Risk (It's Complicated Book 2) (42 page)

He blinked and got his head (his
other
head) back in the game, wondering for one wild second if she was joking.

As the owner, CEO, COO, CFO, janitor and every other damn thing for an infant company that was less than six months old and barely beginning to hold its head upright, much less walk or run, he couldn’t afford to mess around with clients who couldn’t pay their bills. Harper Landscaping Design just didn’t have the financial cushion. He’d clawed his way out of financial ruin once before. He wasn’t doing it again.

“This seems like a bad time,” he said as diplomatically as he could.

And this little dynamo, with the brokenhearted eyes, iron spine and fierce pride, corralled all her turbulent emotions and gave him a puzzled stare that would’ve fooled a lesser man. “Why would you say that?”

At that, he almost smiled.

He liked this Sofia Abbate.

He shouldn’t, for a variety of reasons, but he did.

“You sure you’re okay with…everything?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Harper,” she snapped. “You’ll get paid.”

Then Sofia swept back into the house, taking all the air from his lungs with her and leaving Best Friend to eyeball him with curiosity.

“Harper? You’re a
Harper
?”

“Yeah,” he said, trying to shake his Sofia Abbate dazzlement. “Ethan Harper. Why?”

“I, ah, met Edward. Yesterday,” she said, blushing with all the subtlety of a sunburned tomato riding a fire engine with lights and sirens in full effect.

Ethan took a closer look at her, noting the mussed hair and evening-appropriate black dress she was wearing. Both of which, when combined with the early hour,
probably
meant she’d been doing the morning-after Walk of Shame back home after spending the night with Edward.

Whoa. Interesting news development. Edward, at thirty, was two years younger than Ethan and the youngest of the five Harper brothers. Edward had a long-term girlfriend, Amber. He was also exceptionally straitlaced, with a moral compass that made infidelity as likely as trying to pull off a heist at the nearest jewelry store. Which meant either that he’d undergone a radical personality transplant in the last couple days, or that he’d split with Amber.

Ethan filed all this information away for later examination.

For now, he gave Best Friend a taste of her own embarrassing medicine. “Met him, eh?” he asked. “I’m not going to have any problems with you, am I?”

Best Friend had the grace to turn an even brighter shade of red. “Get back to work, Landscaper. I hope Sofia’s not paying you by the hour.”

He laughed. She walked into the house. Repo Man drove off with the SUV. Ethan started for his truck with the idea of unloading some of the shrubs.

And that was when he saw it:

Sofia’s pink hair scarf lying forgotten on the driveway, as precious and enticing as a shrink-wrapped brick of hundred-dollar bills.

Naturally, he beelined for it. Looking back, he wished he could assuage his guilty conscience and say something like,
I was planning to return it. At least initially
.

But that would be an epic lie that even his agreeable conscience couldn’t buy into.

The truth was that he wanted that scarf. Was desperate to touch a proxy for Sofia since he couldn’t touch her. In that dark moment, he’d probably have gone so far as to tackle and fight anyone who’d come out of the house to retrieve it.

But no one had.

So he’d grabbed it, savored its silky warmth, even if it came from the sunshine rather than Sofia, actually sniffed it (orange blossoms; Sofia; sex—
yeah, you’re entering stalker territory now, Harper
) and finally stuffed it in his front shorts pocket, where it now burned a guilty hole like something out of an Edgar Allen Poe story.

Yeah, he was a thief.

A stalker and a thief.

Sad, but true.

But not so sad that he planned to leave the scarf on the porch, where she’d find it later.

After that, he’d passed the last couple of hours digging holes, planting shrubs, keeping an eye on the house and wishing that Sofia would reappear.

She never did.

Best Friend did, though. Freshly showered with telltale wet hair and now wearing a different dress, she came out about an hour later with her purse slung over her shoulder.

“I didn’t get your name,” he said when she paused to inspect his shrubs.

“Reeve Banks. You do nice work, don’t you? I love hydrangea.”

“Is that right?” He grinned. “Interesting. I planted some Nikko Blues over at Edward’s last summer. But you probably know that already since you’re his
friend
and all.”

