Tough Luck Hero (9 page)

“Oh.”

“I have a brother.” He opened his eyes again, just so he could get a look at her expression.

“Oh,” she said, her hands clasped in front of her, twitching nervously. “I didn't know that.”

“I figured you didn't. Most people do, since they've lived here their whole lives. You're that rare outsider.”

That made her frown. “I'm not an outsider.”

Yet again, he'd managed to divert her right when he'd cut open a vein of ancient West history. And again, he was going to go with it rather than continuing to talk about family stuff. “You aren't really a local.”

Color flooded her cheeks, except this time, it was angry. “This is my home. I have lived here for the past eight years. And I damn sure am a local, Colton West. I'm running for mayor. I don't think you can be more...Copper Ridgian than that.”

“That doesn't make you a local. Being a
local
makes you a local.”

“Why are you so invested in this?”

“Why are
you
?”

She frowned. “That isn't your business. We might be sharing space, but we don't have to share secrets and braid each other's hair.”

“The only kind of slumber party we're going to have is a repeat performance of our wedding night, Lydia, so I would be careful what you suggest.”

The moment the words left his lips, he regretted them. He had no intention of ever touching her again. He just wanted to get a rise out of her.

“I would be careful what you said, Colton,” she returned, her words clipped. “Unless of course you want to get punched in the face.”

“Are you resorting to playground tactics? Are you going to steal my jacket and make me chase you to get it back next?” He pushed up from the couch, taking a step toward her. “All to get me to pay attention to you?”

“Please,” she said, the word coming out a disbelieving laugh. “I do not want you to chase me.”

“Fine. Lunch. Tomorrow. Don't make me chase you.”

Those eyes, brown, shot through with gold, glistening like whiskey in a shot glass, gazed straight into him as though they were wishing him a swift and painful death. “Fine,” she parroted him, her tone so crystal he thought it might cut him. “I'll see you then. Beaches. Noon.”

“You'll probably see me before then.”

“I'm tired. I'm probably going to go to bed.”

“It's eight o'clock.”

She crossed her arms, straightening her posture. “So I may not have demonstrated this over the course of the past few days, but I am actually a very responsible person. Early to bed. Early to rise.”

“I think I might have heard my grandmother say that once.”

“She was a wise woman. Good night.”

And Lydia turned on her heel and walked out of the room, leaving him alone with the fire, the memories and a vague feeling of dissatisfaction that he was not going to do anything to alleviate.

* * *

S
HE
WAS
STARVING
. Starving and trying to pretend that she was going to get some sleep in her current state. She had skipped eating dinner because she had just wanted to barricade herself in her own space and get some distance between herself and Colton, and now she was made of grumbling and regret.

She rolled out of bed, tugging her T-shirt down in place.

This room was so different than her own. The bed had a rather plain comforter on it, a deep green with no extraneous details. The bed itself was fashioned from natural wood, in keeping with the theme and the rest of the house.

Again, she could see no piece of Natalie here. Couldn't begin to imagine her friend—or rather, her former friend—inhabiting this place.

But then, she would never have been able to imagine herself living here, and yet, here she was.

“Maybe this is what he does,” she muttered. “Maybe he just marries people and spirits them off to his house.”

Well, in fairness, he hadn't
married
Natalie.

That she knew of. She supposed it was possible that he had yet another secret marriage. Though that would make theirs illegal. Which would potentially alleviate some problems.

Lydia Carpenter: Victim of Bigamy Scandal
was a lot less damning than Lydia Carpenter: Quickie Marriage and Divorce with her Ex-Friend's Almost Husband.

Of course, the actual headline was about to be Lydia Carpenter: Found Dead of Starvation in Colton West's Home if she didn't find some food.

It was after ten, so she could only hope that Colton had retired to his room. She hadn't heard him move around for a while.

She crept out of the bedroom, walking on soft socked feet into the kitchen. She opened up his fridge and nearly sagged with relief.

It was full of food. Food in neat little Tupperware containers, likely provided by his housekeeper. Okay, that she could get used to. Sharing space with that...that
man
, was a different story entirely.

He was just entirely too there. Too big. Oh yeah, and too much of an asshole.

She thought back to the way he had been winding her up. The way he had looked at her with that confident gleam in his eye, the smile curving his mouth as he had told her that he remembered what they had done that night.

He didn't remember.

She took out a container that seemed to be full of enchiladas and huffed as she shut the door. “He doesn't remember,” she muttered into the empty space, reiterating it herself.

“You don't think so?”

She jumped, and an elegant shriek escaped her lips. She whirled around, pressing the container tightly to her chest, the cold from the fridge bleeding through her top. “What are you doing?”

“I heard an intruder in my kitchen.”

She waved a hand. “Not an intruder. Just me.”

“So, that all depends on your definition of
intruder
.”

“Oh no,” she grumped, “don't act like I
chose
to move in here.”

He folded his arms over his broad chest, leaning against the door frame. “You didn't? Because I seem to recall you being deeply concerned about appearances.”

“I was
compelled
to move in. Compelled by the expectations of the community. And your family, I might add.”

“Mostly your own ambition. What do you have there?”

“It appears to be enchiladas. I'm hoping they're chicken.”

“You're in luck. I think they are. And my housekeeper makes amazing enchiladas, so it was a very good choice.”

She suddenly realized she hadn't exactly asked for permission to have access to his food. She also realized that she couldn't exactly live with him and not contribute to the cost of groceries and electricity. There were so many logistics. Logistics that were just now dawning on her, because she was still overwhelmed by the whole moving in with him in the first place thing.

“Can I have the enchiladas?” she asked, sounding much more hopeful and feeble than she'd intended.

