Rocky Mountain Rebel (39 page)

He grinned and shook his head. “I’ll get even for that.”

“One day maybe. But for today, I am queen.” She tossed the cloth back into the bucket and bent to turn the hose off, pausing to squirt the kids again.

“Thanks for the truck wash. And for watching the kids last night.” Her brother winked before he looked over the yard. His kids were out there running through the sprinkler along with several of her nieces and nephews belonging to their other siblings. She’d had them all at her apartment the night before for a sleepover so their parents could have a date night. She loved each and every one of those munchkins, and it was a lot of fun to have been able to spend so much time with them.

Still, when she left William’s she planned to go back to her place and take a long nap.

“No big. We made cookies and had popcorn and watched
Mary Poppins
a few times over.”

“We still pretending you watched that one for the kids?”

“Plenty of sprockets young enough that I can keep that up a while longer.” She grinned.
Mary Poppins
was one of her favorite movies of all time. She hadn’t ever seen it as a kid. Her parents weren’t much for Disney movies for their kids. That and they never had a VCR or anything like that. She’d discovered it when William’s oldest had come along. By that point, years later, she’d seen it so many times it’d become a running joke in the family and she didn’t care.

There was something fine and lovely about Mary Poppins with her perfect voice and quest for happiness in whatever task set before her. Plus, dancing penguins.

A low-throated growl of a motor sounded before she caught sight of the motorcycle that pulled up at the curb out front.

William raised his hand to wave, smiling.

“Who is that?”

“Joe Harris,” William called back over his shoulder.

Holy sweet baby Jesus.

Beth stood still, unable to move or tear her gaze away from Joe as he swung his leg over the bike to stand. And that was before he took his helmet off and all that golden hair spilled out. Her parts came to life as she swallowed hard, taking in the bulging biceps, straining against the soft-looking blue T-shirt. Tattoos made her wonder if he had any hidden out of sight. Powerful thighs filled out faded and worn jeans. His boots were more work boots than cowboy boots, but they worked too.

Worked, much like the sunglasses hiding eyes she remembered were green. He looked dangerous. And hot. More hot than scary. Definitely hot.

He was the exciting older bad boy her brother used to run around with. In other words, total teenage-girl fantasy fodder.

“Hey, Joe Harris, what brings you here today?” William approached his friend and Beth had to rush to catch up.

She was glad she did because Joe smiled at William, showing perfect white teeth.

“Needed to get out for a ride. Thought I’d stop by when I came back through town to say hey.”

He looked to Beth and she licked her lips nervously. And that was before he slid his sunglasses down, exposing those intense eyes as he took her in.

“Welcome back to Petal, Joe.” She managed to talk to him like she’d talk to anyone else. Mainly because she was trying to pretend she wasn’t imagining him naked and bringing her cake.

Ha. She was
totally
imagining him naked bringing her cake.

“Beth?” She didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on her breasts where her shirt clung. It wasn’t white so she missed giving off the wet T-shirt thing. And good, ’cause kids and all, and because she didn’t do wet T-shirt contests. But she was glad he found them nice enough to look at a while.

“Yep.”

He got that look. The one guys got when they liked what they saw. Then his gaze darted to William, and the look changed to
oh yeah, that’s my friend’s little sister
. Damn. She was clearly going to have to knock him out of that box.

“Nice to see you. Last time I did you were still in high school, I think.”

She was sure he never even noticed her as a person back then. “Probably.”

He really looked good. Like, really, really.

But before she could get warmed up enough to flirt, he turned his attention back to her brother and she hid her frown.

“Come on in. I’m planning on some time on the porch. Gotta keep an eye on all these sprouts.” William had pretty much forgotten about her now that his friend had arrived.
Boys.

“I’m gonna run. I have an appointment in a while with my bed and a nap.” She tiptoed up and hugged her brother, who kissed her forehead when she stepped back.

“Thanks again for watching the kids.”

“Anytime.” She looked to Joe again. “See you around town, Joe.” And she totally would. Because now it would be her mission.

The kids all came running, laughing and squealing to give her hugs and kisses, and she told them she’d see them the next day at her sister Tate’s house.

She didn’t even try to pretend she didn’t throw some sway into her walk when she headed to her car.

He’ll be any man she wants—except himself.

Big Boy

© 2013 Ruthie Knox

A
Strangers on a Train
Story

Meet me at the train museum after dark. Dress for 1957.

When Mandy joins an online dating service, she keeps her expectations low. All she wants is a distraction from the drudgery of single parenthood and full-time work. But the invitation she receives from a handsome man who won’t share his real name promises an adventure—and a chance to pretend she’s someone else for a few hours.

She doesn’t want romance to complicate her life, but Mandy’s monthly role-playing dates with her stranger on a train—each to a different time period—become the erotic escape she desperately needs. And a soul connection she never expected.

Yet when she tries to draw her lover out of the shadows, Mandy has a fight on her hands…to convince him there’s a place for their fantasy love in the light of day.

Warning: Contains sexy role-playing, theatrical application of coal dust, and a hero who can rock a pair of brown polyester pants.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Big Boy:

He always meets me at the gate. The chain link swings open, and I pull my car through at a crawl. I don’t look to the left where he’s standing. I don’t want to know who he is yet.

Until I step onto the train, he’s nobody special.

“Are my seams straight?” I ask, pausing in my walk so I can tip the arch of my foot toward the floor of the train car and point my toe. I glance over my shoulder, the epitome of coy.

