The Trouble with Josh. Marilyn Pappano
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if he’d kept those last five words to himself. But none of this was about her happiness—at least, not directly.
Holding in a sigh, she cradled her mug and let the heat seep through her chilled skin. Her fingers had been cold ever since she’d left work…except for those few minutes alongside the road when Josh had taken her hand. She knew it sounded sappy and romancey, but she would swear she’d felt some kind of charge pass between them. For a few moments she’d forgotten that she looked and felt like a drowned rat. For those few moments she’d felt warm and tingly, and she’d wondered how much warmer and tinglier she might feel if he really touched her. If he brushed her hair back from her face or slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close….
How appalled would he be if he knew she’d had such thoughts? Enough to drop the chocolate, leave his shoes behind and run screaming into the night.
“Your arm’s bleeding.”
Though she continued to gaze at him, it took a moment for his words to register. She lifted her left arm from the table and saw blood smeared across the surface, then twisted the arm to one side, then the other, searching for the source. “I must have scraped my elbow when I lost my balance. Excuse me.”
With a tight smile she went to the tiny bathroom that separated the kitchen from the bedroom. It was easier to see the cut in the mirror there. It wasn’t bad, but it continued to ooze blood. After cleaning it with a damp cloth, she located the largest adhesive bandage she had, squirted a dollop of antibiotic ointment on the gauze pad, then tried to gauge the proper alignment in the mirror.
“Let me.” Josh stepped into the cramped space, turned her for a better look, then smoothed the bandage in place. His fingertips were rough when they slid from the bandage to her skin—callused from years of hard work, but gentle, bringing back memories of other times, other hands….
Candace couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t escape. Worse, she didn’t want to escape. She knew it was wrong. Reckless. He was the last person in the world she should want to get involved with, and there were a hundred reasons why. Natalie was between them. Her life was nothing but uncertainties. She was afraid. Afraid, afraid, ninety-five times afraid.
But his fingers were still touching her, lightly stroking from bandage to skin, and she was amazingly warm and aware, and even if it was reckless, she couldn’t recall ever feeling so secure.
A soft sound drifted on the air between them, not really a moan or a whimper so much as a wordless plea. It was heavy with pleasure and need, and she realized when his dark eyes hardened and turned cold that it had come from her.
Embarrassed, she took a step back and felt the commode against her legs. Forcing a smile that felt every bit as phony as it was, she lowered her arm to her side. “Th-thanks for the help. Our, um, chocolate is getting cold.”
Taking a deep breath, she squeezed between him and the door frame and beat a hasty retreat to the living area. She grabbed the quilt from the couch, then slid all the way back on the bench flanking the dining table. With her legs stretched out in front of her, the table on one side and cabinets on the other and the quilt tucked over her, she felt relatively protected.
But from whom? Josh? Or herself?
She half expected him to grab his shoes and clothes and go. The way he looked at them when he passed suggested the thought had crossed his mind. But instead, he settled on the sofa with his hot chocolate. When he spoke, his tone was conversational, his voice steady. “I had a quilt like that when I was five. I was being forced to go to school against my will, so my grandmother made it to cheer me up. It was made from my old worn-out jeans and tied with yarn.”
She plucked at one of the ribbons until she recalled the image of his long, tanned fingers doing the same. Resolutely she folded her arms over her chest. “I have no talent for sewing. A friend made this for me.”
The friend’s name was Betty, and Candace had known her only online. They’d met in a chat room and had built the only real friendship she’d had since Natalie. That was a sad commentary on her life. “It’s my security blanket,” she added with an awkward shrug.
She half wished he would ask her something personal—what friend? Security from what? Of course, he didn’t, so after a time she asked him, “Does your grandmother live in Hickory Bluff?”
His gaze narrowed, and she knew exactly what he was thinking—that she was asking because of Natalie, digging for information on Natalie. Though, really, what possible good would it do her to know where Natalie’s husband’s grandmother lived? Would it persuade Natalie to meet with her, or make her view Candace with any less disdain? Of course not.
Presumably, he reached the same conclusion, because at last he answered the question. Barely. “No.”
It wasn’t much encouragement to go on, but hey, she’d once been a damn pushy reporter, and she had the awards to show for it. “I only ask because I find families interesting. You’ve heard the joke about putting the fun back in dysfunctional?” She waited for his faint nod. “That’s my family. We weren’t fun, but we damn sure were dysfunctional.”
“So that’s your excuse? You can’t be held responsible for what you did to Natalie because your family was dysfunctional? Your father was a drunk and your mother didn’t love you, so you’re entitled to behave however you want without suffering the consequences?”
Now it was her turn to simply look at him. Was he guessing? After all, that was about as stereotypical as a rotten family could get.
Or had Natalie repeated all of Candace’s confidences to her new family?
“I’m not blaming anyone but myself,” she said evenly. She’d been self-absorbed, ambitious and greedy. She’d wanted everything Natalie had had—hell, she’d wanted to be Natalie. And for a few years she had more or less succeeded. While her former friend had disappeared with her career in ruins, Candace had moved on and up. She’d become the hotshot female reporter making a name for herself. Even Natalie’s father, a legend in the field who’d always found his daughter lacking, had accepted and welcomed her. Though he’d never lifted a finger to help Natalie follow in his footsteps, he’d extended a very generous helping hand to Candace, giving her the support and encouragement that should have gone to Natalie instead.
For a while. Until Candace had disappointed the great man by letting illness come between her and her career. In Thaddeus Grant’s mind, nothing interfered with the job. His wife’s death thirty years ago hadn’t distracted him, and neither had the young daughter he was supposed to raise in her mother’s stead. The career, journalism, the news, was all-important.
Until she’d gotten sick, she’d agreed with him. Now she knew better. The job was nothing if you didn’t have a life—friends, family, anyone who cared.
Feeling the faint flutters of depression settling in her chest, she laid the quilt aside and slid to her feet. She pulled a plastic shopping bag from a kitchen drawer, stuffed Josh’s wet clothing in it, then held it out. “You should probably go on to wherever you’re going.” It wasn’t the most polite invitation to leave, but it was the best she could come up with, considering her limited experience in dealing with visitors. And she wanted him gone, before she got anymore blue.
He got to his feet slowly, trading his mug for his shoes. They were work boots, and looked none the worse for the time they’d spent in the rain. He shoved his feet inside and laced them quickly, shrugged into a dry jacket from the duffel—fleece-lined denim—then picked up the two bags. “Thanks for the chocolate.” His tone was civil, nothing more.
“You’re welcome. And thanks again for your help.” She watched as he opened the door and gazed for a moment at the rain, falling even harder than before. The cold air seeping in made her shiver and hug herself tightly. “For the record—”
He glanced back at her.
“My father was the sweetest, most good-natured drunk I ever knew, and while my mother never wanted a child, she tried to make the best of having one. It’s not