In the Mood for Love (22 page)

Sam moved in behind her, rested his hands on her shoulders. He wanted to catch her if her knees buckled. She looked that wrung out. “You blame yourself,” Sam said. He’d seen it in her eyes, read it in her expression. “It wasn’t your fault, Harper.”

“There are those who disagree.” She braced her hands on the counter, lowered her head. “Over the next few weeks I researched post-traumatic stress syndrome, I even spoke with a shrink. I know it wasn’t directly my fault, but if I’d been a different person, a stronger person, I might have been able to convince Andrew to commit to professional help.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But, honey, if he hadn’t snapped then, it could have happened another time. Maybe with you or maybe at even greater consequences. I’m not saying the loss of Andrew and that innocent bystander wasn’t significant. I’m saying it wasn’t your fault.” He finessed her around, took her beautiful face in his hands. “I get you now, Harper. Really get you. I know this tragedy with Andrew is ugly and painful and I understand why you’d rather not talk about it, but I’m glad you told me.”

She brushed away tears. “I just, I didn’t want to marry you without explaining why I am how I am. I turned my back on Canada, on the past, on me. I left naïve, whimsical, pacifist Harper Day in the dust and became the obsessive, aggressive control freak that I am today. I couldn’t work with troubled soldiers. I was too raw. But I could get in the trenches and save troubled celebrities from crashing and burning. I know it seems shallow.”

“Noble. Celebrities need saviors, too.” He hadn’t thought so before but his perspective had shifted over the last few days. Certainly now. Even though she’d stopped talking, his mind raced, filling in blanks, piecing the puzzle. He better understood why she’d reacted so intensely to the L.A. spa shooting. How it tied into the recruitment shooting with Andrew. And why today’s airport shooting had kicked those fears into hyper gear. He got her severe dislike of guns and lax laws. He even understood her manic mission to keep her clients’ heads above water. She couldn’t fix Andrew’s problems so she was intent on saving every other tortured soul in her path.

He even got her obsession with this house and Mary Rothwell.

Sam got Harper Day to the core and he was equally in love with the person she pushed down and the person she fought to be. At this point, he imagined she was a combination of the two. Helping her find comfortable ground would be an honor. Soldier helping soldier, and by God, she was a warrior.

“I didn’t realize how weary I was of being alone. I’ve never told anyone … I haven’t talked about this in years.”

When she melted against him, he held her close, stroked her back. “Running from the past isn’t the answer, Harper, but I don’t want you to go back to Canada. I want you here. With me. With the kids. We’re going to Vegas and we’re getting married. We’ll take it from there. One step at a time. Together.” He gave her a little squeeze, kissed the top of her bowed head. “Say it.”

She smiled against his chest. “Together.”

TWENTY-THREE

Adam was a fan of mornings. Especially Sunday mornings. So the fact that he woke with a dull headache and a bad attitude twisted his shorts even tighter.

He blamed Peppy.

He knew she was a musician. Musicians worked late hours. Her gig had been at Bluebells, a bar east of Pixley, so more than forty-five minutes away. If she owned a decent car he wouldn’t have worried. But when four
A.M.
rolled around and she still wasn’t home, Adam worried.

He called the bar and got an answering machine. They’d closed at two
A.M.
Even if Peppy had stopped for coffee at Carrie’s All-Night Café, she should have been back by now.

Adam imagined that beat-up car broken down on a lone stretch of road. He imagined Peppy, a young woman—alone—in the middle of nowhere in the black of night. Dialing her cell phone had been smart and considerate, right?

“Peppy, it’s Adam.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you all right?”

“Don’t I sound all right?”

“Just checking. It’s late.”

“What are you, my mother?”

If he could’ve reached through the phone to shake her, he would have. Turned out she was with a guy, she had to go. She rushed Adam off and he tried to go back to sleep. Great. She was out getting laid on a Saturday night and he was home alone worrying. Did she know the guy? She didn’t seem the one-nighter type, although what the hell did Adam know? Did she sleep around? Would she be inviting men over? Doing the nasty in the bedroom next to Adam’s? Like he wanted to listen to that.

He tossed and turned for another half hour. A little after four-thirty, he heard tires crunching over gravel, heard a muffler backfire. He heard his front door open and shut, heard her bedroom door open and shut. And then, because the walls of this rental were so freaking thin, he heard Peppy punching her pillow and crying.

