Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3) (17 page)

Del flinched, closed his eyes for a moment.
Ohmygawd
. Of course the man had someone else. He wasn’t a monk.

“Not exactly.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

“I was seeing someone before I flew out here—it’s complicated.”

“Calling a relationship complicated is a cop-out. You’re either in a relationship, or you’re not.”

“I’m not. Though I’m warning you, I’m a bad bet, so don’t get attached.”

His eyes clashed with hers, but there wasn’t any deception in them, only finality. Topic shutdown initiated. He brushed past her and crossed the kitchen to the single bedroom, poking his head through the open doorway. “Haven’t slept in a bunk since West and I used to fight over your brother’s top one.”

Shaye joined him. The bedroom contained one double bunk and a couple of battered dressers. Perfect for a little family get-away, interesting choice for a single man planning to rent the place. Her cheeks ignited, imagining the two of them rolling around on the bunk bed.

“I never saw you sleep in Ben’s top bunk.” She kept her gaze well away from his.

“West being two years older and Ben’s mate, he scored that right whenever we stayed over. I got it once, though—they dared me to run naked along Honeymoon Bay beach late one Friday night.”

“That was
you
?”

His gaze zipped to her, and she giggled.

“Kidding,” she said.

Del grinned, and the power of this unexpected truce between them punched heat fast and low into her belly. Such dangerous territory. She retreated out the door and walked back toward the kitchen.

“Ah, cupcake?”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“You might want to…” He demonstrated by brushing his hands down his butt and giving her a pointed look. “That counter I nearly had you on needs a clean.”

Her face grew even hotter. From a dusty bottom or from the truth of his words? If they hadn’t needed to return to Due South for evening prep, likely he would’ve had her there on the counter. Dust or not.

She stalked outside, swiveling to face away from him while she swiped the dust off her pants.

“You could always volunteer to be a one-woman cleaning crew. Kind of like a house-warming gift.” He stepped onto the deck with her and locked the door.

“Do your own cleaning, Hollywood.”

He shrugged and jogged down the steps and across to the bike. She couldn’t help but stare at the long line of his body moving so gracefully.

“Worth a try.” He shot her another knees-to-Jello smile.

Shaye snorted but walked over and grabbed the helmet he offered. She jammed it on her head then climbed onto the bike, her teeth clenching as their bodies fitted snugly together.

Dammit.

She knew exactly what she wanted to give him for a housewarming gift. And it had nothing to do with cleaning and everything to do with his kitchen counter, the faded green couch, or even the double bunk.

Chapter 8

Claire ambushed Del before he’d opened Due South’s back door. He’d dropped Shaye off and returned the bike and key, and if his brain hadn’t been fogged with the constant replay of their smoking-hot kiss, he might’ve spotted his mother sooner.

“Del? A word, honey?” she called out from the cottage gate.

He glanced down at West’s dog, Donny, a one-eared Staffy cross, curled up in his basket.

“You could’ve given me a warning bark or something, buddy,” he muttered. Donny tilted his head to one side and whined. “Too little too late.”

He strode across the parking lot. Might as well get over whatever lecture she had in mind. Bill probably complained about Del running out earlier, instead of slaving alongside the old man.

“Bridge ladies still there, Mom?” he asked when he got within talking distance.

“They’ve all gone; it’s safe.” Claire smiled, tucking a strand of greying hair behind her ear. “Your father’s napping in his room, but I wanted to catch you before dinner service.”

“I need to get—”

Claire held up a palm. “I know, Del, and I won’t take much of your time. But if I put off asking this anymore, I’ll completely lose my nerve.” She chewed on her bottom lip, something she hadn’t done since Lionel got so sick.

His gut cramped, searing away all the feel-good fuzzies of finally getting his hands and mouth on Shaye.

“Just ask, Mom.”

She sucked in a huge breath and gusted it out. “I want you to take a blood test to see if you’re donor compatible.”

The brain fog froze to ice crystals, and he stared numbly at her earnest expression as she continued talking.

“West and I have been tested, but we’re not suitable matches. Bill’s on the public donor system, but a family member’s his best chance.”

“You expect me to donate a kidney?” Sure, it wasn’t a completely unforeseen request. Not with West and his mother’s covert glances every time he and Bill were together.

“Honey, I don’t expect you to do anything. I hoped you’d want to.” She sighed. “I know you and Bill still have issues, but he’s your father.”

“Lionel was more my father than Bill Westlake.” He could barely say the words.

She flinched then straightened her spine, planting her feet wide in her
now you’ve made me mad
stance. “And what do you think Lionel would say about this if he were still alive?”

“But he’s not.” His stepfather not being around remained a dull ache behind Del’s breastbone.

“No, and my heart grieves for him every day. Here’s the thing—Lionel called you son, and he meant it. I know you loved him, that you would’ve donated a kidney or any other body part to save his life.”

He nodded, unable to put into words the measures he would’ve gladly gone through to save his stepfather’s life. The ache transferred into a sharp, stabbing pain. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Do you remember what he did to you the first time he heard you bad-mouthing your father to one of your buddies?”

He’d called Bill an ignorant asshole who didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. That’d been a few weeks before the end of his senior year, when he discovered his father wasn’t flying out to see him graduate. “Got me up at 5:00 a.m. every day for a month to run five miles with him.”

“The next time he caught you running your mouth about Bill, it was ten.”

Del couldn’t hold back a smile. “Lionel was one tough sonofabitch.”

Claire just looked at him.

Del hooked his fingers into a belt loop. “Shit. I’ll take the damn test.” He glanced up at his mother’s face. “But I’m not making any promises about handing him my kidney on a platter.”

