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

And she needed perfect.

With as much dignity as she could scoop up from the toes of her boots, Shaye shoved the panties into her handbag and stood. “Nice to see you again, Del. Enjoy your visit.”

She turned and walked toward the passenger lounge door. Give her Mr. Peterson’s bowel problems any day.

“Shaye—” The wind caught the rest of his words and tossed them into the whitecaps.

They’d be docking soon, and she’d be able to avoid the pain in the rear behind her.

At least until her sister’s wedding.

Chapter 2

Atta-boy, Del.

Shaye yanked the passenger lounge door open so hard it missed clipping her nose by a fraction of an inch. Whatever passed for the health department in this God-forsaken country would have a field day with him—“Quick, isolate the guy with a raging case of foot-in-mouth-itus.” Wouldn’t working in his father’s backwater restaurant be fun when his new sous chef—who didn’t seem to realize she’d soon be his sous chef—found out why he was here?

Assuming his mother hadn’t jumped the gun since their conversation a week ago and filled the head chef position with some moron who didn’t know an
allumette
cut vegetable from his asshole. The ultimate irony, considering he’d given up his apartment, put all his stuff into storage, and had been in transit for the last twenty-something-hours.

Del scraped a hand along his prickly jaw, tempted to check his breath, though he’d brushed his teeth in Auckland airport before boarding the flying tin-can to the old-school South Island city of Invercargill. He stretched out his legs again and rested against the ferry’s side with a groan. Guess bad breath wasn’t the reason Shaye looked at him as if he were a fat roach scurrying out from underneath the refrigerator. It didn’t matter.

Lately, he looked at himself in the mirror the same way.

But Shaye…his lips tugged upward. She still had long, nutmeg-colored hair strangled in a prissy ponytail, and big hazel eyes that gave away every damn emotion churning in her brain. There, the similarity to his childhood memories ended.

He rolled his head, and through the spray-splashed windows he glimpsed her three-quarter profile. The bony, bookish little thing had grown into a woman with knock-you-on-your-ass curves, a lush mouth begging a man to nibble on it, and she smelled so damn good you could plate her and serve her at an A-list restaurant.

Add those pink panties to the mix? Holy hell.

He was a guy, after all—and imagining her naked except for those knickers went with the territory. He closed his eyes, the rise and fall of the ocean as they chugged along almost soothing. Del couldn’t help wondering what she wore under her chef whites…

“Mate? Wake up, we’re here.”

He cracked an eye open and sat up, rubbing a hand down his aching neck, while the uniformed purser who’d shaken Del’s shoulder strode away to help an old guy onto the wharf.

Jesus, he’d been out cold.

He glanced at the remaining passengers. No brunette hottie in sight. Just as well. If he accepted the position of head chef—and let’s face it, he didn’t have a choice, because even a theme-park restaurant refused to fucking employ him—he couldn’t allow fantasies about the youngest Harland sister to stop him achieving his goals.

Del retrieved the sports bag he’d earlier kicked under the bench seat, collected his suitcase, and strode onto the wharf. The sun blasted through the straggly clouds, beating a fierce tattoo on his head. The heat probably sped up the evaporation process or something, because the stench of brine choked the air. Brine and diesel fumes from the ferry behind him. And damn good coffee.

He paused at the squat building with wide-open doors, drawn by the hiss of an espresso machine. A short line of people queued at the counter, some scanning a menu folder, others pointing at the display cabinet of baked goods.

“The Great Flat White café.” He read off the script above the door. At each end of the sign was a logo of a Great White shark, one of Stewart Island’s tourist attractions. “Cute.”

He continued along the wharf, dragging his suitcase and feeling like the biggest loopie ever. Yeah, he remembered how he and his buddies used to snicker about the tourists and their fancy luggage and fancier clothes. Now he was one of them.

Damn straight
.

