Prince Charming Can Wait (Ever After) (18 page)

Eppie grinned at her. "There's a fire in her eye, isn't there, girls?"

Ophelia smiled as she took a swig of her beer. "I'd say there is." She pointed the mouth of the bottle at Emma. "Don't have sex with him, missy. It's hard to stay friends with a man when he's seen you naked repeatedly."

"She
is
married to him," Eppie pointed out. "Married couples do tend to get horizontal from time to time."

"Bullshit. They're married in name only," Ophelia said with a perceptiveness that no longer amazed Emma. "Best to keep it that way."

"He is hot, though," Judith added.

"All the more reason to keep his pants zipped and his hands busy washing the dishes," Ophelia said, her face softening as she looked at Emma. "Keep the vision clear, my dear. Learn to laugh again. It's good medicine."

Emma smiled as she pushed her chair in. "Don't worry. I'm not having sex with him," she said, a personal confession so far outside her usual level of sharing that Eppie's mouth actually dropped open.

But as she hurried toward the door, she knew why she'd said it. Protecting herself against a romance with him was the only way she could handle what was coming tonight when he showed up at her door ready to move into her life.

Two hours after he'd left, Harlan was back at Emma's.

This time arriving by land, he parked his truck in front of her cabin, but he didn't get out. He just stared through the windshield at the tiny house with its faded gray shingles, red metal roof, and dark green shutters. Tall pine trees towered over it, but she'd still managed to nourish a small lawn and window boxes with brightly colored blossoms. He remembered the place from before she'd moved in, and recalled all too well how desolate and empty it had been. Now, it looked warm and welcoming, an actual home.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd lived in a place that anyone would actually classify as a
home.
Had he ever? The crumbling, battered house of his youth had been a bastion of hell, not a place where people sat around during family dinners laughing about the day's events.

But that damned hanging basket of flowers by the front door wouldn't stop taunting him. It was so full that it was a good three feet wide, with more flowers than he'd ever seen in one pot. It looked like a house that someone cared about, it really did.

Grimly, he glanced at the pile on the seat beside him. Two faded black duffel bags, stuffed full of his crap, random items he'd grabbed from his shack that would take away the feminine feel of her home and turn it into a place that a man lived in. He looked at his bags, then back at the quaint cottage. Yeah, like there was a chance those two things could ever co-exist.

What the hell was he doing?

He leaned back in his seat, resting his wrists over the steering wheel, his mood becoming increasingly dark. He didn't like the idea of inserting himself into her life, or this little girl's. He'd have to manage it from a distance and keep them protected from him. He had to play a role, but not cross that line. He could do that, right? Just because his clothes were going to claim her house didn't mean he had to.

But then the front door opened and Emma appeared in the doorway, shading her eyes to inspect his truck.

Son of a bitch. Instantly, all his heroic keep-his-distance resolutions vanished, replaced by a dark, pulsating sense of raw need and protectiveness.

Whether he wanted it or not, it was
his wife
standing in that doorway in her short white cut-offs, a faded blue tank top showcasing arms that needed a little more meat on them, and breasts that barely filled his palm. There was nothing voluptuous about her, nothing bold, or overtly sexy. She was pure casual Maine girl, with a ponytail, flip flops, and a pair of large silver hoops he was guessing had been made by his sister. No make-up. No necklace. No glam.

Just a woman with no airs or pretense, almost as if she wanted him to see her only as who she was. Ordinary. Plain. Simple.

Except she wasn't. She was raw emotion. She was burning sensuality. She was pure loyalty to those few who she trusted. She was hope in a dark night. She was light,
his
light, his anchor in a black ocean that was trying to drag him deeper and deeper into its depths. He wanted her again. He wanted to make love to her. He wanted to sleep with her. He wanted to wake up with her. He wanted to lose himself in her and never come back up for air. Ever. How the hell could he get out of his truck and walk into her life? It was dangerous as hell, for all of them.

