other behind her seat. She goes back for Jason and seats him with her.

I don't miss Rob's glare at the boy. He's gripping the seat ahead of us and rapping out a fast rhythm on the metal frame with his pinky ring.

“What is your ring?” I ask, hoping to lighten the mood again. “I saw Sherm wears a similar one around his neck.”

He removes his hand from the seat and looks at it. “Birthstones. Sherm is April and I'm November.”

“It's interesting that you both wear them. Is there some significance?”

If anything, his mood darkens even more. “None that means anything anymore.”

My insides bunch. It seems nearly impossible to find a topic that doesn't irritate him. I sit back and shut up and when we arrive at the manatee habitat fifteen minutes later, the kids all file off the bus and gather around the naturalist. He tells them about manatees and their environment. The decibel level rises when he leads them to the sand and they start to file into the water.

“Guess I'm up,” Rob says, unbuttoning his jeans.

I try not to watch as he shucks them off, but it's a losing battle. Under, he's wearing a pair of loose black swim trunks. And holy smokes, he's got great legs—long and muscular with a dusting of dark hair. Totally male. I wait for him to take off his shirt, but he doesn't.

Sherm has Macie's hand and they're wading slowly into the water. Rob follows them in, and Theresa grabs my arm.

“Nice choice, Adri,” she mutters, then trots in after them.

I pull out my phone and decide to make myself useful and immortalize the event. I snap shots from the beach as the kids splash around. Thankfully, Rob doesn't have to throw himself between children and hungry sharks. There are tons of
oohs
and
aahs
—apparently there's a baby manatee out there—and the kids come out an hour later, excited and tired.

They dry off and sit and eat their bag lunches at a group of picnic tables overlooking the bay, then we load them back into the bus. When I climb on, bringing up the rear, Rob is back in our seat, his damp T-shirt clinging to pecs and abs that would put any Calvin Klein underwear model to shame. And his wet swim trunks are also clinging.

I force my eyes away.

“Everyone accounted for?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “No shark depletion?”

“We were just lucky this time,” I mutter.

“Good,” he says. “Thought I saw a few of the little ones get picked off around the edges.”

“And you didn't intervene?” I ask in mock outrage.

He guffaws. “You're kidding, right? I told you my philosophy. Every man for himself. Plus, who's really going to miss a few little ones.”

He seems much less haunted by that phrase than he did a few hours ago.

“How did you end up in Florida?” It's because I can't think around him that I just blurt these things. I'm not usually a blurter.

The storm in his eyes swirls, but never fully develops. “Business,” he says after a beat, his gaze never leaving mine.

I feel the shift in him as he answers, as if he's resigned himself to something, but I'm not sure what. But when I process his actual response, I cringe.

“So I guess you didn't need that job lead, then.”

He takes a deep breath. “The business venture isn't coming along quite as quickly as I'd hoped, so I might need that job after all.” He sinks deeper into the seat. “I never said thanks for that. And for everything you've done for Sherm. You've been really great for him.”

My heart is pounding, and I will it to slow down. I don't want to feel this attracted to someone who may or may not be married. I want to ask him about the woman. I want to ask him why Sherm won't speak to him. But, surrounded by chattering nine-year-olds and eavesdropping teachers, it doesn't seem like the right time.

“You're welcome for the job lead, and as far as Sherm, he's a pretty amazing kid. I really enjoy having him in class.”