Unbelievable (9 page)

“I need a magazine that contains current style office furniture. I’m redecorating an office,” I explained after she blew kisses into the phone at some guy named Alex before hanging up. “I’d like something simple, not super fancy.”

“I think I know exactly what you need. Follow me.” She led me over to a column of magazines situated against the back wall. “This is sort of, like, a
Decorating for Dummies
type magazine. It’s pretty good. What kind of, like, office, are you going to be decorating?”

“A doctor’s office at Port Fare General Hospital.” I took the red and gold magazine from her and fanned through the pages. Perfect.

“I have a friend who, like, volunteered at PFG for a while. Part of a class she was taking at the college.” I nodded out of politeness as I studied the layouts. A brown leather couch with dark mustard pillows. That’d be perfect for Cole’s office.

“Maggie Brown’s her name.”

My head popped up, eyes wide. Seriously? “She’s a friend of mine also.” This town was way too small.

“She’s great. I met her, like, three years ago, right before she had a run-in with some, like, really nasty drug dealers. They almost killed her.” She shook her head in disgust.

A wave of nausea hit me squarely, and I about dropped my magazine.

“Real creepers, those two. One was into cutting up young girls. I think he killed like four, maybe five. He almost got Maggie. . . Hey, like, are you alright?” Bambi grabbed a chair from a nearby table and guided me into it.

It had to be Alan and his knife. His pearl handled knife. I shuddered at my memory.

“Let me get you some water. You don’t look so good,” said little Miss Goth-punker.

“I’m fine, really. I don’t do the whole blood and guts stories, you know what I mean?”

She nodded. “Yes, and those killings were gruesome.” Bambi wrapped her arms around herself protectively.

I needed to leave. “Thanks, Bambi. I’d better get going.” I went to the check out, but then remembered I didn’t have a library card and turned back to her.

“I don’t have a card.”

“You have to have a utility bill or rental agreement from the county to get a card,” Goth-Bambi informed me.

“Can I bring in my lease tomorrow?”

“I’m not supposed to, but since you’re a friend of Maggie’s and all, like, I could call her. If she’ll vouch for you, we can bend the rules, but you have to promise to bring in a copy of your bill next time you come in.” I thanked her repeatedly as she called Maggie.

She and Maggie talked for several minutes about Alex, Bambi’s motorcycle riding boyfriend
, before she hung up. After a few strokes on her computer, a hard plastic sheet with my name printed on it came shooting out of a small metal machine next to the computer. “This is for your wallet,” she explained, breaking off a credit card size card from the sheet. “And this little card, like, goes on your key chain. The magazine is due in a week.” She handed me a small card with a hole in the top, then added, “Maggie sure thinks highly of you.”

I took the card, thanking her again for the help. Me, the magazine, and my guilt trip left.

Chapter 8

“Sorry I’m late, Cole. I was talking to my dad on the phone and lost track of time.” Okay, more like carefully arguing with him as I drove to the hospital after leaving the library. He insisted that Bambi’s story was propaganda fed to the press to make the cops look good. When I reminded him of what Alan did to me, his ballistic screams unnerved me to my core.

“You’ve always seen the worst in Alan. You were eight, Lilah,
and he was a stupid teenager. It’s time to let the past go. I can’t believe you’d trust what a stranger said over me.”

I couldn’t believe he
’d defend Alan’s actions, yet he did.

He’d also lied to me most of my life.
Believing a stranger over Daddy didn’t seem much of a stretch to me.

“What do you think?” Cole asked, bringing me back to the present. Only then did I notice that all the furniture had been scooted to the center and covered with a cream painter’s tarp.

“Sorry, what did you say?” I took a deep cleansing breath and let the argument go. It’s not like I could do anything about Daddy anyway.

“I said why don’t I tape off along the ceiling and you tape the molding along the floor,” he repeated, adding, “Are you okay?”

I took the blue tape he’d been holding out to me for who knows how long and knelt down. “Yes. My dad’s pretty sick. Emphysema. He claims stress brought it on and not the three packs of cigarettes a day he smokes.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is he getting any kind of treatment?” Cole asked, climbing on a foot stool.

“Honestly, I’ve no idea why he’s still alive. The doctor diagnosed him just over three years ago and told him then he had about six weeks to live, and he’s still here.” I looked up at Cole as he leaned a little too far to the right on a step ladder, wobbling a bit before regaining his balance. “It’s a miracle he’s still around. And he still smokes. Not three packs a day mind you, but he still smokes.”

“Sounds like he has great determination. You must be like him. I see you as a person who
. . . ”

“I’m nothing like him.” I jumped to my feet. My hands, now fists, shook at my side.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.” Cole’s gaze zeroed in on my hands. I relaxed my grip.

“Sorry. Over-reaction.” I smiled weakly. “My father and I don’t see eye-to-eye on most things. Sometimes I wonder if we’re even related.”

Neither of us spoke for several minutes as we continued to prep the wall. Cole cut through the icy silence first. “I’m glad you talked me into the green. I think it’s going to look good in here.”

“It’ll be great, especially with the furniture I have in mind. I picked up a magazine with the perfect couch for
it in here.” I finished my part and stood to check out Cole’s tape job.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” he said, climbing down the stool's three steps as I opened a can of paint. “Why do I need a couch?”