He would have preferred creaking bedsprings.

He told himself to mind his own business, fell asleep, woke up at eight … telling himself to mind his own business.

Now it was after nine. He’d completed his run, showered and dressed. He was starving, but Peppy was still sleeping. She’d probably sleep till noon. Did she sleep till noon every day? He was a freaking morning person!

Adam lingered in the hall, torn between his kitchen and the front door. Questioning his judgment or lack thereof. Their lifestyles were completely incompatible, yet he hadn’t given that
huge
fact even a smidgen of thought before offering her the spare room in his teeny, tiny house!

“Bonehead,” he said just as she opened her door, of course, because, hell, where Peppy was concerned Adam’s timing was shit.

“You don’t have to tiptoe around because of me,” she said. “I’m a heavy sleeper.”

“But you’re up.”

“Restless.”

“Hungry?”

“Sure.”

Adam turned his back on her, cursing the twitch in his pants. Turned on? Really? Seriously? Her short, layered hair was sticking up and out every which way. She had dark smudges under her bloodshot eyes. Mascara, he guessed. Those baggy lounging pants, featuring the heads of a cartoon monkey, and the matching tee weren’t sexy by any stretch. But Peppy was. In a cute, sort of pathetic-looking way.

“Just slipping into the bathroom,” she said. “Out in a sec.”

“Take your time.” Adam moved into the kitchen, nabbed a carton of eggs from the fridge. A green and a red pepper, mushrooms, onions. Multigrain bread. Spray butter. “Veggie omelets and toast,” he announced when she walked in. “Sound good?”

“Sure.”

He didn’t look up from the stove, but he smelled soap and toothpaste. Not exactly Chanel No. 5 yet his dick perked all the same. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What? Nothing. Wrong knife.” It wasn’t, but he traded for another anyway. Chopped the peppers, the mushrooms.

“Nice coffee maker,” she said. “Filters?”

“Cabinet to the right of the sink. Top shelf.”
Chop, chop, chop
. “See them?”

“Yep. Damn.”

Adam turned. She was standing on her tiptoes, straining to reach the top shelf. Her tee had hiked up revealing two inches of bare skin between the hem and her waistband. The small of her back. Nothing racy. Still.

Adam bit back a groan, abandoned the knife. “You’ll pull a muscle, reaching like that. Hold on.” He moved fast, moved in behind her and reached up over her head. She tensed and froze and Adam realized that he had her pinned between his body and the counter, his front flush to her back, his groin pressed against her ass. The only thing between them … his erection.

Great
.

Just. Freaking. Great
.

He handed her the filters and stepped back.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Sure,” he said. He went back to chopping. Considered hacking off his most beloved personal part, because he was pretty sure “George,” as Adam sometimes called him, was crazy. Peppy wasn’t his type. She wasn’t grounded. She wasn’t even nice. Although today she was subdued. Not friendly exactly, but subdued. Then again she
had
cried herself to sleep. The guy she’d been with last night, had they argued? Or maybe they were a steady thing and they’d broken up?

Don’t ask.

He made the omelets and toast.

She made coffee and set the table.

They worked in silence, until they finally sat down. Him in jeans and a tee. Her in monkey-face pj’s.

“For the record,” she said as she stirred way too much sugar into her coffee. “I’m not interested.”

Oh, hell
. “Me, neither.”

She raised a brow.

“George has a mind of his own.”

“You named your penis?”

“Every man names his penis.”

“News to me, but okay. Tell George I’m not interested.”

“Talking to my dick at the breakfast table would be weird.”

“This whole conversation is weird.”

“You brought it up.”

“Actually George brought it up. Not that I’m not flattered.”

“Are you?” Adam asked. “Flattered?”

“Yeah.” She shrugged. “Sure. I mean look at you.”

Now Adam’s brow shot up.

“It’s just. It wouldn’t be smart. I mean we’re roommates. And I’m not looking for a serious relationship.”

Adam was, but he held that thought. “So the guy last night. Not a steady boyfriend?”

“Who … Oh. No. That was Jerry. Cost me a fortune.”

Adam choked on his coffee. “You paid him?”

