The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance) (11 page)

“Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Gall—” Frowning in concentration, his mouth moved like a fish taking a breath.

“Sound it out.”

“Gall-ee-ons. Galleons?”

“You got it. That’s a kind of money. Go on, you’re doing good.”

“Galleons each and minis—” He did the fish thing again. “Mini-s-cu-l—”

“Miniscule. It means tiny.”

“Then why can’t they just say that?” He slapped the book closed. “Can’t you just read to me? It’s a lot more fun.”

She stretched her legs out and snuck her toes under the blanket. “There’s more to life than fun, dude.”

“Not for me. When I grow up, I’m only doing fun stuff.” When her feet bumped his, he pulled his knees up.

“Is eating fun?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, how are you going to get money to eat if you don’t work?”

“I’ll work. But I’m only doing jobs that are fun.”

She took a moment, trying to find fault with that logic. “You may be smarter than I thought.”

He grinned at her as only a kid who still believed he knew it all could.

“What kind of job would be fun to you?”

He looked over her head, eyes dreamy. “I want to paint cars and stuff. Like Bear does. That bike was
sweet.
”

She should have known he’d get back to that. He’d bugged her about it all the way home. Shaking her head, she said, “The sad thing is, Nacho, if things don’t change, you’re probably not going to get the chance.”

“Why not?”

She glanced at the clock in the kitchen. “Let’s get your bed made up.” She put her feet on the cold floor and stood.

Nacho bounced off the couch. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She picked up the throw from the sofa. “I know you’re only in elementary school, and you think this stuff you’re pulling won’t matter when you grow up. But it does.” She folded the blanket, smoothing the creases. “You do jail time, you’ve got a record. Who’s gonna hire you then?”

He pulled the cushions off the couch and flung them. “Bear would hire me.”

He was probably right. She wouldn’t be surprised to hear that guy had a record of his own. “Stack the cushions behind the couch. If you get up in the middle of the night, you’re going to trip over them if they’re in the middle of the floor.”

While he went to retrieve the cushions, Priss bent, grasped the loop, and pulled it to bring out the mattress portion of the sofa. “What I’m trying to tell you is that life isn’t as easy for mutts like us.” She flipped open the mattress. “Don’t get me wrong. Mutts have a lot going for them. They’re scrappers—survivors. Some people would rather have a mutt than some foo-foo dog. But we don’t come with a pedigree and daddy’s bankroll.”

Nacho walked to the linen closet in the wall outside the bathroom and came back with his rolled-up sheets, blanket, and pillow.

“We only have two things going for us that no one can take away.”

He dropped the top sheet, shook out the fitted sheet, and together they stretched it over the mattress. “What?”

“Our pride and our good reputation.”

“Yeah, right.” He didn’t say “lame,” but his eye roll did.

As if his words had twisted a thermostat, the furnace deep inside her roared to life with a blue blaze of heat. “Don’t you mock what you don’t know.” She took a deep breath. “I got accused of something I didn’t do when I was a kid.” She snatched the top sheet and snapped it so hard it popped like a whip. “Something horrible.” Her shudder made the words come out all shaky.

He let go of the sheet and went still. “What happened?”

God, she didn’t want to talk about this. But it was up to her to teach him what life was like. She plopped down on the bed. “I’ll warn you, this isn’t a good bedtime story. But you asked.” She patted the mattress. “Sit.”

He sat, one foot under him, watching her close.

“I was around your age, when some do-gooder called Social Services on Mom for leaving me alone at night. They took me away and put me in foster care.” She fingered the sheet under her hand. “As if the Brenans were better than Mom.” She snorted. “They lived in this little house on the outskirts of Vegas and Mr. Brenan worked all the time. They needed the money, but I think he worked two jobs in part to get away from the crazy women in that house. Mrs. Brenan was a social climber. Do you know what that is?”

Nacho nodded. “A mutt that wants to be a show dog.”