He pushed off the door frame. “Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you're afraid I'm going to snatch the Mexican food out of your hand. I might be kind of a dick, Lydia, but even I have my limits.”

She eyed him warily as she crossed the room, popping the lid on the container slightly before sticking it into the microwave. “It's nice to know that you draw the line at starving me.”

“I have no intention of starving you.”

“Nice. Thanks for stating intent to keep me...well, living. But that does make me think. We need to work out a system. Because you can't possibly pay for all the food.”

He shrugged, walking deeper into the kitchen. “I don't know. I'll ask Sandra what her budget is for the food, and I'll have you pay for some of it. But I don't do my own grocery shopping, so I can't really work it out.”

He said it so casually. Having this sort of thing done for him was mundane, everyday, for the likes of him.

“Okay, noted.”

He lifted his arms, bracing his hands on the back of his head, stretching. His T-shirt went tight across his chest, highlighting the fine musculature there. Then he made a low, masculine sound that seemed to rumble through him, and her at the same time. The shirt rode up a bit as his pants dipped indecently low, giving her a slight peek at bare, enticing skin.

She quickly turned her attention back to the microwave. “Do you not want me to light fires in your fireplace?” she asked, somewhat absurdly. Because there was nothing else to say, really. Maybe that wasn't even a thing to say, but she had needed to say something.

His dark brows shot upward. “Is that a euphemism?”

“No,” she said, stomping her foot, the gesture completely useless and mute thanks to her thick cotton socks. “It is not a euphemism. I meant the literal fire. You seemed kind of...perturbed about it. And I just wanted to make sure that we establish some boundaries.”

“You like boundaries, don't you?”

“I love them. Boundaries are practical. They keep people safe. I think of a boundary as being something like a guardrail.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. You know, they keep your car from plummeting over the precipice into the sea. I think we should all be a little more appreciative of boundaries.”

He shifted his stance and for the first time she noticed his feet were bare. That shouldn't matter. And for some reason, it did. It mattered in some deep place inside of her that went tight. “That's a little dramatic,” he said, his tone dry.

“I'm not dramatic. I'm actually very practical.”

“Well, that's good.”

“The fact that I moved in here is evidence of my practicality.” She nodded definitively, more for herself than for him. “I'm willing to be uncomfortable for a short time in order to serve the greater good. Practical.”

“I'm in awe.”

“Somehow, I don't think you are.”

He shrugged again. “It isn't my fault if you can't tell.”

“Are you going to stand around and harass me or do I get to eat my enchiladas in peace?”

“I thought we might talk about tomorrow,” he said. “Since you're up.”

“Yeah, up for food.” She tapped the countertop. “Not necessarily a strategic planning session.”

“Too bad. We need a strategy. You need us to pretend to be married until the end of this election. That means there's no way to keep my family out of this. I made light of it earlier, but my mother is fragile. I mentioned that I had a brother. No one has seen him in over fifteen years.”

“He's...missing?” The microwave beeped and she looked toward it, not entirely certain if it was appropriate to dive upon a container of enchiladas when someone was bringing up the topic of their missing sibling. Probably best to wait a second.

“I mean, not really. He's not on a milk carton or anything. He just left. He left like he didn't have a family. Like there wasn't an entire empire to look after. So I took over the construction company that my father started years ago, like Gage was supposed to do. And when my dad is unable to see to the business with the horses, I'll do that, too.” He planted his hands on the counter, leaning across toward her. “I'm the only son my parents have left. I have to pick up the slack.”

Siblings were a difficult subject for her. In fact, they were difficult enough that it usually took her a minute to personalize it. He had mentioned a brother, and it hadn't immediately made her think of her twin. She had a lot of practice just not thinking about her family at all.

Even now, she shoved it to the back of her mind. She wanted to hear what he had to say, but that didn't mean it needed to accompany any personal soul-searching on her part.

“Okay, I think I didn't fully appreciate the fact that our situation does force you to drag your family into this. I'm sorry about that. I don't have family in town, so it's different for me.”

“But haven't you talked to them?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “Not yet.”

“Do you talk to them?”

“Not often. Sometimes I go up to Seattle for holidays. Sometimes. I mean, the last couple of years I've been really busy doing events with the Chamber around Christmas, so I haven't made it home for that. But Thanksgiving.”

She could sense the judgment coming off of him, and she had a fair idea he was conflating her with his brother who had taken off.

But that wasn't really her problem. She didn't owe him an explanation.

“It impacts me differently,” she said. “Let's just leave it at that.”

“Fair enough. I appreciate the concession.” He let out a long, slow breath. “You know, tomorrow we're going to have to share a meal together with an audience. And we are going to have to pretend that you don't want to disembowel me with a fork.”

“I don't want to do that. It sounds disgusting. I would pay hit men to take care of you if I really wanted you gone.”

“Remind me not to add you to my life insurance policy.” He nodded toward the microwave. “Aren't you going to get your enchiladas?”

“Oh!” She turned, opening the door and pulling out the Tupperware, taking off the lid and fanning the steam away. “You have diet soda?”

“No wine? No beer?”

“I'm keeping off of hard beverages around you.”

He chuckled. “It should be in the fridge.”

She went rooting around for a drink and emerged victorious with a chilled can. “Okay,” she said, “I have fortification. Now, about tomorrow.”

“It's more than just not insulting each other every five minutes,” he said as though he were explaining something to a small child. “We have to actually look like we want to be together.”

She frowned. “That sounds hard.”

“Sorry to inflict myself on you.”

“Apology accepted.”

The glint in his eyes sharpened. He took a step toward her, and her breath hitched. She was so touchy around him. Mostly because there was no denying the fact that he felt like a guy she had slept with, even if she couldn't remember the activity.