The Naughty Corner (29 page)

“Aunt Lola,” the whisper hissed beneath the door.

She tossed aside the sheet and climbed out of the bed. Passing the mirror, her reflection scared her, wild-eyed, mascara-streaked, party-haired.

She threw open the door. Harry and William were down on their hands and knees, cheeks resting on the carpet. “What,” she snapped, “are you doing?”

Harry jerked up. William followed.

“She’s out on the deck, but when we open the door, she scampers away again.”

“Ghost?”

Their heads bobbed in tandem.

Lola jumped over them, ran down the hall, flew around the corner, and burst into the living room, then skidded to a stop. Ghost flashed across to the far edge of the deck and disappeared.

Seeing the cat, Lola simply wanted to cry, but she waved a hand behind her, warning the boys. They stopped. Silently she crept across the living room carpet, slid both the screen door and the glass door open, then backed up slowly to the edge of the living room again.

They waited. The wall clock ticktocked in the small dining area. She counted thirty ticks and tocks before Ghost appeared again. The cat closed in on the open door with stealthy steps, her whiskers twitching, then suddenly, she was a flurry of white fur across the blue carpet, dodging the three humans in her way like cones on a driving course, and disappearing down the hall.

Lola closed the screen and the sliding glass door and turned to glare at the boys. Inside, her heart was hammering, her eyes stinging with relief.

“Aunt Lola, before you say anything, let us explain.”

She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. Her only signal that Harry could speak was the fact that she didn’t start screaming at him.

But William started. “It wasn’t our fault. We didn’t do it.”

Lola ground her teeth.

Harry took over before she could jump on William and throttle him. “Arby stopped by.”

“Oh,” she snapped, “so you’re blaming your friend instead of taking responsibility yourselves. And I told you
not
to have anyone over.”

“Well . . . um . . .” Harry did some hemming and hawing, and just when Lola was about to yell, he blurted out, “He sent the flowers.”

She stopped, her finger up and ready to make a pointed stab at the air in front of his face. “The
dead
flowers?”

Harry nodded vigorously.

“We thought it was just a game,” William rushed on.

She forced herself to breathe evenly. “What else did he do?”

Harry shrugged, stared at the floor, very un-Harry-like. “A couple of text messages. Some voicemails.”

“And a phone call last night?” Her teeth clamped so hard she thought they’d chip.

“Yes. But you answered. So he left in a rush.”

The car speeding down the lane. Lola narrowed her eyes. “So you must have given him my email address and my cell phone number.”

Harry rolled his lips between his teeth and bit till the flesh turned white around his mouth. “We thought it was just some harmless fun to pass the time.”

“Harmless fun.” She did
not
screech. “Stalking and harassment is harmless fun?” This was why they’d been so good to her face. Because they were stabbing her in the back. She’d suspected it, but now she
knew
it, and she was livid.

William fluttered his hands helplessly. “We thought it was fun until last night when he let Ghost out.”

“You
saw
him let Ghost out?” In a moment she’d be out of control. And they might need a trip to the hospital.

“No, no, no,” Harry jumped in. William was only making things worse. “We didn’t
see
him. We wouldn’t have
let
him do that, Aunt Lola, I swear it. But, well, we were in the kitchen making sandwiches, and he was out on the deck and the door was open and”—he shrugged again—“we didn’t know she was gone until you got home.”

Her fists clenched and unclenched, almost as if they had their very own brains controlling them.

“That’s when we decided Arby had gone too far,” William added. He probably thought that explanation was helping.

“So nasty messages and letters aren’t considered going too far?”

“Letters?” they echoed together.

She didn’t bother to say it was only one letter. “Yes.
Threatening
letters.”

“He didn’t say anything about letters, Aunt Lola, we swear.” Harry gazed at her earnestly. As if he was actually sorry for the whole thing.

It didn’t make a damn bit of difference whether it was a letter or a text or a phone call. “What did my sister teach you? Do you do this kind of thing to kids at school?”

“No, no, it was just that Arby was so upset.”

None of it made sense. She shook her head slowly. “What have I ever done to Arby? I don’t even know him.” Andrea was right. She should have insisted on meeting the kid.

