The Rebel (7 page)

“Not what?” he repeated.

“Like Joy.” It was as close as she could come.

“I know.” He stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“So why are you pretending that you find me so interesting?”

He leaned in close and she felt his lips brush against her cheek as he spoke. “I'm not pretending.”

She thought about putting her arms around his neck and pulling him into her bedroom. But then she pictured the morning after. The awkwardness because she'd hope it was a beginning and not an ending. The strained politeness because he'd gotten what he'd wanted and now had to pretend to be nice so he didn't feel like a complete ass. She'd done that god-awful dance once before and the only thing remotely bearable about it then had been the fact that the guy was from out of town. Nate worked for her. Was supposed to be at White Caps for the whole summer. The last thing she wanted was to be reminded daily of another bad decision when it came to men. She was already pretending everything was
fine with the business around her family. Did she really want to have to put on an act about her love life, too?

She stared up into his eyes and tried to read the future in the flecks of green and gold.

Pulling back, she reached for her glasses and thought there was a damn fine line between self-preservation and cowardice. “I think it's best that we not take things any further.”

“I'm sure you're right.”

“Good. I'm glad we agree.”

“We don't.” He smiled slowly. “What's life without a little excitement? Risk?”

Easy for him to say.

She pointed across the room, trying to ignore his charm the same way he disregarded her ire. “You want a charge? There's an electrical socket over there. I'm sure we can find something metal for you to stick into it.”

He was laughing as he grabbed her hand and put it on his heart. “And if I go into cardiac arrest, will you revive me?”

“I'd call 911. And pray that two men with garlic breath come to save you.”

She tried to turn away but he held on. “I just want to know one more thing.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” She firmly removed her hand and crossed her arms over her chest.

“When was the last time you went out on a date?”

“Do you ever give up?” She started to shut the door.

“You didn't answer my question,” he said, putting his body in the way.

“Why do I have to?”

“It's generally considered polite.”

“Even if someone's being nosy?”

“I'm not nosy. I have a reason for wanting to know. Nosy is much more gratuitous.”

“Look, you're being paid to cook here. That's it. So unless you've got questions about supplies or the kitchen, everything else is none of your business.”

His eyebrow cocked.

“You're one tough lady, aren't you?” He was talking to himself, his eyes narrowed, assessing.

Frankie had to laugh. “Right now, I'm tired. My feet hurt. I just want to go to sleep. If that's your version of tough, you've nailed me dead to rights, but I think you need to check the dictionary. The rest of the world thinks the word means something else.”

She pushed at him, but it was like trying to budge a parked car.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“Fine. Sure.” She kicked up her chin. “My life's one long party. Calendar's so packed I have the men come with name tags otherwise I forget who they are. Yippee.”

“Well, if you can fit it in, how'd you like to go out somewhere with me?” He smiled casually, but she wasn't fooled. His eyes had that purposeful look in them she was beginning to recognize all too well.

She couldn't believe she'd mistaken him for an aimless drifter. The guy didn't have a wayward bone in his body.

“Hell,” she murmured.

“Not exactly the response I was hoping for. Doesn't answer the question, either.”

“I just have a feeling that's where I'm headed if I get involved with you,” she said, pulling away.

“Why's that?”

“Good night, Nate.”

“I'm not going to give up, you know.”

“Do you always come on this strong?”

He traced her lips with his eyes, in what was apparently becoming a habit for him. “When I find something I want, absolutely.”

“Then it's going to be a long, lonely summer for you.”

This time, he let her shut the door.

Leaning back against the panels, she closed her eyes and let herself enjoy a stolen moment of insanity. She imagined that instead of shutting him out, she'd let him come in. Let him take off her clothes and lay her down on the bed—

“It's going to be good between us.” Nate's voice
came through the wood, right next to her ear. “I promise you.”

Frankie jumped like she was the one with a finger in the socket. She stuck her head out in the hall, ready to tell him to go back to his room, but his door was just clicking into place.

So it was hard to know if he'd meant her to hear him or not. And she had to wonder whether the words he'd spoken were an empty entreaty or a vow.

Getting into bed, she pondered the two possibilities until all she thought about was the dark, starving expression on his face when he'd stared at her. The image was inescapable and her body temperature soared. Smoldering, she proceeded to kick off her comforter, her blanket and her socks. She opened the window a little farther and then got the box fan out of the closet. She put it on her bedside table and turned it up so it blew great gusts over her skin.

She'd probably have had better luck if she'd just put her head down on her desk and slept in her office. She might have woken up with a paper clip or two stuck to her forehead, but surely that would have been better than trying to find REM sleep in a wind tunnel.

 

N
ATE GOT UP WITH THE SUN,
pulled on an old pair of cutoff jeans and went looking for a ladder. He wasn't interested in the step variety he'd run into the day before in the pantry. He was looking for the real deal, the house painter's kind, the dual layer, extendomatic,
break-your-head, trip-to-the-Emergency-Room special. The Big Daddy of ladders.

And White Caps being what it was, he was confident he'd find one somewhere. He'd learned in the past forty-eight hours that the barn and the house's cellar were repositories for all manner of things. You had to wonder how a WWI bazooka, a gin distillery and a printing press came to be housed under the same roof.

Then again, maybe that did make sense.

It took twenty minutes and a brush with a spider the size of his head to find the ladder of his dreams. Grabbing a screwdriver from a toolbox, he took the aluminum nightmare over to the spot where he and Frankie had argued over lawn-mowing duties. Tipping it up, he extended the thing as quietly as he could, but it was like whispering in church. The sounds were amplified by the silence around him and he felt like he was putting a jackhammer to the side of the house instead of carefully inching the rungs up to the broken gutter.