Del’s teeth clicked together as he stepped onto Oban’s main street. To the right, the road wound off through a ton of trees and a scattering of houses—West lived somewhere up there. To the left, the tiny settlement of Oban itself, pretty much unchanged since he was a kid. A couple of small, quirky shops, Russell’s grocery store, a garage still ran by one of his old buddies’ dad, the playing fields and little school, and the historic Due South hotel. He walked toward it, the sun his childhood orbited around growing bigger with each step.

The two story building was a sour cream color with contrasting yellow trim and a blue roof. Part of him expected to find it with paint peeling, weeds sprouting out of the concrete patio where diners could sit outside, a crooked sign, and hell, maybe even vampire bats nesting under the verandah eaves. But his big brother wouldn’t allow Due South to deteriorate; he loved the damn place.

Go figure.

A familiar face strode out the front doors and jogged down the steps to the road. Speak of the devil. West ran toward him—so much for his brother’s innate coolness, which went with being two years older—and wrapped Del in a bear hug.

“Little bro!” West thumped his back, pulled away, and planted a smacking kiss on both cheeks.

Del barked out a strangled laugh and jerked his head away. “The hell is wrong with you?”

West grinned, apparently not offended, and slugged Del in the biceps, a much more acceptable gesture. Affection in his family was plain weird.

“I’ve almost got an Italian sister-in-law, kinda rubs off. Shaye told me you were here. Good to see your ugly face on something other than a screen.”

Del bet his left nut Shaye hadn’t told West about their little run-in on the ferry, though. Remembering her face flushed with embarrassment caused his mouth-spasm to turn into a smile.

“You’re the one who insists on using video chat. Like I want to see you spill cookie crumbs all over your laptop when you’re meant to be working.”

“Hey, normal people aren’t psychotically obsessive about work and take regular breaks to like, I dunno, talk to their family from time to time.” West crooked an eyebrow. “And besides, jealous, much? Shaye makes frickin’ amazing cookies.”

“Cookies? You’re such a pussy.” Del shoved his sports bag into West’s chest, knocking him back half a step, and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. “Can we get out of the middle of the road now?”

People still walked on the road here, though it drove the locals nuts. But with limited vehicles in Oban, sidewalks were largely ignored. Across from the hotel, a couple of kids played in a tiny playground, the grass surrounding the swing set and slide sloping down to the beach. An elderly couple strolled along the smooth sand. Shallow waves bubbling past their bare feet toward the dinghies lined up near the jumble of stout boulders separating beach and grass.

Del followed West across the road.

“We’ll leave your bags here, and I’ll get them dropped up to my place later—you’ll bunk with us, of course,” West said.

Crash the lovebirds little feathered nest? Thanks, but no. “It’d be easier if I stay at the hotel.”

West paused, a frown dancing across his lips before he shrugged. “Up to you. I’ll check to see what we’ve got.”

Through the bar’s open window came good-natured laughter and the rumble of conversation. Happy hour started soon, and both locals and loopies would gather to circle around battered wooden tables to chase away the day’s worries with a cold one.

God, could he use a beer. Or two. Or a dozen.

Jerking his chin away, Del clenched his fist tighter on the suitcase handle and surreptitiously stared at West. While they’d never be mistaken as twins, and his big brother still had an inch or so of height over him, they both had the same non-receding-and-thank-God-for-it mess of brown hair and a similar lean, athletic build. West probably outweighed Del by a few pounds, most of it muscle since the cookies and home-cooked meals didn’t appear to have gone straight to his gut.

Being this close to West felt weird. The last time they’d seen each other face to face was five years ago when West had a two-night stopover in LA on the way to a free-diving course in the Caribbean. They’d hung out a bit, gone to a ball game because West wanted to experience the Giants getting their asses handed to them by the Dodgers, but then Del’s boss called. Brother bonding time over. Yeah, West was Del’s brother, but West had remained relegated to Del’s past life, disconnected from the here and now.

“By the way—” Del said as they climbed the hotel steps to the front entrance. “I’m not psychotically obsessive. Just…driven. You used to be too.”