And really, had she treated the twins so badly that they’d participate just for
fun
?

Harry gave her a look, one that was close to having his usual spunk. “Because of his dad, of course.”

“His dad? What does his dad have to do with this?” She didn’t know any dads. She only knew people from work. She only knew . . .

Oh. Oh no.

“His dad is Coach Barnett.”

* * *

GRAY PUT HER PANTIES IN HIS BUREAU. HE COULD STILL SMELL HER
on him, a faintly flowery scent spiked with the essence of her arousal, and he wanted her sexy aroma to permeate his clothes, his mind, his soul.

He was officially obsessed. So obsessed, in fact, that he’d been carrying them around in his pocket since last night. They would be there now if Rafe hadn’t called and said he wanted to come round.

It amazed him. Since the car purchase, Gray had suddenly become a cool old man. Who said you couldn’t buy love? Of course, he wasn’t an idiot and Rafe was only seventeen; he’d change his mind again tomorrow or the next day, or the next time he wanted something and Gray didn’t immediately give it to him. But for now, he had an opportunity to do a little bonding, maybe fix one or two of the many threads that had come loose between them, and he wasn’t going to blow it.

Tonight, he’d get back to Lola. Maybe a little phone sex. Maybe he’d order her to drop everything and come over.

The possibilities were endless.

* * *

“THE
COACH
?” LOLA WHISPERED, HORROR SEIZING HER HEART.

They nodded like bobblehead dolls. The sight made her woozy.

“He saw your car at his dad’s house, and well, he kinda saw it there a few times.”

“Arby is Coach Barnett’s son?” She was repeating, but she couldn’t wrap her foggy brain around it. Then she tipped her head like a dog that can’t figure out where a sound came from. “So, let me get this straight. You’ve been meeting Arby—” God, it wasn’t Arby, it was
RB
, which stood for Rafe Barnett. She could have smacked herself in the head for being so stupid. “So you’ve been meeting Rafe Barnett at the mall and the movies, and”—she spread her hands—“you guys
followed
me?”

“We only drove by his dad’s house a couple of times,” Harry said reasonably, as if that
wasn’t
spying and following.

“You drove by his dad’s house?” She was utterly horrified. Then an even worse thought occurred. “Did you follow me last night?”

Harry waved both hands frantically. “No. Of course not. You had a date.”

What difference did a date make?

“Do you swear?” She narrowed her eyes to near painful slits. “If you lie to me, I’ll call your father.”

They quaked. “We didn’t, Aunt Lola. We swear it.” Harry poked William in the ribs, who nodded vigorously.

Okay, she had to believe them. Anything else would make her crazy. And if they had seen anything going on at that house, she didn’t think they’d be quaking right now. Instead, they’d be blackmailing her.

She pointed at the couch. “Sit. Both of you. And I want to know
every
detail.”

* * *

THE DETAILS MATCHED CONSISTENTLY WITH HER OWN MEMORY
of the last few days. Gray’s son and the twins had sent her voicemails, texts, and messages—and the dead flowers—then the twins had reported on her reactions. They’d looked on her computer to find out her email address, just as she’d suspected. Of course, they could have just asked their mother, but subterfuge was more fun. They’d driven by Gray’s house when she said she was going to work, and they’d seen her car there. They hadn’t actually followed her, thank God, so they didn’t know about last night. And she believed them about that. They’d planned and plotted against her almost from that first day at football, when Rafe had caught his dad checking her out.
After the
night she’d been hiding in Gray’s bathroom, Rafe Barnett hadn’t confronted his father. It was much more fun to harass her. The darling, devious, malicious little princelings claimed that for them it was a game to while away the endless hours of boredom. Until Ghost got out and they suddenly realized they might have gone too far.

Lola needed a walk, fresh air, and sunshine to decide what had to be done. The midmorning heat warmed the top of her head and leached down into her bones. Her quick stride stretched her muscles, and her elevated heart rate oxygenated them. She reached that blissful, near-trancelike state where your feet did all the walking and your mind did all the thinking.