“Dead-on.” She smiled. He really was a smart kid. “I guess by the time I got there, Mrs. Brenan had realized it was never gonna happen for her. But she had Suzie.” Priss said it in the same mocking singsong voice she had all those years ago. “She was a year older than me. Mrs. Brenan wanted to get her daughter in commercials to make her famous. And with her blond, curly hair and blue eyes, Suzie was cute. Only one problem.” She used her index finger to push up the end of her nose as far as it would go. “She had a pig nose.”

Nacho sniggered.

“Mrs. Brenan wanted money for a nose job for her piglet. Mr. Brenan couldn’t work any more hours so that’s where I came in. Apparently she planned on banking the money the state gave her for me. I didn’t care. I just wanted to do my time until Mom landed another job and came to get me.”

Nacho leaned forward, rapt as if this were better than a Harry Potter book. “So did they lock you up and starve you?”

“No. It wasn’t too bad, at first. I ate what they ate and I got Suzie’s hand-me-downs to wear. All brand-name, nice stuff. Nothing was too good for Suzie.”

“So, did you get accused of stealing her clothes?”

“No. It was Suzie.” Priss winced, remembering, and wrapped her arms around her middle. “She wasn’t only spoiled, she was
mean.
Deep down, worm-in-the-apple bad. She didn’t want me there from the minute I walked in the door.” She shook her head. “Here she had everything, and yet she was jealous of
me.
She did stuff—mean stuff to me behind her mother’s back.”

The swirling emotions she’d felt back then burst into vivid color in Priss’s mind. Indigo, for the sadness. Loneliness was the dark gray of storm clouds. The rage was crimson.

“Priss?”

It was the second time he’d called her name. “Easter was coming. Suzie got it in her head that she wanted a bunny. A real baby bunny.” She cleared the wad in her throat. “Mr. Brenan said no. Mrs. Brenan said no. But Suzie kept working on her mom until she got that darned rabbit.

“It was a tiny ball of white-and-brown fluff at first.” Priss relaxed her hand, letting go the fistful of sheet. “She named it Sweetness. They put it in a hutch, in the shade in the backyard.” She smoothed the wrinkles she’d made in the sheet.

“Everything was okay at first. Suzie loved it when it was little. But it grew into a rabbit. And Suzie didn’t think rabbits were as cute as bunnies.”

She took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling. Better to say it fast. “I’d sneak out at night when everyone was in bed, to pet him. He really was sweet. And when I saw he didn’t have food or water, I took care of him.

“But one night I was cleaning the cage, and I must have made a noise.” She glanced at Nacho. He nodded his head to get her to go on. “Mr. Brenan came out. When he figured out that I’d been taking care of Sweetness, he made Suzie get up and clean that cage in her nightgown, yelling at her the whole time about how she wanted the rabbit and she was damned well going to learn some responsibility.

“I knew she’d make me pay.” The deep indigo pool of sadness welled in her, a rising flood that carried her back to that day. “But she made Sweetness pay, too.

“I always made an excuse to go out in the backyard in the mornings to check on him. Then one day, about ten days later, he was dead. Lying in the cage like he was sleeping, but his head was wrong, on his neck.” The sheet was back in her fists, but she didn’t let go. She needed something to hang on to.

“Suzie must have been watching because she came out crying and screaming, saying
I
killed her bunny.”

“Oh, man, that’s evil,” Nacho whispered.

“Mrs. Brenan came out to see what was wrong. Suzie went on and on, hysterical, saying how I was jealous, and I killed Sweetness to get back at her.” She took a deep breath.

“She believed Suzie, of course. Or maybe she didn’t, but couldn’t face what she’d raised. In any case, she stood there ranting at me, telling she was calling Social Services and getting me the hell away from her family.

“And all that time, Suzie stood behind her, smiling.”

“Did you kill her?”

“No. But I almost wished I had. Because that day, in the cafeteria, she stood up and told everyone I was a bunny killer.”

“Holy sh—” He stopped himself in time.

“Social Services came to the school that day and took me to the group home. I stayed there until Mom got her poop in a pile, found a day job and bailed me out.” She let go of the sheet. “But from then on I had a note in my file. Some psycho-babble label, but what it meant was ‘bunny killer.’”