“For sleeping on, mostly. Booker said you spend a lot of nights sleeping in the residence quarters. If we can find you a nice couch, at least you’ll have some privacy.” I picked up the magazine and showed him the furniture I picked out. “Besides sleeping, they’re pretty comfortable for kissing on also.” I winked. His ears glowed red within a nanosecond.

“Lilah,” Cole protested with a frown. He took the magazine and studied the photo. “I like that. Do you think it will fit?”

“Yes. I’ll measure the space to be safe.” I handed him a brush. “Are you sure you still want to help? I can do this myself. Painting is pretty easy.”

“Yes. I love painting. With six brothers, my parents paint
ed our house fairly often. I enjoyed helping them.” Cole poured some paint into a plastic bowl.

“You have six brothers?” I know my mouth hung open, but seriously,
six
brothers?

“Yup. I’m the seventh son of a seventh son, of a seventh son. All my brothers have boys, too. There hasn’t been a girl born into the Colter line in three generations.” He walked over
and began cutting in around the door.

“Not one girl?” I slipped behind the covered filing cabinet and started cutting in on the corner.

“Nope. My mom thought about adopting a little girl, she wanted one so badly, but it never happened. She hoped my brothers would have a girl, but none have so far. How many kids in your family?”

That was a loaded question. How should I answer that without explain
ing that I had three brothers at one point and now they were all dead thanks to
his
friends. No, that wouldn’t be good. Instead, I opted for the easy answer. “I’m an only child.”

“Did you like that? Wasn’t it lonely?”

“Some days. But my mom and I were tight until she died when I was ten. After that, my nanny, Birdie, raised me. My dad was always gone.” A good thing. A
real
good thing.

“Sorry to hear about your mom. Was it sudden?” Cole stepped over next to me as he asked.

“Yes. She had diabetes. One afternoon her blood glucose went crazy. They don’t know why. She slipped into a coma and died the next day. It was the worst day of my life. I had no idea how I was going to go on without her.” I shut my eyes to the pain that still hadn’t dimmed. “Thankfully, Birdie, stood by me. She saved me.” I rubbed my arms against the chill that crept into my bones.

“That must have been horrible. Was your father able to help you?” Cole asked, kindness filling his big blue eyes
as he came toward me.

“My dad was a wreck. He refused to speak about her. No one was allowed to bring up her name ever again in his presence. Like I said, thankfully I had Birdie. She was my rock.” I dipped my brush in the paint.

“Maggie lost her mom a few years back. I know she still struggles with it.” He shook his head and went back over to the door frame. “I wish I knew how to help her.”

“Nothing helps
, really. Time. It takes lots of time.” I still had days that were a struggle to get through. “How did her mom die?”

“Maggie’s kind of a private person. It’d probably be best if she told you. I shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place,” he said with regret.

“While out dress shopping, I heard her tell the saleswoman that her mom had died. She didn’t mention it directly to me, though. I won’t tell her you said anything,” I promised.

“No, I’ll let her know. I don’t want to be dishonest,” he said, dabbing at a splotch of green paint on his scrubs with a rag.

Of course not. Opie would never lie.

As if he’d read my mind, he said, “I watched a couple episodes about that Opie kid on the internet last night.”

“
The Andy Griffith Show
? Me, too. We could’ve watched it together. You have paint on your cheek, by the way.” I pointed to the right side of his face. He wiped at it a few times, missing it completely.

“Let me.” I
stepped over and tugged on his scrubs, and he leaned down. I blotted his cheek with a towel, and then wiped my fingers over the slightly red mark it left.

“Did you get it?” Cole asked.

“Yes.” I continued to caress his face.

“Then why are you still rubbing my cheek?”

“Can’t help myself, Opie.” I wagged my eyebrows at him.

He straightened. “I’m not Opie,” he said with a half
grin.

“No? Tell me something about yourself that’s not Opie-like,” I challenged.

“I once owned a motorcycle.” He looked at me triumphantly.

“Once? What happen
ed to it?”

“I sold it,” he said casually, keeping his eyes on the paint brush in his hand.

“Why?” I pressed.

“Because . . .
because it’s too dangerous. Do you have any idea how many motorcycle accident victims come into the ER?”

As he went on and on about the gruesome motorcycle accidents he’d seen, and about the statistics of surviving an accident while riding one, I counted the freckles scattered across his
nose. Twelve. I wanted to kiss each and every one. I also noted the strawberry blonde strands he had running through his hair that I hadn’t noticed before. I couldn’t help but grin at the way his eyes crinkled after tripping over his feet trying to put some space between us. Yup. Opie was freaking adorable from the tip of his strawberry blond hair to the ends of the tattered leather clogs on his feet.

Whoa. I needed to rein myself in before I fell for this guy big time.
Come on, girl, keep it together.

“You’re not listening to me, are you?” Cole observed.

“Yes. You’re describing all the horrible motorcycle accident victims you’ve treated. But you forget, many people ride motorcycles every day without getting into an accident.”

“True,” he admitted grudgingly.

“You can’t live in a protective bubble, Cole. Life is meant to be experienced. You need to fall every now and then, get a little scraped up. You need to take a chance. Fall in love at the risk of getting your heart broken.” I dipped my paint brush in the bucket, wiping off the excess on the can’s lip. “Have you ever been in love?”