Talking After Midnight. Dakota Cassidy
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Marybell pressed the heel of her hand to her head, massaging the incessant throb. “Everything’s fine, Em. I’m sorry. The cold meds are making me fuzzy, is all.”
Em giggled into the phone, light and sweet. “Or is it Tag makin’ you fuzzy? He’s pretty cute, you know, respectin’ the fact that he’s the love of my life’s relative, of course.”
Of course. Boundaries and such. “I didn’t really notice,” she muttered just as her eyes landed on a way to solve her problem, hoping to hide the fact that her pants would be on fire right now if her denial wasn’t for such a good cause.
“Oh, you did, too. Why, surely you’re not blind from the ragin’ flu, are you, MB?” Em teased her, sliding into a thinly disguised, nosy inquiry. She was forever trying to set Marybell up with someone, declaring she just wanted everyone to be as happy as she and Jax were.
“He’s been very nice.” There. No more discussion. She reached up, pushing her endless bottles of conditioner out of the way. The Lord was good. Eureka!
“Nice? Is that how one describes men like the Hawthorne boys? Nice?” she prodded.
Marybell fished out the large container, filled with green goo. “Em?”
“Marybell?”
Her sigh was ragged as she tucked the phone under her chin and tried to screw the lid off the jar, putting it between her knees and giving it what little she had left. “I look horrible. I smell like I’ve been swimmin’ in a mentholated pool, my eyes are swollen and goopy and my nose is red as your mama’s roses. What difference does it make how I describe this man? I can promise you this, as crazy bag lady as I look right now, he’ll just be glad to get out of here visually unscarred. He won’t give a hoot how I describe him.”
Em sighed into the phone, the happy noises of her household full of children and assorted pets in the background. “Sorry. I was doin’ your dreamin’ for you, wasn’t I?”
Because every girl dreamed of falling for a man who, if he knew her true identity, would rather spit on her than acknowledge her existence. End of dream. “I have to go now, Em. I don’t want to be rude to the very nice Tag Hawthorne while he fixes my heat.” Or heats my fix. Or something along those lines.
“Now, you listen to me, MB. You get yourself back to bed the moment Tag’s done, hear? And you stay there until you’re better. Your clients won’t die for lack of you. LaDawn’s got you covered. Now, one of us will be over in the morning to check on you and make you some breakfast, okay?”
Marybell nodded again, finally loosening the lid on the jar.
“You hear, MB?”
“Yes! I can’t wait. The more chicken soup for my flu-riddled soul, the better,” she chirped. “And thank you again, Em. I really do appreciate you.” She clicked the phone off before Em had her married to Tag and fixin’ her heat for better or worse for an eternity.
Dropping the phone into her pocket, she glanced at her naked face in the mirror before driving her hand into the jar of green goo, taking a huge scoop of it and slathering it across her forehead and cheeks.
When she was done, she wrinkled her nose at her image, turning her head from side to side to be sure she’d covered every inch of her face. Flipping on the faucet, she rinsed her hands, toweled them off and grabbed a clip, pulling all of her hair up on the top of her head to imprison it there.
It wasn’t a pointy Mohawk, but it was just as scary.
One last glance as the goo on her face began to harden. Okay, she assessed. This could work. Feeling only a shade less uneasy, she wrapped a towel around her neck and popped open the bathroom door, running right into Tag.
“Oh!” she yelped, putting her hands in front of her to find them flat on his chest.
Tag grabbed for her, wrapping his arm around her waist.
Marybell’s head popped up and she’d swear, if she ever retold this story, when describing his reaction to the hardening green mass on her face, she’d call it horrified quickly followed by the world’s worst acting job at covering up.
He grinned down at her, deep lines on either side of his mouth forming inviting grooves she had to stop herself from reaching up and touching to feel how deep they really were. “You okay?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, unsure if she was dizzy from the brush of their bodies or her cold. But the brush of his long length against hers, even with the flu, was a whoa moment.
Then, like every other moment she’d spent in his presence, the whoa factor passed and she remembered she was just a girl. Just a girl hiding for her life behind a flaking green face mask of goo.
Forcing herself to step out of his reach, Marybell nodded. “I’m fine, thank you. So, have you figured out the problem?”
He nodded, his eyes flickering over her face before resting on her mouth. “I have. You should be nice and toasty in three, two...one.” Tag held up his index finger just as a rush of air from the vent on the floor blew up her bathrobe.
Marybell smiled in relief, sinking her spine into the wall behind her to avoid making contact with him in the narrow space. “What was it?”
“Pilot light. It was out.”
She rolled her eyes in self-disgust, bringing on another wave of dizziness that left her groping for the wall in support. “Of course it was.”
“It’s an easy thing to miss.”
“It was a dumb thing to miss.”
“You’re sick.”
“Sick? Yes. Brain-dead? No.”
His teeth flashed white in the darkened hall. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
She snorted, congested and gross. “You’re too kind.”
He stared down at her, making her wonder how many times he’d smiled just like this and how many times the recipient of that smile had been a woman. It appeared his boyish grin was Tag’s standard default when he wanted his way.
Ridiculous thoughts likely brought on by her unstable, drugged brain.
“I also fixed the thermostat. The digital reader was broken. Anyway, I’ll let you rest now. Em called to remind me to remind you to take your medicine and get as much rest as possible. Hope you feel better soon.”
Suddenly he was leaving, just like that, his reign of unwitting terror over. And so soon. She put a hand on his arm, letting her fingers sink lightly into it. “Money,” she garbled.
Tag turned, cocking his head. “The root of all evil?”
“No.” She forced the word out, noting she’d left green flakes of goo on the arm of his sweatshirt, covering the roped muscle of his arm.
“Are we free-associating here?”
“I meant, let me pay you.”
“For igniting your pilot light?”
No. For lighting my hormone’s pilot. “Well, yeah. Don’t you charge an hourly wage?”
He chuckled. Rich. Thick. Slippery. “Not when Em’s hiring.”
But wait... “I can’t just let you light my pilot for free.” Smooth, Marybell. Since when did anyone do anything for free, especially a contractor? And what was this reluctance to let him leave? Twenty minutes ago, she been living for his exit.
Now she was every bit Thumper eyes and lobbing money at him.
He backed away, deftly avoiding her black bag with the silver spikes on it, lying on the floor in the nook of the sharp right turn into the living room. “You can, and you will. Feel better, Marybell,” he called out, the sound of the wind and then the door muffling his voice as it closed, greeting her ears.
Her