The waters of sadness receded, leaving her standing knee high in the stinking mudflat of her childhood. “They say stuff that happens when you’re a juvie stays sealed in your records. But school records aren’t sealed—and kids never forget.”

She laced her fingers, to hide the shake. “So a few years later I’m in high school. And in order to graduate each student had to do so many hours of community service. I wanted to volunteer at the animal shelter—bad. So I went the first day, and had a great time, playing with the puppies, cleaning cages.” She tried to say the words without thinking about what they meant. “But there was another girl there from my school, too. She told the people at the shelter about me being a bunny killer. They were nice about it, and even listened to my side of the story.” She took a deep breath. “Then they asked me to volunteer elsewhere.”

Priss stood. “Stuff is never buried as deep as you hope it will be. I got the heck out of Vegas as soon as I graduated.”

Nacho stood, too. “You know what it’s like—not to have any say in what happens to you.” For the first time since she met him, she heard a sliver of respect in his tone.

“I do know. And I want you to have a say, as you get older. But a record is going to limit your choices.” She picked up his pillow and tossed it on the head of the bed. “And we mutts don’t get a whole lot of choices to begin with.”

* * *

A
DAM
SAT
AT
his kitchen table after dinner listening to the clock tick, staring at the empty pad in front of him. His mind felt mushy, battered black and blue. He’d spent the past three days in a personal spotlight-style interrogation, breaking down his excuses and motivations, trying to figure out how he’d ended up here.

He’d been so messed up after the accident. Tentative became a way of life—an amniotic sac of insulation from high-impact reality. It had been easier to just go along, to let others decide for him: majoring in pharmacology because his father wanted him to, returning home after college because his mother wanted him to, taking over the family business because everyone had expected him to.

It had taken three days and five pages of pro-and-con lists to dig down to the bedrock of what
Adam Preston
wanted.

He scanned the pile of pages. Luckily, some parts of his current life made it to the “Keeper” list—running the business, living in Widow’s Grove and playing softball.

June, though, hadn’t made that list. She was a very nice girl, but he now realized why there hadn’t been any spark. She was a woman he
thought
he should like.

His mother had never expressed an opinion of the women he dated except to say that she wished he’d settle down with one. So time and again he’d chosen women who he
imagined
his mother would approve of.

You can’t get much more pathetic than that.

To take his mind off it, he’d pulled out a blank sheet of paper and written at the top, “My Type.” That was an hour ago. It still lay on his kitchen table, as bleak and empty as his future. He didn’t know what type of woman would make him feel complete. And how could a guy so unaware ever hope to complete anyone else?

He dropped his chin on his fist. The pen tapped a staccato Morse code on the pad. Maybe it was a message from his brain. Pity he didn’t know Morse code.

Priss hadn’t been down for coffee the past three mornings. They usually crossed paths a few times a week, but lately he hadn’t seen either of his tenants. His mind worried at it like an obsessive compulsive with a lock. Was she all right? Were Nacho and she still fighting? Or was she avoiding him? In the parking lot that day Priss had nailed him in a few words.
Afraid to really live.
She hadn’t actually said it, but that’s what she’d meant.

And she was right.

Unable to sit any longer staring at his steaming pile of shortcomings, he stood and paced to the living room.

“You’re bullshitting yourself, Preston. Just admit it. You’re interested in Priss Hart.” He strode back to the kitchen. “And that scares you as much as any Amazon cruise.” He tucked his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, just so he had something to do with them. “You have determined this to be a fact. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

He walked another lap.

Thinking about doing something about it, and actually doing something... Dammit, he’d put
himself
in between these two hard places with all this silly introspection. But he couldn’t
unknow
what he now knew, and the knowing tore away what little self-respect he had.

His feet stopped beside the kitchen table covered in lists. “Then you really don’t have a choice, do you?” He snatched his car keys from the peg next to the door.

Time to go out there and get some of life on him.

He would run by to say goodnight to his mother, then he’d check in with Priss. Just to be sure she was okay.

And maybe ask her out.

CHAPTER NINE

A
DAM
STOOD
BEFORE
Priss’s door, his heart unsettled, his fist raised to knock.

I should wait till morning....

