The Sweetheart Bargain (A Sweetheart Sisters Novel) (22 page)

“You got the wrong beach for that. You want to hit the other side of the state. Miami. Boca. Here, the average beachgoer is collecting social security.”

“Well unless they changed retirement age, I’d say you have a few hotties here. One right next door.” Mike arched a brow.

Luke got up and looked out the window. Olivia was out in her yard, bent over, doing what he didn’t know. Gardening, he presumed. She had on short red shorts that stood out against the contrast of her long, peach legs. He didn’t have to be able to see that well to know that she looked enticing, gorgeous, and sexy enough to turn any man’s head and make him lose his mind.

Heat pooled in his gut. He could still see her, sprawled on the bed, the moonlight kissing her pale skin, that smile he liked so much playing on her lips. If they hadn’t run into that little condom snag—

Well, it was a good thing they had. Because as much as he wanted Olivia—and Lord help him, he wanted her a hundred times more than he’d wanted anything in his life, even that Mustang he’d begged for back when he was sixteen—Luke knew he’d be no good for her. Olivia was a settle-down girl and he was a head-for-the-hills guy.

He cleared his throat. “She’s just my neighbor.”

“Well, you know, I always thought Mr. Rogers had the right idea.” Mike grabbed the coffeepot and poured a fresh mug, then swiped the bag of doughnuts off the table.

“What are you doing?”

“The neighborly thing. Offering the neighbor some breakfast. And finding an excuse to meet her.” Mike grinned. “Wouldn’t Mr. Rogers be proud?”

A hot poker of jealousy lanced Luke’s chest. How could that be? He barely knew Olivia. She irritated the hell out of him, with her do-gooder deeds, and her concern over a stray dog, and her always nosing around his house. Yeah, she was sexy as all hell, and had that little laugh that made him think of music, but she wasn’t his girlfriend or anything. He had no ties to Olivia, no claim to her as solely his.

Mike was his friend. He shouldn’t care if Mike dated Olivia or hell, married her.

But he did. A lot.

“Listen, she’s just getting over a divorce.” Luke wanted to kick himself for giving Mike the
she’s single
information. “Probably not the best time to go over there.”

Mike turned back. “Oh really? You got to know her already?”

Luke scowled. “She lives right next door. It’s hard not to.”

“Well, if you ask me, she looks hot. As in the working-in-the-sun-too-long kind of hot. And hot people need to eat. So come with me and be a gentleman.”

“I don’t—”

“Know how. I know. It sucks being the socially awkward one, doesn’t it?” Mike laughed. “Just follow my lead. I have enough gentleman in me for both of us.” Mike was still laughing as he pulled open the back door and led the way down the drive, and back up Olivia’s, then around the house and into Olivia’s yard.

When she saw them, she straightened and brushed her bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. The rising sun caught her from behind and cast her hair in gold like a freaking halo. Damn. Every time he saw her, a chain reaction of fireworks combusted in his solar plexus. He glanced over at Mike and could practically see the other man drooling. “Hey, Luke. You’re up early.”

“He’s turning lazy now that he’s a civilian again,” Mike said, stepping forward and proffering his free hand. “I’m Mike Stark. I used to serve with this doofus over here.”

Olivia pulled off a gardening glove, and shook with Mike. Luke had to force himself not to rip Mike’s arm out of the socket. “Nice to meet you. Sorry I’m such a mess. I don’t have any appointments this morning, so I’m trying to get some outside work done before it gets too warm out.”

“We thought you might like some breakfast.” Mike handed her the coffee and the doughnut bag. “Not sure if you’re a fan of doughnuts, but—”

“I am definitely in the doughnut fan club.” She smiled, and the sun behind her brightened. “There’s nothing a good glazed can’t make better.”

“I ate the glazed,” Luke said, then wanted to kick himself for being such a moron. Since when did he clam up like a mute around Mike? Then utter one idiotic phrase? “Sorry.”

“I can be swayed by a good jelly-filled, too,” Olivia said, withdrawing the doughnut from the bag. She took a bite, sending a dusting of powdered sugar onto the curve of her chin and leaving one sweet dot of jelly on her upper lip. Beside him, Mike let out a low groan.

“Damn,” Mike whispered.

“Be nice or I’ll chain you to the fence,” Luke muttered.

Mike chuckled. “I’d like to see you try, wimpy.” He turned back to Olivia and affected a nonchalant stance. “So, Olivia, Luke was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner sometime.”

Luke would have punched Mike, but the other man had wisely moved away a few steps. “Mike . . .”

“Dinner?” Olivia raised a brow in Luke’s direction. “I didn’t know you cooked. I thought it was all pizza boxes and beer over there.”

And boxers on the floor, Luke remembered telling her. Boxers that had been on her floor just last night.

“I cook,” Mike offered. “Not a lot of things, but I can roast a chicken that will make you swoon.”

“Who the hell says
swoon
?” Luke said.

“I do. After I catch the fainting ladies who eat my roast chicken. My supersecret barbecue recipe will make your taste buds cry.”

“Somebody’s going to cry,” Luke muttered. Since when did Mike cook? Or have a secret recipe for anything?

“Considering I’ve only had time to grab a sandwich here and there, a little home-cooked food sounds amazing,” Olivia said.

“So, is it a date?” Mike asked. “Tomorrow night? Say, seven?”

“A date? With the two of you?”

