Unfinished Hero 03 Raid (4 page)

I settled on a morning memory, realizing it was Agent Provocateur
,
and deciding the minute I got home I was ordering another bottle (or seven).

“I best get back to work,” Krista mumbled.

I tore my eyes from Raiden to look at her and saw she was looking at the floor, grinning
like an idiot.

She took off.

Raiden spoke again.

“You Miss Mildred’s grandkid?” he asked.

“Sorry?” I asked back.

“Krista said she was goin’ to Miss Mildred’s this weekend. Heard her grandkid was
takin’ care of her. You her?”

He didn’t know who I was.

I’d lived for twenty-three years convinced I was in love with him, no matter how totally
crazy that was, and he didn’t know who I was.

He heard Krista say my name.

He had no clue.

“Great-grandkid,” I told him.

“You lookin’ after her?” he asked.

I nodded, still coping with the devastation that we’d played tug of war together at
Grams’s picnic and he’d been on my team three years running
,
and he didn’t know me.

“How’s she doin’?” Raiden went on.

“Great. Ninety-eight going on twenty,” I replied
,
and he awarded me another smile.

I must have been getting better with practice seeing as that one only made my scalp
and kneecaps tingle.

“Least that doesn’t change,” he murmured.

He was right about that. Mildred Boudreaux never changed. Even acts of God couldn’t
change her. I knew this because
,
when Grams was sixteen she got struck by lightning, wandered home, clothes still
smoking (or that was how the story was told, incidentally, by Grams) and asked her
mother what was for dinner.

“Listen, I need to go,” I stated and his head tipped slightly to the side, which I
wished he hadn’t done. Because it was just a head tip
,
but being his handsome head, his fabulous hair, his amazing eyes, his attention on
me, it seemed both cool and hot and I wanted to ask him to do it over and over again
just so I could watch.

I pulled myself together (again) and kept talking.

“I’m really sorry about bumping into you and, well… then banging heads.”

“I’m good, long’s you’re okay,” he replied.

“Peachy,” I muttered then forced a smile. “Sorry again and… later.”

Then I took off, hoofing it by him and walking fast to my bike.

I dumped the cat food bag in my cutesie, girlie basket, mounted the saddle, put my
feet to the pedals and took off, heading straight to Grams’s and not looking back
at the pet store.

This was good, seeing as if I did I would have seen Raiden Miller, arms crossed on
his chest, sexy smile playing at his mouth, watching me go.

Chapter Three

Sweet Tea

One week, one day later…

I opened the door to Grams’s place and shouted, “Hey, Grams! I’m here!”

To this I got shouted back, “I’m on the back porch, precious. Soakin’ in sun and drinkin’
sweet tea. Bring the pitcher, I’m low!”

I grinned at the hardwood floors and lugged in the bags of groceries, stopping when
Spot came into my vision.

He sat on his ample booty in the hall and stared up at me.

He was white with big splotches of gray. He was one of the prettiest cats I’d ever
seen. He was also the orneriest. And the fattest.

He wasn’t just fat, he was
solid.
Twenty-two pounds of compacted cat held in by soft white and gray fur.

It was good he was beautiful because he was a pain in the patoot.

Like when he got in a lovable mood
no matter how infrequent
that was
and you were lying on your back on the couch and he jumped up on you and settled
in, there was a good possibility he could crush you.

You didn’t move him
,
though.

There were two reasons for this.

One, he could turn at any time. I’d had to have his front claws lasered since he kept
clawing Grams and breaking skin.

Two, he was so pretty that when he was lovey you took advantage.

“Meow,” he said.

“Meow right back at ‘cha, buddy,” I replied.

Luckily, that worked for him
,
and instead of complaining, hissing and attacking my ankles, he turned and waddled
toward the backdoor.

I went to the kitchen, dumped the groceries, grabbed the pitcher of sweet tea out
of the fridge and headed out back.

Grams used to be my height
,
but she’d shrunk
. A
nd on top of that, she was stooped so now she seemed tiny. She was also wrinkles from
head-to-toe. This was partly because she was old as dirt. This was mostly because
she was a sun fiend. I’d had to buy her one of those outdoor heaters
,
because, even in the winter, if it was sunny she’d grab afghans, put on slippers,
sit outside and stare at the sun glinting off the snow, wrapped up in wool.

Mildred Boudreaux loved everything, everyone and every moment of her life (except
when her husband died, of course, and when her son, my Granddad, died, and when her
three other children died, obviously).

She was just that kind of person.

But she loved some things and some moments better.

And any moment that included sun, she was all for.

I pushed open the back screen door and turned, mouth open to tell her I had more groceries
in the car to bring in, when I stopped dead.

This was because Gram was sitting in her cute Grandma dress, her blue hair newly set
,
because Sharon from Betsy’s came out every Thursday morning to give her a wash and
set
,
and it was Thursday. H
er feet were up, red painted toenails wriggling in the afternoon sun
that was
peeking under the roof of the porch
. A
nd Raiden Ulysses Miller was sitting in the loveseat
kitty-
corner to her
. H
is arm wide, resting on the back of the seat, long, strong, masculine fingers wrapped
around a glass of sweet tea.