Okay, the calls and messages hadn’t hurt anyone, and Ghost was fine. The fact that the cat had gotten out was an accident. Probably. And there was that old saying about boys being boys. Running to Gray with some horror story about his son stalking and harassing her would come off as completely over-the-top.

And yet . . .

If you allowed them to get away with a pattern of misbehavior, they would begin to think it was acceptable. No matter how she looked at it, the intent was nothing nice, nothing innocent. And therefore unacceptable regardless of the severity.

So she had to deal with it. The question was whether to approach Gray first. Or his son. In a way it was like George; she’d gone right to the source. She hadn’t complained to his boss. She’d asked him. If the issue had needed escalating, she’d have done it, but she owed him the benefit of the doubt.

Her foot hit a rock, skittering it across the sidewalk. A car passed. She realized she’d walked several blocks downhill. Now she’d have to climb back up. Fine. More thinking time.

The fact was she didn’t owe Rafe Barnett the benefit of the doubt. She owed everything to Gray. That’s what twisted her stomach. She was going to have to come between him and his son. There was no way around it. Rephrase, she’d already come between them—hence the messages and phone calls—and now she was going to make that even worse. Because she knew the only right thing to do was tell Gray. And once she told him . . .

Despite the heat of the day and the climb back up the hill, her chest was suddenly tight with cold. She’d always known this thing with Gray would end. It was inevitable. It was just sex, after all. They were having fun. But that’s when it was all a secret.

It wasn’t secret anymore. His son knew. His son was pissed. And everything had changed. Now Gray’s family relationships were compromised. It was messy. Gray would have to make choices. His son. Or her.

It wasn’t fair to force him to make that choice. It wasn’t fair to come between them. She should have cut it off the night Rafe had almost discovered her in his father’s house. As her mom always used to say,
Better late than never
.

Except that it was a little too late for Lola. Because letting Gray go now was going to hurt like hell. She should never have allowed herself to get attached. She hadn’t allowed it to happen since the divorce. Yet somehow, in a few short weeks, she’d thrown away years of resistance. Still, it was better to rip your own heart out right now rather than let someone else tear it to shreds later. And it wasn’t what Charlotte accused her of. She wasn’t rejecting Gray before he rejected her; she was simply making it easy for him.

She knew what she had to do, what was right, what was best.

At least she did until her car was rolling slowly down Gray’s street. He was in the driveway.

And so was his son.

* * *

THEY WERE OUTSIDE WASHING THEIR CARS TOGETHER BECAUSE IT
was a guy thing to do. Gray basked in the warmth of camaraderie. Rafe had squirted him. Gray had run him down,
wrestled
the hose away, and sprayed him back. It was a good day. He wouldn’t question why his son had offered it to him.

Now they scrubbed their individual cars in companionable silence, and the only sound breaking the quiet was the gush of hose water rinsing off the soap.

Until a car rolled up curbside and stopped.

Lola climbed out.

His heart contracted with need. Her white shorts and tank top bared enough tanned skin to make his mouth water.

Beside him, Rafe growled. It was the only word he could use to describe the rumble in his son’s throat. “What’s
she
doing here?” The tone was so derisive, Gray’s hackles rose.

But Lola didn’t approach him. She walked straight to his son and stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Lola Cook. We haven’t been officially introduced.”

Rafe looked at her hand like it was a snake. Then he looked at her face, some indecipherable emotion swirling in his eyes. “I know who you are.”

She smiled pleasantly. “I really want to thank you for taking care of the twins these last few weeks. It’s been a great help. They were so lonely with nothing to do around my house.”

Gray studied Lola. She hadn’t even looked at him yet. And he studied his son. Rafe was jumpy, his hands shoved in his cargo shorts for an appearance of nonchalance, or maybe to check that the car key was in his pocket. His eyes darted from Lola to the Subaru’s driver’s side door, then to Gray.

“You took them to the mall,” Lola went on, “the movies, squired them all over the place. And even coming over to the condo when I had to be at work”—she paused—“or elsewhere. That was above and beyond. Oh, and don’t worry, the cat came back after you accidentally let her out last night.”