Hell if he knew why he needed to defend himself. He was doing West and his father a favor.

Chuckling, West jabbed him in the stomach. “Guilty. But I got my priorities straight.”

“You mean you got laid.”

“Yeah, that too. Piper’s amazing.”

Del cut him a sharp glance. The man really was a smitten kitten. “I thought Shaye’s cookies were amazing. You comparing your woman to cookies?”

“Oh. She’s better than cookies.”

A dreamy light slid into his brother’s eyes, and Del knew West’s brain was conjuring up images of sex. Hot, sweaty, bang-her-up-against-the-wall sex. The kind of sex Del hadn’t had in far too long. The kind of sex perfect for taking his mind off a cold beer. He conjured up an image of his own. Shaye’s bare legs clamped around him, her pouty lips crushed against his.

Fuck. That image alone was better than cookies.

He blinked rapidly and glanced at West, who continued to talk, though Del had no idea what about. “Say again? Sorry, I was tuning out all your girlish gushing.”

West rolled his eyes. “I said, ‘I’m lucky Shaye’s brilliant in the kitchen and provides leftovers. Piper can’t cook worth shit.’”

“Gotcha.”

Shaye again. Why had his dick chosen to fantasize about the one woman on Oban he couldn’t do, even if she stripped naked, bar those pink panties, and covered her tits in whipped cream? Getting tangled up with his soon-to-be sister-in-law in any shape or form meant trouble. He had enough trouble of his own to cope with.

So settle down dick, no booty call with Ms. Harland for you.

West led Del through the front door and down the hallway to the reception area tucked beside the wide flight of stairs leading to the upstairs rooms. Other than a new coat of paint and a small explosion of potted plants, everything was the same as he remembered. Wood paneling below lemon yellow walls and faded blue carpet on the stairs. Even the receptionist—a late-middle-aged brunette poured into a turquoise Due South-logoed shirt and tapping on her smartphone—hadn’t changed since this hotel was his second home.

An instant remedy for any stray sexy thoughts.

“Forty-eight points for axle—take that, Betsy Taylor, you Word-With-Friends ho.” With one final triumphant tap of the screen, she set down the phone and peered at him over her glasses.

“Look what the tide washed up.”

“Mrs. Komeke. Always a pleasure.”

“Full of charm and twice as good looking as your brother, aren't you?” Her sharp brown gaze skipped over him. “About time you came home.”

A muscle tic twitched in his jaw. Stewart Island was hell, not home. But Denise Komeke, mother of his two childhood best mates, Ford and Harley, would drill him like an oil rig if she caught a whiff of animosity toward her beloved Oban.

“Yes, I guess it is. It’s good to be back.” In the sense that having regular rectal examinations to prevent prostate cancer was good.

She huffed, leaned across the desk, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and planted a kiss on his cheek. What was it today with people kissing him?

“Still fast on your feet?” She rubbed a thumb over the spot she’d kissed—removing her cherry-red lipstick, most likely—and sat down in her office chair again.

“Not as fast as when you chased me and the boys out of your house for putting a baby weta in the coffee jar.”

West snickered beside him—but softly enough not to warrant a clip on the ear from Denise, who, if she hadn’t changed, still treated Ford and Harley’s old mates as her own sons. He and West, Harley and Ford, and Ben—the five of them had been like brothers. They’d grown up with the freedom of six-hundred-and-fifty square miles of wilderness to explore and more than enough locals to play practical jokes on. He’d never had friendships so intense again. Nor had he the time or inclination to bother with the whole bromance bonding crap.

Denise barked out a laugh. “For a white boy, you sure could move.”

“I’m sure he gets lots of practice chasing after the lay-dies.” West laid a heavy hand on Del’s shoulder and squeezed. “One day he might catch one and not know what the hell to do with her.”

Del shrugged so his brother’s hand slipped off. “Screw you.” Though West was right.

West chuckled and reached over the desk to tilt the small computer monitor. “What have we got free in the way of rooms, Denise?”