He was supposed to be helping Frankie, not tuning Mr. Little up for another explosion she'd have to smooth over. And Nate could have waited until people were awake, but he knew she would insist on helping him or doing it herself so he was willing to take the risk.

He surveyed the ladder placement with satisfaction, put his foot on the first rung, and started climbing. He was about halfway up when his fear of heights checked in with a heave-ho of his stomach. Refusing
to let an irrational anxiety deter him, he got through the nausea by focusing on his hands as they gripped and regripped.

When he got up to the gutter, he was relieved to discover he probably could solve the problem. It wouldn't be as efficient or pretty as the turnaround he'd performed on the chicken that first night in Frankie's kitchen. But at least he could reattach the holder-thing that kept the gutter close to the house.

The sound of a fan had been droning while he'd been climbing and now he was curious. Going down a few rungs and leaning to one side, so that he could look into an open window, he realized he was staring into Frankie's bedroom. And then he saw her.

She was lying on her back in bed, an arm and a leg hanging off one side and the covers on the floor. She was resplendent. In the process of flopping around, her shirt had ridden up, exposing one perfect breast and her flat stomach. His eyes traced her skin and lingered on her white cotton panties.

Which were somehow sexier than the lace and satin numbers he'd seen on other women.

Staring into her room, struck dumb by attraction, knowing that he was a Peeping Tom and feeling badly about it, he hoped like hell she didn't wake up. But sure enough, it was about then that Frankie started fidgeting in her sleep.

Not about to get caught, Nate took a quick step back into thin air.

 

F
RANKIE WAS AWOKEN BY
a howling noise and she shot out of bed. The next thing she heard was the sound of something like a tree hitting the side of the house right outside her window.

She ran across the room, threw up the screen.

And looked into Nate's horrified face.

“What the hell—” she stuttered.

“Am I doing up here?” He was hugging the ladder he was on. “I'm trying to fix the gutter.” Moving gingerly, he reached into the pocket of his cutoffs and took out a screwdriver. “See?”

“But why?”

“I thought it was better than you having to do it.” He was clearly trying to recover from scaring himself half to death and determined not to show it. The smile he gave her was the same easy, wide one he used on the ground.

But his face was the color of pea soup.

“And this is because you're so scary brilliant with the Mr. Fix-It stuff?” she chided gently.

“All I need to do is just screw in that thing. Up. There.” He let go of the ladder long enough to gesture with the tool and push at the gutter. Two seconds later both hands were back on the rungs.

He was scared of heights, she realized. And doing his damnedest not to show it.

“Why don't we get you down from there?”

“Naw, don't worry about me. I'm fine. I'll just finish what I started.” But then he made the mistake
of looking down and squeezed his eyes shut. “Ah, Jesus.”

“Nate?” He opened one eye. “I really think you should get down on the ground.”

“I can see your point.”

But he didn't move.

“Why don't you just try one rung down from where you are. I'm right here. I'll talk you through it.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're scared of heights and you're stuck twenty-five feet up in the air. I don't think I'd call that fine.”

“I'm not scared of anything.”

Tell that to your adrenal gland, she thought.

Frankie sat on the windowsill and considered the options for helping him down. Distraction. That was what he needed. Distraction and a little motivation.

The solution was obvious. Enticing. Dangerous.

“So you can go back inside,” he was saying to her. “I'm just going to catch my breath for a sec and then—”

“Nate?”

“Hmm?” It was a pleasant enough noise. He didn't open his eyes, though.

“I have a feeling that if I leave you here, you're still going to be on this ladder at noontime.”

“Untrue.”

Could she really do this, she wondered.

Frankie leaned out and put a hand on his cheek. It was clammy, as if he had a fever.

Her touch got his attention. His lids flipped open.

She refused to think about what she was about to do. She just leaned forward and pressed her lips to his firmly. A shocked hiss come out of his mouth as she pulled back.

“You're a sick woman,” he said softly. “Why do you wait until I'm completely freaked out and stuck on the side of your house before you'll kiss me?”

“Shhh.” She dipped back down and this time he was ready for her. His lips responded instantly, moving against hers. His tongue snuck out and the kiss deepened.

God, he felt good.

Frankie buried her hand in his hair, feeling the lush texture. He kissed like a real man, she thought. Hungry, hot, demanding.

There was a scraping noise as the ladder shifted against the siding and they broke apart sharply.

Ho, boy. The idea was to get him down to the ground in one piece. Not kiss him into a dead fall.

“There's more where that came from, Nate. But only when you can take me into your arms properly.” Her voice was shaky. From the scare. From the heat between them. From the fact that she didn't mean what she said. She just wanted a way to get him back on the ground.

Nate, however, obviously took her at her word. He started down that ladder like he'd been trained by a fireman.

That was when she realized she was halfway out her bedroom window, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and panties, having kissed a man for the first time in…heck, she couldn't count that high this early in the morning.

Frankie threw on a pair of jeans and rushed downstairs, hoping like hell he didn't get stuck again. She rounded the corner and was relieved to see that he was safe, on the ground.

But coming at her with an unmistakable look of intention.

She put her hands up. “I'm really glad you got down—”

“Come over here.”

“Now, look, we just needed to get you—”

“A promise is a promise.”

Nate marched up to her, put his hands on either side of her face and kissed her long and slow. His body was warm against hers, and as he pushed her back against the house, she couldn't remember exactly why it was wrong to be with him.

Something about leaving, the end of the summer—ah, who the hell cared, she thought.

Her hands crept up his shoulders and around the back of his neck and she held on to him. He smelled
like Ivory soap and outdoors, but she would have taken him dirty and sweaty, too.