Jesus. He leaned his head back, his fingers tightening around the wheel as she jogged down the steps toward him, the muscles in her long legs visible as she walked over to his truck. A lock of hair was trailing her jaw, and he had a burning urge to reach out and touch it, to wrap it around his fingers and tug gently, guiding her mouth toward his—

Shit. He couldn't do this.

Emma grabbed the driver's door and pulled it open. She shot him a smile so friendly that he actually had to catch his breath. "Hi, hubby," she said cheerfully. "Welcome home."

Hubby.
Hubby.
The words shot through him like a knife, tearing at his shields. Her endearment was a word he'd never thought he'd hear directed at him, never in his entire cursed life. And he'd never,
never
thought that it would make him want to be something he wasn't as badly as it did.

It was too much. He simply wasn't strong enough to play this role and walk away. "I can't do this. I'm sorry, but I can't." He was a shit, he knew he was, but he just couldn't do it. "I can't pretend to be your husband."

His wife, apparently, did not care one bit what he could or couldn't do.

Undaunted by his croaked protest, she hooked her arms over the car door, leaning on her elbows as she swung the door back and forth. "So, I put some blankets on the couch for you," she said, completely ignoring his protest. Her voice was cheerful, but he saw the wariness in her eyes, the apprehension she was fighting hard to suppress.

The moment he saw her vulnerability, all his hesitation vanished, replaced by a need to protect her. That was his job. She was his wife. His role was to make sure she was okay. As his tension released, he finally registered the words she'd just said. "The couch?"

She nodded. "We'll get them put away before Dottie gets here, so she doesn't think we had a spat that left you on the futon. Is that cool?"

On the couch. She was putting him on the couch. Relief rushed through him, yet at the same time he felt a rising disappointment. Not that he'd expected or wanted to end up in her bed, but he couldn't help the flash of irritation. Fortunately, at least one of them was thinking clearly. "The couch sounds good," he lied. The couch sounded damned bad, actually, which was why he needed to plant his sorry ass on it all night long.

"I cleared out some space in my closet, but just enough for a couple shirts." She grinned, a sparkle in her eye. "She'll never believe we're actually married if you have as much closet space as I do. I think we should battle over that. Every time you go away, I encroach up on your closet space, and you find your stuff crammed into a smaller and smaller area."

He stared at her, not quite following her good mood. "What?"

Her smile faded, and the serious expression returned. "Here's the deal, Harlan. I need you, and Mattie needs you."

They needed him. He liked the sound of that. Liked it a hell of a lot. He felt like he hadn't brought a whole lot of good into his personal life, but he could deliver here. "I know. That's why I'm here."

She held up her finger to silence him. "But you also terrify me in a lot of ways."

He nodded. "That's good. You should be smart." But even as he said it, he couldn't keep the wave of bitterness from washing over him. He didn't want to be the guy who she had to run from or fear. He'd been around people who lived in fear, and he saw it in her. He didn't want her to be that way. He wanted her to walk with confidence, and to throw herself into life without looking over her shoulder.

She leaned forward, so close he caught a whiff of fresh soap, and he realized she'd just finished showering. Her hair was still damp around the nape of her neck. His groin clenched at the sudden image of her in the shower, and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"You terrify me because I'm afraid of marriage, and relationships with men," she said with the candor he was getting used to expecting from her. "I don't trust my judgment when it comes to that. But I do trust my perceptiveness when it comes to friends, so if we keep our relationship platonic, then we're both good." She smiled. "I'll even keep my promise to cry for you if you die." She held out her hand. "Deal? Friends?"

He stared blankly at her extended hand. She wanted him to make an agreement to stay friends, and
only
friends, with her? He wanted to grab her, yank her into his lap, and show her how impossible that idea was. But at the same time, he knew she was right. It was the only safe path. Grimly, a part of him bellowing in protest while he did it, he reached out and wrapped her hand in his, intending to agree.

But the moment he enveloped her hand in his, all his good intentions vanished. There was no chance. "Sorry, Emma, but I can't promise that."

