Personal Assets (Texas Nights) (17 page)

“Em, do you want these things to be edible or not?”

“I want to make something with you, edible or otherwise.”

She wanted to make dessert with him, but did she want anything else? He couldn’t come right out and ask after the way she hightailed away from his truck the other night. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

“That’s all I ask.” She pointed to the rolling pin.

Charlie grabbed it, turned it over in his hands. Wasn’t like he’d never seen one, but most folks bought pastry dough and piecrusts in the grocery store’s frozen section these days. Not Em.

She plopped the dough onto a piece of marble and sprinkled flour on top. “Now, you’re going to roll it out.”

How hard could it be? He dropped the rolling pin on the dough and pushed the thing back and forth a half dozen times. He glanced at Em to find her biting her bottom lip so hard it was white.

“I’m doing it wrong.”

“Can I show you?”

Give him a whole life policy or a death and dismemberment over baking any day. “Sure.” He scooted down the counter so she could take over.

“No, I want you to do it.”

She angled close to his side, wrapped her arms around him so they both held the rolling pin. Charlie closed his eyes and set his back teeth. Dear Lord, his rib cage was wedged between her breasts, and she could probably feel his heart beating ninety-to-nothing. And damned if the traitorous thing in his pants didn’t respond to her soft flesh pressing against him too.

“You want to roll in one direction. Press lightly but evenly. It takes patience and an easy touch, but we’re going to roll and manipulate this into a nice rectangle. I promise, it’ll be worth the care you put into it.”

A line of sweat slid down Charlie’s spine. Was baking supposed to be sexy? Or was he an old pervert?

“See how pretty that is?” Em was looking at the dough, but Charlie was staring at her. She’d pushed that flippy hair behind an ear, and silver earrings dangled from her earlobes. She was, without a doubt, the prettiest thing in this kitchen. In Shelbyville. Hell, in the whole state.

She stepped away and he could breathe again. “Now, we pop this back in the fridge for a while.”

“How long does this whole process take?”

A smile hovered on her lips. “Oh, hours and hours, if we’re lucky.”

Charlie swallowed, trying to push away the need to swing her up on that counter and kiss the living daylights out of her. “So we...” His voice cracked. “Won’t get to eat any of these little horny things?”

“Lucky for you, I already made a batch of these little horny things.”

And one big horny thing.

She uncovered two plates. Each held three perfectly formed miniature pastries dipped in chocolate and filled with cream.

“I’d venture to guess the ones I rolled out won’t look half this nice.”

She selected a perfect one from the middle of the plate and held it up to his mouth. He took a bite, and the sugar and creamy filling teased his taste buds, while Emmalee’s vanilla scent swirled in his head. “Sometimes, Charlie—” she licked the rest of the filling from her fingertips, and all his good sense drained from his brain out the soles of his shoes, “—it’s not about looks, it’s all about making something sweet with someone you care about.”

* * *

Allie sat across the desk from Linda Pelletier, the senior lending officer at Commerce State Bank. She nodded and smiled, but rigor mortis was stiffening her facial muscles. This navy suit was going in the fireplace when she got home because it was obviously bad luck.

Shoot, she didn’t have a fireplace.

“No, I understand,” Allie said. “Business is business.” Even here in Shelbyville. Perhaps especially here in Shelbyville.

Linda removed her rimless glasses and twirled them as she studied the paperwork spread across her desk. “Allie, I wish there were something I could do. Really.” She glanced toward the bank president’s office. “Ralph isn’t willing to take a chance on lending you money when you already have an outstanding note with another local bank.”

“If CSB would lend me the money, I wouldn’t have more than one loan.”

“It’s highly irregular to take out a business loan in order to pay off another.”

Allie tried not to slump in the straight-backed vinyl chair. “This is an unusual circumstance.”

Linda checked over her shoulder. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “If it were up to me, I’d lend you the money. But Ralph came back from lunch yesterday and told me we would not, under any circumstances, extend credit to Personal Assets or you personally.”

Panic clawed at Allie’s stomach like a raccoon caught in a trash can. Her father was calling in all his markers, ensuring she wouldn’t find help among the financially influential community members.