I’m Marilyn Monroe from
Some Like It Hot
tonight. I coaxed Lisa into sewing the black satin dress for me, adding fringe from a flapper costume I found at Goodwill. Lisa says that in this dress, my ass looks like two puppies fighting under a blanket.

The banked fire in his eyes tells me that’s a good thing.

He wears a leather jacket and a newsboy cap. He carries my luggage. When we get to my berth, I’ll tip him, and he’ll smirk at me the way he does.

Rocky is his name. I asked when I handed him my hatbox.

He’s five or six inches taller than me, his body lean and sculpted by hard work. I bet he looks grand with his clothes off.

I toss him a smile, another form of gratuity. “Well? Are they?”

He shakes his head as if I’m doing something to him, and it’s painful, and he’d like me to stop. But all he says is “They’re straight, ma’am.”

I’m ma’am tonight. I like that.

I think it means I’ll get to be in charge, but I’m wrong.

As soon as we pass through the narrow doorway of the berth, he’s on me, his hands spanning my waist, sliding over the curve of my hips. His skin catches the slick material of my dress. He puts his lips on the pulse at my throat and lingers there. I hear him draw in a deep breath, reverent.

I missed you too.

And then his mouth is moving down, down, until he reaches the tightly cosseted swell of my breasts.

“Stop me if you’re gonna stop me, lady.”

I want to lift my leg up and wrap it around his hip, but I can’t lift anything. I’m wearing a garment designed for mincing around. I know, because I designed it.

“You’re awfully fresh.” I can feel the smile on his lips as they brush my nipple through the satin. The tease.

“You married, ma’am?” He addresses the question to my cleavage.

“You care?”

“I don’t truck with married women.” He lifts his head to tell me this, his hound-dog eyes all soulful and dark. He’s lost the cap. I see it on the floor where our feet have tangled together, Glen-check wool next to beat-up cordovan oxfords and two-tone pumps with bows on the toes.

I spent days finding the right shoes.

“A cad with principles.” I furrow my fingers through his hair. He’s slicked it back, but I loosen it. I like it falling in his eyes. “That’s rich.”

“Who says I’m a cad?”

He squeezes my ass, his long fingers pressing close to where I want them but not close enough.

“Jeez, fella,” I say on an exhale, dropping my head to the wall behind me and letting my eyes drift closed. “I sure as hell hope you’re a cad.”

I imagine the vibration of the train in the wall behind my back as he peels the satin off my shoulders and puts his mouth on me. As he drops to his knees and pushes the dress up my hips. The fringe ought to be an impediment, but he’s the sort of man who can handle a little fringe.

He’s not a cad, though. Not really.

The babysitter is sick, and I hate her.

This makes me a bad person, I know. She sounds so pathetic on the phone, frog-voiced and snotty, and I’m supposed to comfort her. It feels like emotional blackmail. Why do I have to be nice to her when she’s ruining my day?

“I can still come if you want me to.” She means
I want to stay in bed and watch reruns of bad television.
“I just don’t want to get Josh sick.”
Only a very bad mother would expose her child to this pestilence. A very bad, very selfish mother.

I’m not a bad mother. Not usually. But there’s no room in my life for sick babysitters. I have to teach in forty minutes, and I haven’t done my class prep yet. I have office hours afterward, meetings with nine separate students to talk about papers they haven’t started thinking about writing. I have a dissertation chapter to finish if I’m going to manage not to get fired when I come up for my contract renewal in the fall.

Sometimes Josh gets the short end of the stick, but I console myself with the thought that I get it a lot more often.

I’m not a bad person. On the other hand, I’m not such a good one that I’m going to tell my babysitter to stay home. This will be a life lesson for her: Don’t say yes when you mean no.

Maybe if I’d learned that lesson sooner, I’d have told my sister no when she asked me if she could put me in her will as her children’s guardian. Then, when Paige and her husband and my three-year-old niece, Ava, got killed by a drunk driver, I wouldn’t have become the mother of a nine-day-old infant.

But if I’d done that, I wouldn’t have Josh now, and not having Josh has become inconceivable.

Sweet as pie, I ask the babysitter, “Why don’t you come on over? He has a strong immune system. If you feel really crappy, you can show him cartoons.”

Of course, Josh gets sick the next day.

He sleeps badly, waking up every hour and calling for me. I set up a humidifier in his room, rub his back and soothe him to sleep, but by the third time he wakes, I’ve given up on the idea of getting any sleep myself. I rock him in my arms for hours, singing folk songs when he gets fussy.

He tucks his head against my neck, breathing warm against my skin, and I feel so guilty. So inadequate.

I should’ve canceled my office hours and stayed home with him. I should put him in daycare, but I can’t afford it. My salary is pitiable, and I have loans to pay off. So I make do with a couple of babysitters, telling myself he’s better off at home, spending as much time as possible with me.

But when I’m at home with him, I’m a distracted mother, always trying to get away with as much work or as much cleaning as I can. He wants nothing but me—my attention, my love—and I want to give it to him, only I want so many other things too.

When Paige and I were kids, we both thought we’d have big families one day. I imagined a husband and three children, every little girl’s version of domestic bliss. Then I went to college, and I spent the summer after my sophomore year as a camp counselor in Colorado. The job was relentless. Cabins full of eight-year-olds for three weeks at a stretch. They never stopped needing me for one second. I felt like I was suffocating.

That’s when I decided I wasn’t cut out to be a mother. I was always the better student, anyway. I focused on school and let Paige focus on motherhood. She found her husband, her scrapbooking group, her happy domesticity. I went to grad school and fooled around in an unserious way with unserious boys.