Except that by morning he’d have an excuse to wait until evening. He knew this for certain because that’s what he’d done the past three days.

You didn’t have this much trouble asking June out.

A quieter voice in his head whispered,
Yeah, but June doesn’t scare you.

Rather than exploring why that would be,
or
his budding multiple personalities, he gritted his teeth and let his fist fall into a knock.

The door opened to the limit of the safety chain, revealing Priss’s widened eyes and the frown above them. “Is everything all right?”

“Sure. Do you have a minute? I’d like to talk to you.”

The door closed and the chain rattled. It opened only enough for a glimpse of Nacho looking up from a jigsaw-puzzle-strewn kitchen table.

Priss stood in the breech, feet planted, holding the door as if he might try to force his way in. “What is it?” Her words were measured and clipped off at the ends.

If it wouldn’t have been seen as cowardly by himself as well as her, he’d have tucked tail and run. “You haven’t been down for coffee the past few mornings.” He cleared his throat of the forlorn tone. “We were going to discuss you playing baseball with the Winos, remember?”

She shot a glance over her shoulder. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She hissed a whisper. “I don’t want to talk about it here.”

Nacho bent over the puzzle, but something in his studious disregard told Adam he regarded quite a bit.

Adam took a step back, trying to think of a gracious retreat.

Priss’s features remained shuttered, but her eyes spoke the truth. They were dark pools of confusion.

Her unwitting vulnerability puddled his unease like heated candle wax. What would it take to disorient a street-wise warrior who shot first and took no prisoners? He didn’t know. But discovering why suddenly mattered to him. He took a step forward. “Come for a walk with me.”

“I can’t leave Nacho.” But her eyes told him she’d like to.

“My mom is right across the hall.” He raised his voice. “Mom?”

His mother’s door opened so fast that he knew Nacho wasn’t the only one listening. “Yes, dear?”

He ignored Priss’s frantic head shake. “Would you mind keeping an ear open for Nacho? Priss and I are going for a walk.”

“Of course I will.”

“Adam, I can’t—”

Nacho said, “For chrissake, I’m ten. I think I can handle being alone for a half hour.”

“Don’t swear.” Priss glanced from Nacho to Adam to Olivia, who’d wheeled her walker into the hall. “All right. Hang on.” Priss strode back into the apartment, whispered something in Nacho’s ear that made him flinch, snatched the jean jacket from the back of the chair, and strode to the door.

It was just after dark as they walked down the street but most of the stores were closed. Downtown Widow’s Grove shut down early when it wasn’t prime tourist season. A fresh breeze cooled Adam’s face and neck. Priss shrugged into her jacket.

“Which way are we going?” she asked.

“Have you been to iCandy?”

She frowned up at him. “I sure hope that’s not a stripper bar.”

“Guess you’re going to have to take that chance.” Chuckling, he took her elbow and steered her left. “Now, tell me, why can’t you play baseball?”

“I grounded Nacho after his latest debacle.” She sighed. “But I’m learning that means I’m grounded too.”

“So? Bring him with you.” They strolled, hands in pockets, bumping elbows now and again.

“I thought of that, but I’d be so busy keeping my eye on him to be sure he didn’t take off, that I’d miss every ball hit my way.”

“Then sign him up for Little League. Their games are the same time as ours.”

“Yeah, I asked him about that. Zero interest.” She shook her head. “And honestly, can you see Nacho playing baseball?”

He imagined the kid in crotch-dragging pinstripes, baseball cap backwards, flashing gang signs at the other team. “No, probably not.” An occasional car passed them. He touched her back to guide her across Hollister at King’s Way. The spotlighted flag atop the tall pole in the center of the intersection snapped in the breeze. “Since he enjoys painting, why not sign him up for art classes down at the YMCA?”

Her head snapped up, eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that? We didn’t talk about it the day you heard us fighting.”

He shrugged, palms out to show he meant no harm. “Widow’s Grove is a small town.”

Her jacket seemed to deflate, as if her shoulders had shrunk. “I’ll look into the YMCA.”