“Yeah, okay,” she said, her mouth doing all kinds of contortions as she tried not to laugh. “I’ve never killed anyone before, but in your case? Happy to make an exception.”

“Save your violence for another day,” he said easily, sobering. “How’s she doing?”

There was no need to define the
she
.

Reeve’s face fell.

“Eh,” she said.

They watched each other for a minute, silently commiserating even if they couldn’t bridge the whole complete stranger divide. He was interested in Sofia, but respected her relationship with Toby and his own position as a hired hand.

Reeve understood that.

On the other hand, Reeve was sympathetic about Ethan’s interest in Sofia, and probably wasn’t a big fan of Sofia’s boyfriend, who, if nothing else, was bad for Sofia’s financial life, but Reeve’s hands were tied. As Sofia’s best friend, Reeve couldn’t go around discussing Sofia’s personal life with every male who came sniffing around.

He understood that.

So they stood there in silent but mutual understanding.

Until Ethan shrugged it off as best he could. “That one? I have the feeling it’ll take more than this to keep her down for very long. She seems pretty strong. She’ll be okay.”

He said it all with much more conviction than was wise, considering he’d met Sofia approximately thirty seconds ago. Not that the length of time he’d known her mattered to him in his current lust-saturated and befuddled state. He felt certain that if the bank called to ask if someone would cosign on Sofia’s next car loan, he’d be the first to sign on the dotted line.

Which was stupid.

And yet he kept talking.

“She’ll be fine,” he concluded.

The speculative glint in Reeve’s eyes was beginning to make him a little hot under the collar, frankly. But he held her gaze, because the topic of Sofia’s well-being felt...

It felt...

Important
was too strong a word—how could the well-being of a complete stranger be important to him?—so he threw it away and found another one that didn’t make him feel quite so antsy.

Sofia’s well-being mattered.

It
mattered
.

“Yeah,” Reeve agreed with similar conviction. “She just needs to get through this. Then she’ll be fine.”

The definition of
this,
similarly, felt like it mattered to Ethan. What was
this
?

Sofia’s financial difficulties?

The unraveling of her tenuous relationship with Toby?

Did it make any difference? Not really. A big chunk of his brain was already deep into problem-solving mode, trying to figure out how he could hook up with Sofia when she came to the other side of
this,
whatever
this
was.

Sofia would be fine, he and Reeve had decided. It was all settled.

Keep it moving, folks. Nothing to see here.

And yet his mouth was opening again, spewing out more bizarre shit he hadn’t meant to say.

“You’ll keep an eye on her in the meantime, won’t you?” he asked quietly. At the same time, the purloined scarf in his pocket seemed to whisper and pulsate, reminding him of the One Ring in
The
Lord of the Rings
. It was like the thing wanted to be discovered. To mitigate his sudden nasty case of the fidgets, he swiped his sweaty brow with his cloth and tried not to look guilty or too invested in Reeve’s answer.

He needn’t have worried.

Reeve’s eyes crinkled at the corners, radiating a warmth and approval he was very glad to have.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” she said. “See you later, Ethan.”

He nodded, his throat feeling unexpectedly tight.

She strode off down the sidewalk, crested the hill and disappeared from his line of sight.

As soon as she was gone, he glanced at the front door, but...

Nothing.

Just as well.

Sighing, he got back to work, and the rest of the morning passed in a hot flurry of digging and planting, with no further signs of life from the house, leaving him plenty of time to marinate in his own thoughts.

What, exactly, did he think he was doing with the scarf?

Which begged the question: what the hell did he think could happen between him and Sofia any time in the foreseeable future? Maybe she wasn’t married to that other guy, but she sure was attached to him, wasn’t she? This big old house where they lived together was proof of that. Maybe they had kids, too, for all he knew.

He muttered a curse, stepped on the spade to drive it deeper into the ground and shoveled away another clump of dirt.

Edward might be the moral compass among the Harper brothers, but Ethan had his fair share of ethical genes as well. Most of the time, that was fine. Right now, though, it sucked ass. When it came to hooking up with another man’s woman, having a flexible conscience could only be a plus. But Ethan had lived with himself for thirty-two years now, and he was perfectly clear on one salient fact: he wasn’t the guy for that kind of duplicity.