“He jumped me and a bunch of other stuff, gave me a bill. What was I supposed to do, stiff him? A whole night’s pay shot to hell.”

“We can’t be talking about the same thing.”

“Jerry. From Triple A. My car stalled. My grandpa had given me his Triple A card for emergencies and … What did you think I was talking about?”

“Never mind. If you had a Triple A card, why did you have to pay? Wait. Because Vincent’s name was on the card instead of yours?”

“Yep. Grandpa’s card covers him not family, but don’t tell him. I didn’t want him to be upset or try to give me money. Hey, at least it got Jerry out there. Hard to find help at almost three in the morning.”

“You could have called me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“You didn’t know Jerry.”

“True, but … Listen. I’m sorry I was rude when you called last night. It was kind, actually. You just caught me at a bad time. I’ve been having a run of crummy luck. I’m frustrated and, okay, a little discouraged, but I’m not down. I’ll bounce back and bounce back big. I have plans.”

“Like what?”

“I’d rather not talk about them. I’ve got some irons in the fire. I’d rather not jinx them.”

“I get that.”

“You do?”

“Sure.” He felt the same way about his dream goal. Talking about it might jinx it.

“You make a good omelet.”

“You make good coffee.”

“I live on coffee,” she said.

Maybe that’s why she was inhaling breakfast. Maybe she’d skipped dinner last night to save money. Probably got free coffee every club she played. Plus it would keep her alert for those late-night drives.

He offered her toast, watched her douse it with butter spray.

“I guess you don’t use the real stuff, given you’re a health nut and all.”

“Who says I’m a health nut?”

She snorted and gestured as if to say, “Just look at you.”

He was a sports instructor so, yeah, he was in great shape. Plus he enjoyed sports in his off time, enjoyed his morning runs. He ate healthy, lived healthy—mostly.

Peppy … She wasn’t the athletic type. She was the creative type. Instead of a gym, she burned calories on stage. She was slim enough, but soft. Soft angles, soft curves. Not that that was a bad thing.

“I have an okay body, right?” she asked while stirring sugar into her second cup of joe. “At least
George
thinks so.”

Adam’s lips twitched. “George has good taste.”

“But it could be better. My body.”

It was one of those questions that made a man cringe. Like when a woman asked,
“Do these jeans make my ass look big?”
Phrasing the answer carefully was key. “If you’re talking definition, healthier heart…”

“The definition thing, yeah. My heart’s fine. So did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“What you said about rent including three months’ access to a personal sports trainer—which I assume is you.”

Huh
. “The offer stands.”

“Great. Let’s do it.” She wiped her face with a paper napkin. “I want a body like Ivy’s.”

“She’s a lot taller than you, different build.”

“Huge boobs. I know you can’t help me in that department. But the toned-muscle part, the hard stomach that drives guys wild every time she wears a crop top.”

“I can help with that.”

“When can we start?”

One more sip of coffee and she’d be bouncing off the walls. “Later today. I need to drive to Pixley General this morning. A friend’s wife’s having a baby.”

“Daisy’s business partner. Chloe. I know. I was hoping to pay my respects, too. Even though I’m in and out of Sugar Creek a lot, I know the Monroes pretty well. And of course, Grandpa is awfully fond of Daisy. Mind if I catch a ride? Not trusting my car.”

Adam marveled that this chatterbox was the same sulky brat who’d given him hell two days running. “Not a problem.”

She bounced up. “You cooked. I’ll wash the dishes.”

“That’s okay. I have my own way. You shower and dress.”

“Right. Great. Thanks. I won’t be long. Oh, and Adam,” she said as she zipped toward the door with a big-ass smile, “When you see George, tell him I said thanks for the pick-me-up.”

TWENTY-FOUR

“I can’t believe how late we slept.”

“That’s the fifth time you’ve said that.”

“And I still can’t believe it.”

Harper hurried out of the house ahead of Sam. She hitched her purse and laptop briefcase over her shoulder as he locked the front door. They’d showered and dressed in a hurry. His hair was still damp and he smelled strongly of soap. His shirt was clean, but wrinkled. She would have ironed it for him, but there hadn’t been time. Even though he looked sort of rumpled, he looked damned good. She’d always had it bad for Sam physically, but since last night her desire for this man was off the scale.