At the defeat in her voice, his own shoulders stiffened. In her doorway she’d looked defenseless—his ego had the scratch marks to prove she wasn’t. But something like an itch deep in his gut made him want to protect her anyway.

Before he could think better of it, he raised a hand and curled his fingers around her elbow. “Nacho’s not stupid. Give him time. If you stay the course, he’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah, I can hope.” But her expression didn’t look hopeful.

* * *

“S
O
YOU
’
VE
LIVED
in Widow’s Grove all your life, Nacho?”

The landlord’s mother sat at the kitchen table, trying to work on the puzzle. She wasn’t very good. She picked up an edge piece, and tried it on the inside.

“No. See that flat part? That means it goes in the frame. On the outside,” Nacho said.

“Oh, I see.” She picked up another piece.

“I was born in Vegas, but this burg is all that I remember.”

“Don’t you like it here?”

Should he tell her the truth? A little old lady probably couldn’t handle the truth. He just shrugged.

“Priss seems nice. I understand you haven’t known each other long.”

He focused on the shapes in front of him. “I don’t know about nice. She’s pretty hard-a—tough.”

She looked up, her eyes all twinkly like Mrs. Claus. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think she’s half as tough as she acts.”

“That’s ’cause you haven’t made her mad, yet.” He turned a piece and tried it again. It was just the right color...

“Do you two look like your mom?” She dug through the pieces in the box.

“Yeah, kinda. We have this thing.” He pulled the hair that came down on the center of his forehead to show her. “Our mom was really pretty.”

“Looking at you two, I’ll bet she was. Was she sick long, Nacho?”

What was with this lady? So full of questions. He didn’t want to talk about his mom, but it was a long time to sit, not talking. And besides, Priss would yell if the lady told her he’d been rude. “Yeah. She had umphasema.”

He remembered his mom getting out of breath after a short walk. Then the oxygen tanks she wheeled around after her. Then the hospital, when she could hardly talk. She just lay there with a mask over her nose and mouth and looked at him and cried....

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” The pieces got blurry. His damn nose started running and he wiped it on his sleeve.

“Oh, I’m sorry to make you sad, son.” She touched his arm.

He pulled away. “I’m not sad.”
And I’m not your son.

“Nacho.”

She didn’t say anything else, so he had to look at her.

“Real-life tough guys aren’t like in the movies.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“A famous tough guy once said, ‘Courage is being scared to death, and saddling up anyway.’” She smiled. “Do you know who said that?”

He just shook his head.

“John Wayne. You know who he is, don’t you?”

“Oh, heck, yeah. The Duke.” Even rabbit-ear TVs played his movies.

“Right. Real men cry, Nacho. Then they pull it together and go do what they’ve got to do.” She clicked a puzzle piece into place. “Hey, look at me, I found one!”

She looked so happy, he had to smile. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

* * *

W
ARM
LIGHT
SPILLED
from the windows a few doors down. Adam steered Priss toward them, enjoying her warmth under his hand. Her short hair grew to a point at the nape of her neck. The pale, vulnerable skin below it begged to be touched.

He pulled his focus away when the door of the shop opened, emitting the cloying smell of sugar and metallic refrigerated air. Two small boys emerged, balancing ice-cream cones with tongue-between-the-teeth focus. Adam reached to catch the door.

“Jeremy, watch that drip.” The mother shot Adam a thank-you smile, took the boys’ hands, and strolled away.

Priss ducked under his arm.

The wall to the right was essentially made of sugar—filled with jars of brightly colored jujubes, licorice, jelly beans and lemon drops. On the left wall were display cases of handmade brittle, fudge and chocolate. At the case farthest from them, an aproned teen scooped ice cream for the store’s only other customer.

Adam breathed in a dizzying miasma of sugar.

“Wow.” Priss stood gaping like a girl who’d stumbled into Willy Wonka’s factory.

“It does slap your senses, doesn’t it?”

“I’d have to pry Nacho off the ceiling of this place from the smell alone.”

“What would you like?” He eyed the homemade Almond Rocha.

“I didn’t bring any money.” She stuffed her hands in the front pockets of her jeans. “I don’t want anything, thanks.”