What on
earth?

“Look here, precious girl, I got a gentleman caller,” Grams announced
,
and Raiden’s eyes, already on me, smiled.

My stomach dropped.

“Well,
chè
r
e,
you gonna say hey?” Grams prompted.

“Uh… hey,” I mumbled to Raiden.

“Hey,” he didn’t mumble back.

“You didn’t bring yourself a glass,” Grams noted, staring at the pitcher.

I tore my eyes from Raiden’s gorgeousness lounged on Grams’s back porch loveseat and
looked at my beloved great-grandmother.

“I don’t like sweet tea, Grams,” I reminded her.

“I didn’t say you had to fill it with tea, precious. But you gotta have a cold one,
you sit in the sun,” she replied.

“I have groceries to bring in,” I told her
,
and she looked to Raiden.

“Son, do us ladies a favor, bring in the groceries,” she said
,
and my body lurched even as Raiden leaned forward to put his glass on the coffee
table.

“It’s only a couple of bags. I’m good,” I announced
,
and Grams looked at me.

“Get yourself a cold drink, Hanna, sit down. Let the menfolk help you take a load
off,” she said then tipped her head way back to look up at a now standing Raiden.
“Hanna, my precious girl, she runs herself ragged takin’ care of this old biddy. You
help out, it’d help me out.”

“Not a problem,” he rumbled and moved to round the coffee table.

Grams kept talking. “Now, she’s sure to have brought me some ice cream. You get that
in, child, you put it in the freezer. You hear?”

Raiden was closing in on me, his eyes on me, mine glued to him
,
and he winked at me as he replied to Grams, “Yes, ma’am.”

I found it miraculous that, at the wink, I didn’t melt into a puddle.

He disappeared.

Grams prompted, “Hanna. Fill me up and get yourself a cool drink.”

I jerked out of my daze
,
and lightning fast I filled her tea, filled Raiden’s glass and rushed to the kitchen
in hopes I got my “cool drink” before Raiden got in with the last of the groceries.

This was foiled as he walked in while I was walking out with a bottle of diet root
beer.

Therefore, since his huge frame filled the doorway, blocking my escape, I was stuck
in the kitchen with him.

“Sweet ride,” he said, eyes on me.

I looked to his chest. “Sorry?”

He dumped the groceries on the counter. “The Z. Sweet.”

Oh God.

My car.

And I was wearing white jeans and a white, fitted, scoop-necked tee.

The last time, I matched my bike.

This time, I matched my car.

I matched my car!

Luckily, I had a slim black belt and a pair of black gladiator sandals on so at least
that was something.

Seeing as his eyes were on me even as his hands were in the bag, I felt it necessary
to respond.

“Yeah.”

Yes, that was all I could get out.

He looked down at the bags, muttering, “She drives a Z and all she can do is agree
it’s sweet.”

“I got her because she’s pretty,” I informed him, sounding like an idiot
,
but also telling the truth.

It was just the idiotic truth.

Raiden pulled out the carton of ice cream and shot another smile my way. My legs went
weak and he headed to the freezer, talking.

And, incidentally, rocking my world by calling me honey again.

“Honey, the wheels on her, I’d
give
you my Jeep just to drive on those wheels. Smart upgrade, the sports package.”

“Sorry?”

He shoved the ice cream in the freezer and turned to me. “You got the sports package.”

“I did?”

His head cocked to the side and again it was sexy as all blooming heck. H
is
brows snapp
ed
together
. T
hey were as lush as his hair
,
which made the whole maneuver
seriously
sexy as all blooming heck.

“You didn’t know you got the sports package?”

“The sports package?”

“Yeah, on the Z. You didn’t know you had that upgrade?”

“Is that, um… more?” I asked.

“As in, more money?” he asked back.

“Yes,” I whispered, definitely feeling like an idiot.

Raiden wasn’t looking at me like I was an idiot.

He looked weirdly angry.

“Yeah, Hanna. It’s more money. Like, a fuckuva lot more money. The dealership didn’t
tell you that?”

“No,” I told him
,
and his head jerked to straight again.

“Where’d you go?” he asked.

“Bob’s,” I answered.

“You go alone?” he pressed.

“As in, by myself,” I asked (yes, idiotically!).

“Yeah, a woman alone buyin’ a car. Did you go by yourself?”

“Yeah,” I told him.

His mouth got tight and he walked back to the bags, muttering, “Bob just got scratched
on my to-do list.”

What did that mean?

Before I could ask, he spoke again.

“Any of this need to go in the fridge?”

“You can go back out, finish your tea. I’ll do it,” I said
,
and he turned his head to me.

“You do everything for her?”

“Everything?”

Yes,
still
being an idiot.

He flipped his hand out to the groceries. “Yeah, everything.”

“She still cooks but I, uh… get her groceries in every Thursday
,
then I clean her house. And I take her to church Sunday morning and we have breakfast
together after. Oh, and I take her out to dinner every Tuesday night. And, of course,
to mah jongg every Monday morning. But mostly, she does her own thing.”

Raiden turned to me. “Don’t you have a brother?”

“He lives in California.”

“Folks?” he pushed.