“I appreciate your time and effort.” They both knew she was thanking Linda for trying, but were well aware of who held the reins in Shelbyville. It was hard to blame people for dancing to her dad’s tune. But she didn’t have to accept it.

“Best of luck.” Linda shook Allie’s hand with a squeeze and pat of sympathy.

Allie strode through the bank, hoping her smile would fool people, at least at a distance. A long history of concealing her thoughts and controlling her reactions kept her from giving in to the tears searing the backs of her eyes. She waved politely but avoided conversation on her way to the parking lot.

Once she reached her car, she pulled out her list and marked off potential solution number one.

Her already short list was only getting shorter.

Chapter Fourteen

The summer sun had softened by the time Cameron made it to his mom’s house. Every time he’d thought about having this conversation, he’d found something else to do—even cleaning the garage’s restrooms—to shut it down. But if Allie wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, he had to go to the source.

He parked in his mom’s driveway and studied the white frame house where he’d grown up. It was home, but not
his
home. He didn’t know where his home was anymore. It had never been in Austin. Even after ten years the city had still seemed like an extended pit stop with him trading one superficial relationship for another like an F1 racer changed tires. The dumps where he and his brother lived while Jamie was an undergrad were lucky not to be condemned. Now he lived in a rental house decorated in modern Assisus Heinous.

The image of Allie’s comfortable little dollhouse popped into his head. A pretty oak entry table, creamy paint in the kitchen, and a couple of comfortable-looking living room chairs. Hell, why was he thinking about her place as a home?

After last night, it wasn’t like he was going to get cozy there.

He made it to the sidewalk before he noticed the right rear tire on his mom’s car was low. She shouldn’t be driving around like that. He grabbed a small air compressor from his toolbox and attached it to the tire. While it inflated, he took a quick look under the hood.

“Cameron, what on earth have you been doing out here for the past half hour?”

He jerked back as his mom’s exasperated words, almost knocking himself out on the underside of the hood.

Surely, he hadn’t stayed in the carport that long. He glanced at his watch.
Crap
. “Just checking your fluid levels. You need new spark plugs. I’ll leave you my truck and take your car to the garage tomorrow.”

“You will do no such thing.”

He wiped his hands on an old towel he’d found in the ragbag kept in the storage room. “Ma’am?”

“I take it to that place on the interstate.”

No friggin’ way. “I checked your car every time I was in town before I moved back.”

“Sometimes it needed a little something between your visits. I don’t expect you to be my free mechanic. And nothing is exactly what you’d try to charge me.”

This was the thanks a guy received for trying to help out. He shut the car’s hood a little too hard.

“Don’t pout, honey. It’s not attractive on you,” she said. “Come inside and have a cookie. You know my snickerdoodles always make you feel better.”

He couldn’t deny that. “Yes, ma’am.”

Cameron wiped his feet on the doormat like he always did at her house. As kids, he and Jamie’d had their butts busted more than once when they’d stomped all over the house, red muddy footprints proving their guilt. Granted, they normally got a plate of those cookies afterward.

The kitchen was warm and the countertops were lined with several pies, a chocolate cake and piles of cookies. Cameron slid into one of the bar stools he’d twirled around on as a kid. One time, he’d spun Jamie for so long he’d puked in their mom’s African violets. He wasn’t sure how she’d put up with them. She hadn’t had much of a choice, though, since their dad had been a worthless parent.

“I’m glad I finally rated a visit.” She nodded toward a plastic tub and plunged her hands into a bowl of flour and other ingredients.

Guilt knifed through him, but he still reached for the cookie container. “Mom, I’m sorry. I—”

“Joking, Cameron Kyle.” Her smile lit her face. She’d kept a trim figure, even with taste-testing her own baking all these years. Her chocolate brown hair was usually straight to her chin, but now it curled out at the ends. She normally dressed in neat, everyday-type clothes. Like khaki pants and a cotton shirt. Today, though, she wore a silky-looking skirt and a turquoise tank top. Surprise hit him center chest.

When had she stopped dressing like a mother?

Dammit, Allie’d probably talked her into one of those makeover things.