Apprehension flickered over her face. "What part? Letting me have more closet space?"

"No. Keeping it as friends only." He tightened his grip on her and pulled her close. "Each time I see you, each time I catch a whiff of your scent, each time I hear your voice, and each time I see that look of vulnerability on your face, every good intention I have disappears. All I can think about is you as a woman. There's not a single platonic thought in my head when I'm around you."

Her cheeks turned pink. "Well, Harlan, you're just going to have to do better than that."

"Better? That was my best line. It didn't work on you?" He knew what she meant, but he wasn't interested in being a good boy and playing along. He was not going to do better at thinking of her as only a friend. There was simply no way.

She pulled her hand free. "You're going to have to do better than that at restraining yourself," she clarified, as if he hadn't known exactly what she'd meant in the first place. "You're the one running around saying how dangerous you are, right? So, why are you not stepping back? Or do you not believe your own claims?" she challenged. "Do you think that you're really a good guy who can be the husband every woman dreams of?"

A cold wave seemed to slam into him. "No," he said. "I don't. Point taken." He raised his right hand. "I swear to look at you and see only a telephone pole. Okay?"

She started to laugh. "A telephone pole?"

"It's the most asexual thing I could think of."

"I don't know," she teased. "It's actually sort of phallic—"

Heat rushed through him. "Oh, for hell's sake," he muttered, even as he laughed. "You're not helping." He grabbed his two duffel bags off the passenger seat. "Out of my way, woman. I need to take over your space."

Grinning, she stepped back, and the tension that had been so thick between them was gone. "How about a mud-covered pig? That's asexual."

"Mud? No way." He slammed the door of his truck shut. "Co-ed naked mud wrestling. You'd look sexy as hell in a string bikini caked in mud. Nope, won't work."

She led the way back to her cabin, her hips swaying far too seductively as she walked in front of him. "How about a moss-covered rock?"

He narrowed his eyes at her as she tossed a grin back at him. "Moss? The thick, green, felty kind?"

She held the door open for him. "Yes, sure—"

"No, sorry. It's soft. It'd make a great bed to throw you down on." He caught the door and stepped inside the building where he'd made love to her on their wedding night. Every memory of their night together was so vivid, it felt like it had been only hours since he'd made love to her.

She raised her brows. "How about a piece of cheese?"

"Cheese?" He eyed her. "That might work. The thought of spraying canned cheese over your body and licking it off isn't all that appealing. Whipped cream would be better."

She set her hands on her hips. "Licking spray cheese off me? Seriously? Does your brain actually function in any normal pathways or do all thoughts lead to sex?"

"Normally, I'm pretty focused on catching bad guys and rescuing people." He walked past her into the bedroom and tossed his bag on her bed. Their bed. Because as long as he was faking the real husband bit, it was his bed, too. "But with you around, it's pretty much just sex."

She paused on the threshold, folding her arms over her chest as she propped her shoulder against the door frame. "Okay, then, how about mothballs? What if you just thought of mothballs whenever you looked at me?"

"Mothballs?" He couldn't wrap his mind around a single sensual connotation with the smelly, tan spheres. "Mothballs, it is. I promise to see you only as a giant mothball." He walked over to the closet and pulled it open. The small wardrobe was packed with more women's clothing than he thought could have fit in that space. "Where's my space?"

"On the floor."

He looked down and saw an empty shoebox in the left corner, surrounded by high heels, sandals, flip flops, sneakers and two pairs of hiking books. "The shoebox? That's what I get?"

"Yep." There was definite mirth in her voice.

Harlan looked over at her, and he couldn't suppress his own grin. "You're trouble, aren't you?"

"See, that's the difference," she said, her smile fading. "Knowing me, if we were really married, I'd probably yank all my clothes out of the closet so you could have the whole thing. Since we're not, you get a shoebox. I can claim my personal space from platonic friends, just not men that I—" Her voice faded.

"Men that you
what
?"

She cleared her throat. "Sorry, I was just thinking of mothballs for a second."