“No, not a date,” Luke said, wishing again that Mike were close enough to slug. “Just . . . a meal. Everybody’s got to eat, right?”

Make it clear he wasn’t pursuing her. That this was just a friendly neighborhood get-together. Even if his every other thought was about her in that bed, ready, willing—

“Well, when you put it like that,” she said, laughing, and he wondered if she was laughing at him or with him, or with Mike, “how can a girl refuse? Should I bring dessert?”

“You already are—”

This time Luke did slug him. Mike oomphed. “Dessert would be fine, thanks,” Luke said. “We’ll, uh, let you get back to your garden.” Then he grabbed Mike by a fistful of T-shirt and hauled him back across the two yards. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“What are
you
thinking? You have Miss America living next door to you and you don’t ask her out? What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m just not in the mood for dating right now. I . . .” He shook his head and let out a curse. “Just leave me alone, will you? I don’t need someone butting into my life.”

Mike put up two hands and backed up a couple of steps. “Whoa, down there, Rover. I’m merely pointing out that the Luke I know would have never ignored a pretty woman.”

“Well, I’m not that Luke. Not anymore.” He stalked into his house, letting the screen door slam behind him. He grabbed a couple of beers, then settled in front of the television to watch a show he didn’t give a damn about to try to forget a woman he did.

It was a good ten minutes before he heard the creak of the screen door and the sound of Mike’s heavy footfalls crossing the kitchen, then clomping down the hall and finally stopping in the living room.

“What the hell is your problem?” Mike asked.

“Gee, your sympathy is overwhelming.” Luke turned back to the TV.

“I’m not here to be your shoulder to cry on, Luke. I’m the one who’s going to kick your ass and get you to leave the pity party.”

Luke wanted to hate Mike. To tell him to get the hell out of his house. But instead, he shook his head and grinned. “For the record, you could never kick my ass. I’m faster and wilier than you.”

“Wilier? That’s a word, Einstein?”

“It is in my dictionary. Here. You might as well join my pity party. I’m serving Guinness today.” Luke waved to the other chair. He slid the second beer in Mike’s direction.

The two of them sat and drank for a few minutes while a car chase flashed across the TV screen and the bad guys got away before the commercial break. The air conditioner kept up its hum, and the clock ticked past the minutes. Mike didn’t say a word, just let his friend wallow.

“You got a place to stay while you’re on vacation?” Luke asked.

Mike shrugged. “I got a room at the Marriott over in Tampa.”

“I have a spare room upstairs if you want it. Sheets are clean, but the bed squeaks when you roll over, so no overnight guests. I don’t want some half-naked stripper in my kitchen when I come down to get my coffee.”

“Is that your way of asking me to stay?”

“Hey, somebody needs to roast that chicken.” Luke raised the beer in Mike’s direction, and the two of them laughed the comfortable laugh of two friends who had been through hell and back.

Luke settled back in his chair, feeling a degree closer to good.

Fifteen

The paper sheet chafed her ass, and Doc Harper chafed her nerves. Greta knew the young internist meant well, and he was just doing what that fancy medical school taught him to do, but seriously, the man needed to lighten up a little. He tut-tutted over this, tsk-tsked over that, and made that face she hated—the one that looked like a lemon had been shoved up his nose—when she admitted she hadn’t eaten a salad in six months.

“I feel fine,” Greta said, adjusting the slippery hem of the cotton exam gown. The material was some ungodly print with daisies on a pale blue background. It was enough to make anyone a little sick to their stomach. “I don’t see why you want to waste money on tests.”

“Just a precaution, Greta. Your heart is strong, but I’m concerned that you said you’ve been feeling so tired lately.”

“I’m eighty-three. I’m supposed to be tired.”

“Maybe so. But humor me, will you?” He glanced down at a small square thing he called a tablet and swiped his finger across the screen, then tapped a few things. He was a handsome man, the kind Greta herself would have liked when she was his age. Trim, tall, with short brown hair and dark blue eyes. He was one of those crazy athletic types who jogged every day, biked on the weekends, and thought the whole world should feel the burn. A little anal-retentive with his schedule and his ordered charts and lists, but overall, a decent enough young man. She wondered why no one had scooped him up and saddled him with a mortgage and a couple of kids.

Doc Harper tapped some more. “I’ll schedule you for next week—”

“Next month. I have things to do this week. And there’s nothing that says rush me to the hospital, or for that matter, rush me to the morgue, on that little chart of yours.”

“No, there isn’t.” Doc Harper sighed and leaned a hip against the white laminate counter. “You are a stubborn woman, you know that?”

“Why does everyone keep saying that? I don’t see it.”

He laughed and returned his attention to the tablet thing. “Okay. Next month it is. But I don’t want you overexerting yourself. And for Pete’s sake, will you please try to sneak a vegetable or two into your diet?”

She scowled. “Some days, I swear you are trying to kill me.”

He laid a hand on top of hers and gave her a smile. “Quite the opposite, Greta. Quite the opposite.”

After he left, she got dressed, pausing a moment to catch her breath before heading out of the exam room. A half hour later, she was back in the morning room. Pauline and Esther were sitting at a table by the French doors, a pile of papers on the table before them, their two heads, one Clairol chestnut, the other God-given gray, pressed together as they talked. Esther had a pile of cards on her side, along with her little rubber stamps and her colored inks. The woman made a simple birthday card into a three-week art project.

“What diabolical plan are we concocting today?” Greta asked, as she slid into the third chair.