“My treat.” When he stepped to the chocolate display case, she didn’t move. “You want some fudge?”

“I’m good, thank you.”

She’s embarrassed. She’s not rejecting you.
He turned to her. “Priss, this is not a big deal.”

“Yeah, it is.” Her lips pursed, except the center of the bottom one. It jutted in a pooch of cuteness.

“Then you can pay me back.” He scanned the jars arrayed on the wall. “What do you think Nacho would like?”

“He doesn’t deserve it. He’s grounded.” She still frowned, but some of the stubbornness relaxed from her lips. She took a step toward the case.

Gotcha.

He pointed to a display atop the case beside them. “How about a sucker?” Rainbow colors swirled, twisting into a nine-inch-diameter week-long sugar rush.

Priss lifted a smaller one, a telephone-cord spiral of yellow, red and green. “I’m paying you back, as soon as we get home.”

“Fair enough.” He turned to the case and addressed the clerk. “Hi, Gretta. How’s your mom doing?”

He continued his small talk with the girl as he picked out a small bag of Rocha for his mother, a small square of fudge for himself, and when Priss closed her eyes in bliss over a peanut-butter cup sample, several of those for her.

By the time they left the candy store, the breeze blowing in their faces had turned cold. Adam shivered in his light shirt.

“You’ve got to be freezing.” She rolled the top of the bag in her fist. “Race you!” She took off.

He stood flat-footed a nanosecond, then ran after her, candy bags rattling with every step.

She must be a great base runner. She was fast. It took him blocks to catch her. Not that he minded watching her fluid grace from behind. Finally, when she slowed in front of the drugstore, he snagged her around the waist from behind and reeled her in. Breathing hard, she laughed up at him as she turned around, an imp’s glint in her dark eyes.

His hand tightened across her taut stomach as want boiled from his chest, surging down in a flash point of blazing heat.

Lips open in a pant, she watched him with startled eyes.

They hung suspended in the moment, breathing the rarefied air of between what they were before to whatever they could be, after.

She was so small that he had to bend to reach her lips. Still, he hovered there, waiting. It had to be her choice, too. So close that her breath brushed his lips. She closed the tiny gap with a butterfly kiss, fragile as a sigh.

“I have to go.” Her words tumbled out, “I’ll get you the money—”

“Don’t you ever let someone just
do
something nice for you?”

“Not if I can’t pay it back.”

His hands came up to cradle her face, to touch the skin he’d known would be satin. It was softer. He brought his head back down to hers and lingered above her lips before tasting the sweetness of chocolate.

Her lips opened, and her tongue touched his in a tentative greeting.

A fizz of desire shot from his chest, making him almost dizzy with the knowing that he hadn’t been wrong—she shared the tug he’d felt for weeks. He deepened the kiss, and being Priss, she gave as good as she got. The innocent scent of Ivory soap and chocolate washed over him, combining to create something sexier than exotic perfume.

He wanted to explore her. He wanted to open all her cubbies and drawers to discover clues to the intricate puzzle that was Priss Hart.

By the time she broke the kiss they were both breathing hard. She backed up, fingers over her lips, the look of a startled deer in her eyes.

Then she whirled and was gone, leaving nothing but the slap of her tennis shoes echoing from the alley.

Wow.
He stood catching his breath, feeling as surprised as she’d looked. So much for a cozy, controlled fire.

Sparks, hell. That girl is a firestorm.

* * *

P
RISS
FLEW
UP
the stairs, trying to leave behind what had just happened. She stood at the top holding the railing, catching her breath, her composure, her equilibrium.

Damn, that man kisses like Clapton plays the guitar—natural, easy, pure.

And she, the one who always kept herself strong and apart, had simply fallen into him. When had the uptight, judgmental landlord morphed into a nice guy who looked like Superman and seemed to really care?

And when did
that
kind of guy become something she couldn’t resist?

She’d always flown with her own kind. If not out-and-out bad boys, then the dudes on the fringes of bad—like Ryan. Fun-loving transients, flying into her life, staying awhile, then flying out. Guys like that were safe; she understood them, and they her—nothing deep, nothing lasting. No hooks.