She squeezed his arm. “One step at a time. Remember what Lionel used to say, ‘Don’t go looking for trouble—’”

“Because trouble already has your name and number, kid. Yeah, yeah.” Impulsively, he bent down and kissed her cheek. “Look, I need to talk to Bill and West about something tonight. Why don’t you make that peach cobbler Bill loves, soften him up a little.”

She rolled her eyes. “Funny, I remember cobbler being more your favorite when you were a boy.’”

“Maybe I haven’t lost my taste for sweet things, after all. I’ll stop in after service later.”

He turned toward Due South, his mind circling around the memory of tasting Shaye’s kisses—the sweetest things ever.

***

“Think you nailed it,” said Shaye.

Del glanced at her as they crossed the parking lot to Due South.

“Nobody threw anything, swore at anyone, or threatened to cut off a body part,” she added. “The Westlake family negotiation skills are improving.”

He grunted. While Bill hadn’t been ecstatic at the idea of Ethan Ward presenting Due South in a less-than-positive light, West, Claire, and even Shaye, had changed his opinion with very little drama. A scary indicator that his father had lost some of his iron-clad will to run things his way.

After a few minutes of swapping arguments, Bill had thrown up his hands. “If West thinks it’s a good idea, we’ll run with it.”

If West thinks it’s a good idea.

Del touched his tongue to the inside of his cheek, still raw from when he’d bitten down the urge to tell Bill his younger son’s reasoning was as sound as his eldest’s.

And God-fucking-dammit, give me some credit for not being a moron.

They walked into the kitchen, Del scanning to make sure everything was in order since they’d left Vince and Fraser completing the final clean up. He snuck another glance at Shaye, who still appeared fresh as a proverbial daisy in a pretty yellow tee shirt she’d worn under her chef’s jacket. The shirt clung to all the right spots, and he dragged his gaze away before he got caught ogling his sous’s rack. Again.

“Hey.” He touched her elbow before she could disappear upstairs. “Buy you a wine? The pub’s open for another hour, and Ford’s playing. He’s pretty good and music soothes the savage breast so they say...”

And now he was babbling, somewhat like a moron.

She paused by a counter and folded her arms. “I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

“Beer?” He tried on his most charming smile. “Like your sister?”

She shook her head.

“Fancy cocktail? I hear Kip makes a good Slippery Nipple?” Aiming for a smile to replace the frown lines on her forehead.

Instead, one delicate eyebrow rose.

He was completely screwing this up, but he just needed to spend a little more time with her tonight.

“Ah.” He edged closer. Fired off his patented
I’m a moron but still kinda appealing
smile. “Not a cocktail type. I bet you’re a top shelf woman—Jack and Coke—am I right?”

Her eyes flared wide, and her lips pinched tightly together in a narrow white line.

What had he said? “No?”

Shaye shook her head and kept her eyes downcast, a pulse at the base of her throat working overtime. He rubbed his hands down her arms, along the goosepimples raised on her soft skin. She didn’t pull away, but her muscles were tense as razor wire.

“What did I say?”

Her breath continued to snuffle in and out of her nose. Oh shit, had he made her cry?

“Help a guy out; at least let me know what I’ve said to piss you off.”

She looked up with a small twisted grimace. “I’m not pissed off at you, Del. I’m just not much of a drinker. Not wine, or beer, or Slippery Nipples”—she gave a choked laugh at that—“and especially not Jack and Coke.” She took another deep breath and met his gaze. “The other night, when I said my Dad made bad decisions? One of those decisions was getting drunk the night before he went diving with Piper.”

“But your dad never drank alcohol because of his cholesterol medication—ah.” Light bulb moment. “He had a reaction with his pills underwater. Shit, I’m sorry…”

Shaye shook her head, and his voice trailed off.

“He was never on any pills. Dad was an alcoholic—but sober for more than fifteen years. He used the medication excuse with his mates, so he could stick to non-alcoholic drinks Friday night at the pub.”

Michael had been an alcoholic? An alcoholic who’d gone on a bender and paid the price. Like he’d paid a price the last time he’d gone on a bender with Jessica and ended up proposing. God, if Shaye knew about the last year of his life…

Del’s heart tripped and righted itself into a full-out sprint. “So, your dad had been drinking that night?”

“Piper says the alcohol still in his system the morning he drowned would’ve affected his judgment. Diver error.” She shrugged, a world of hurt in the movement. “Or he could’ve had a heart-attack, or a stroke, or any number of things might’ve gone wrong. We’ll never find out what really happened.”

“No one in your family knew about his problem?” He moved and leaned against the counter, his hip barely a few inches from hers.

“Mum knew,” she said quietly. “And after his death we cleared out his office and found a half-empty bottle of whiskey stashed in a cupboard.”

Fucking hell. “Jack Daniels, by any chance?”

She nodded, stared straight ahead as if the swinging doors contained the answers to all the questions she no doubt wanted to ask her father. “We never told anyone. Mum thought people should remember him as a good man. Not an alcoholic who ruined his life and the lives of his family.”

Del winced. “Jesus.”

Shaye would’ve been fifteen when all this happened. Kind of a dramatic warning about the dangers of excess alcohol.

“It’s okay; I’m not a complete teetotaler. I like a glass of bubbly on special occasions.” Her smile was fake and wide, almost embarrassed. “But I’m more a juice or soda girl, and I’m a cheap drunk. A couple of glasses of wine and I’m anyone’s.”

“Anyone’s, huh?” He gently nudged her elbow.

“Even tipsy, I still have my standards.” She stuck her nose in the air, but the sassy ‘tude was missing.

“Good to hear. How about I buy you a virgin whiskey and Coke instead?”

Needy, much? When had he ever cajoled a woman into having a drink with him? Hell, when had he last cared if a drink offer got turned down?