If he ever had been, which he doubted, he was way too old for that shit now. He wasn’t the one to wait for some other man to walk out the front door so Ethan could creep in the back and enjoy what didn’t rightfully belong to him. He wasn’t taking a woman to the next town over to see the latest summer blockbuster because Journey’s End was too small for sneaking around without getting caught.

And, notwithstanding Sofia’s scorching hot sexiness, why would he
want
to get within a light-year of the toxic circumstances surrounding this house? Ethan liked to think he was smarter than that. He wouldn’t knowingly stroll into a swamp labeled
Danger—Quicksand!,
and that’s exactly what this situation was.

So focus on your work, idiot,
he told himself.

Having dug the hell out of this latest hole, he quickly mixed in some fertilizer and, grunting with the effort, dropped the root-ball of the final hydrangea bush into place. It looked a little off center, so he twisted it into position and, once he was satisfied, began to refill the hole.

All this internal speculation was beside the point anyway, he decided, sweat stinging his eyes and dripping off the tip of his nose. It wasn’t like Sofia was his for the taking. She hadn’t looked twice at him, nor was she likely to. Not when she lived in a house like
this
and had owned a car like
that.

With a woman like Sofia Abbate, you had to pay to play, and you had to have money to pay.

Again:
been there, done that. Not doing it again.

And now seemed like a good time for him to recite his favorite Albert Einstein quote, which he’d selected as his own personal mantra in the months since the divorce:

Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

Ethan had married a woman who, he’d discovered way too late, had valued the money he once had more than she ever valued him. Maybe Sofia had every right to be angry about Toby’s financial irresponsibility, but her attitudes about money reminded him a little too much of Judy for comfort. Since Ethan wasn’t insane, he wasn’t making the same mistake twice. So no Sofia for him, now or ever—

Without warning, the front door swung open, and out strode something that was either the biggest man Ethan had ever seen, or a grizzly bear standing on its hind legs and wearing cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt.

This must be the famous Toby, Ethan thought, a sour taste flooding his mouth as he sized up his competition. Which was a wildly optimistic thing to call himself, especially after he’d just decided he wasn’t on this playing field, but, whatever.

The guy came closer and a distant bell of recognition rang in Ethan’s brain.

Wait a minute.

This was Toby
Hall,
the local cat who’d signed with the NFL (Pats? Jets? Ethan couldn’t remember at the moment) with great fanfare a few years back. There’s been a huge signing bonus and high hopes, quickly dashed. Hall had an injury right out of the gate, rehabbed it, came back, had a mediocre on-the-field experience, aggravated the original injury and got cut.

Ethan strained his memory banks, but he couldn’t pull up any details about what the guy had done since.

Must not have been anything much, though, or Ethan would’ve read about it in the paper. And
that
would go a long way toward explaining Sofia’s bitter rant, wouldn’t it? It would also explain the guy’s size. NFL linemen weren’t known for being petite and delicate, but this guy really needed to give the occasional salad a chance. He had to be rounding three hundred, and it wasn’t an edgy and muscular three hundred, either. It was the diabetes-heart attack combo pack, with gut and haunches that would be right at home on the silverback gorillas at the nearest zoo.

Ethan watched moodily as Toby came closer.

Physical size was a particular sore point with Ethan. He was five-eleven, which was tall enough in most circles, but his four brothers were all taller than he was, a fun fact they never let him forget for a second. Hall, here, had to be six five or more if he was an inch.

Ethan lowered his shovel, squared his shoulders and stood up straight.

“What’s up, man?” Toby said, extending his hand to Ethan when he got within range. “Toby Hall. No autographs today, okay? Not a good time.”

Ethan blinked. Recovering quickly, he yanked off his leather work glove and shook, which was the rough equivalent of putting his hand inside a vise grip and hoping for the best.

This guy was way too big for a woman Sofia’s size, Ethan decided. He could roll over in bed after a few too many drinks one night, crush her to death and not even notice until the next morning.