His mom plumped the dough she’d been working into a ball and dropped it back into the bowl, covering it with a dishcloth. “So what’s put that unhappy expression on your face?”

Cameron pried off the cookie lid, and the scent of cinnamon and vanilla and sugar hit his nose, making him think of Allie’s skin. God, if she’d ruined snickerdoodles for him, he would do more than paddle her backside. And didn’t that bring back visuals from two nights ago? Allie on her hands and knees in the middle of his bed, pale hair flowing over her face, her sweet backside in the air waiting for him to thrust into the dark heat of her body.

Jesus, he needed to dunk his head in ice water. Instead, he grabbed a handful of cookies and a napkin, dumped them on the bar before checking the fridge for milk. “Coming home hasn’t been exactly what I expected.”

“I doubt it ever is, honey.”

He took his time, savoring the cookie’s crunchy texture. Plus food in his mouth gave him extra time before jumping into asking why his mom had become Allie’s client. She moved around the kitchen, clearing utensils and bowls and placing them in the sink to wash.

When he realized what she was doing, Cameron dropped his cookie. “Mom, you need a dishwasher.”

Her kitchen hadn’t changed much since he’d moved away. The painted cabinet doors hung a bit crooked, showing their age. He needed to do something about that. If she wouldn’t let him replace them, he could at least install magnets to keep them closed. The refrigerator should’ve given up the ghost years ago, but either he or Jamie had coaxed it back to life each time it’d tried to go belly up. She claimed it still had a few good years left. Although most of the room looked a bit shabby, his mom’s pride and joy, an immaculate Thermador range, dominated the compact space. But they’d never been able to persuade her to add time-saving appliances like a dishwasher or garbage disposal.

“Why, when these two hands work fine?”

“Because I can afford it. Because at your age, your life should be easier.” God knew, she’d already experienced all the hard stuff. She reached across the counter for the glass and napkin before Cameron could move to clear his own dishes. “That’s what I’m talking about. It’s time for you to take it easy and let other people do things for you.”

Cameron could still remember hearing his mother crying behind her closed bedroom door at night after his dad hit the road. He’d assumed she missed his dad but hadn’t understood why she was so upset when the only thing Brody had ever done right was give her what was left from his paycheck after he hit the liquor store each week.

Then one day he’d stopped by the drugstore and overheard the hottest gossip. At first, he’d pitied the family Mr. McIntosh and his customer were whispering about. Then understanding had smacked him like a gut punch. They’d revealed the details of his mom’s meeting with Robert Shelby—one Cameron hadn’t known a thing about—down to the time limit before the banker would begin the foreclosure process. More sickening than discovering they were about to lose their home was the inference that several men around town would be happy to bail them out. But only if his mom was willing to give them a little something in return.

That afternoon, Cameron had walked into his baseball coach’s office and quit the team. From there, he’d approached the grocery store manager and within ten minutes had a job stocking shelves from eight until midnight six nights a week.

When she turned back, his mom’s lips were pursed in her “that’s enough” look. “I’m not so old that I can’t wash my own dishes. Last time I checked, I didn’t have one foot in the grave. You’ve done more than a son should ever have to do for his mother. But I’m fine now and if I want a dishwasher, I’ll buy it myself.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m not finished.” Her brown eyes were as hard as wrought iron. “I appreciate everything you did for Jamie and me, but you need to get it through your head those times are over. I can look out for myself now. The money you sent over the years put me in a good place, where I don’t have to work cleaning other people’s houses anymore. Now I have the freedom to bake when I want and not worry about how much money it makes. It means I can live my life the way I want.”

“I want you to have an easier life than he left you with.”

“Honey, thanks to you, I do.” Her face softened and she grabbed his hand. “Now it’s my responsibility to live it as I see fit.”

“Does that include going to Personal Assets for counseling?”

No son wanted to chitchat about sex with his mother. He still remembered when she sat him at this same counter and placed cookies and milk in front of him. Then she’d proceeded to give him the birds and the bees talk. At the time, he’d been so humiliated he’d hoped a trapdoor would open underneath his chair and send him straight to hell. It couldn’t have been any worse than his mom telling him about condoms, safe sex and sperm. Granted, in the long run, that had been handy information.