Swept Away. Karen Templeton
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Travis trooped into the house, followed by her father, then Sam, both men wearing the unmistakable glow of satisfaction for a job well done. Or at least done. Her father, especially…when was the last time she’d heard him laugh like that, seen a smile that big on his face?
“I made some lunch,” she announced, waving at the table. “Sandwiches, if that’s okay. Bologna or cheese, or both, if you’re feeling adventurous.”
Her father said, “I think I need a quick shower first. If that’s okay?” he directed at Sam, who said, “Sure, go right ahead,” and then Dad vanished, leaving Sam staring at the table as though she’d set up a tray full of live snakes.
Wordlessly he plucked off his ball cap and slapped it up onto the six-foot-long pegboard mounted near the door, the move revealing a ragged, dark splotch plastering his shirt to a chest more substantial than one might expect given his overall leanness. Several strands of hair that could have been either silver or blond fell across his forehead; he swiped at them, his gaze bouncing off hers before sweeping over the innocent sandwiches mounded on a plate in the center of the table. Travis’s grubby hand shot out to claim half a sandwich, but Sam grabbed him with a “Not before you wash your hands, pup.” Then, one arm around his youngest’s chest, he met her eyes again and said, softly, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“No problem,” she said with a bright, idiotic grin, trying desperately to lighten the inexplicably weighted atmosphere. “Wasn’t as if I had anything else to do. What would you like to drink?”
Again with the weird look. Full of lots of angst and undertones and all sorts of stuff Carly really didn’t want to deal with. “I’m all sweaty,” he said, his eyes still locked with hers. Uh, boy. Thank God her father was still out of the room, was all she had to say.
“Hey. You want to talk sweaty? Try fifty dancers in an unair-conditioned studio in July. At the end of a two-hour rehearsal. You don’t even rate.”
That, at least, got a small smile, like a crack in the ice on a warm day, and at least some of the undertones slunk away.
Some. Not all. Certainly not the ones that made her glad her father wasn’t around. And that she wouldn’t be around for more than a few days.
Sam carted Travis over to the sink, holding him up to wash his hands, then dousing a paper towel with the running water to mop the kid’s face for good measure before freeing the protesting child so he could clean himself up. Leaving Carly to ponder why—how?—after all the beautiful bodies she’d seen in motion over the years, she couldn’t seem to unhook her eyeballs from this one. All he was doing was washing his hands, for crying out loud.
Then she heard a dry chuckle and realized he was watching her, watching him, and she felt a whoosh of desire so strong she nearly lost her balance, followed by the calm, clear words, You are so not going there.
Well, hot damn—maybe, just maybe, she was finally growing up.
Chapter 3
It’d been a long time since a woman had made him lunch.
It’d been even longer since sex had tapped at the door to his thought and said, Psst…remember me? Okay, so maybe it had come a’knocking once or twice in the past three years, but for damn sure Sam hadn’t had the time, interest or energy to open the door. In any case, the problem with both of these events was that Sam didn’t need, or want, either one in his life.
On an intellectual level, at least. Which was the only level he was going to pay any mind, since listening to the alternative—which would be something not involving a whole lot of brain cells—was too darn scary to contemplate. Because right at this very moment, if he indeed removed his brain from the equation, he didn’t mind at all having somebody make him lunch. And he really didn’t mind that pleasant ache in his groin, if for no other reason than to be reminded that, hallelujah, brother, he wasn’t dead yet. But he very much minded not minding, because…well, because what was the point?
Although the way the gal was looking at him…
He heard the pipes shudder, then groan, as Lane turned on the shower. Meaning it would probably be a while before they had a buffer. One big enough to count, anyway, he thought with a glance at his youngest, wrestling on the floor with Radar and growling louder than the dog. So much for the clean hands.
“So—” The word popped out of Carly’s mouth like a blow dart, like maybe she’d been having similar thoughts. Sam realized he could see straight through that flimsy shirt she was wearing, and even though she had another shirt on underneath, the peekaboo effect was wreaking havoc on his common sense. “What’s with all the notes all over the place?”
Not what he expected her to say. But after a quick scan of the room, he could see why she’d asked. “Huh. Guess there are a few, aren’t there?”
“Twelve,” she said. “Not counting that.” She nodded toward the wipe-erase board.
Sam held one of the kitchen chairs steady so Travis wouldn’t knock it over as he climbed up into his seat. Kid was still too short to really sit at the table comfortably without a booster seat, but Sam had a better shot at getting him to eat worms than use the “baby chair.”
“Got tired of repeating myself, basically. And this way, nobody can claim they didn’t know what they were supposed to do.”
Carly took a seat at the table, her plate filled mostly with lettuce, it looked like. “And this doesn’t strike you as just a tad…autocratic?”
“Only way to go when you’ve got six kids. Unless you got a better idea?”
“Move?”
“Don’t think the thought hasn’t crossed my mind a time or two.” He handed Travis half a cheese sandwich. The kid gave him a wide smile, and Sam thought, with a little pang, This is the last baby-toothed grin I’ll see. “For what it’s worth,” he said, turning back to Carly, “your dad was impressed as all get-out.”
“He would be.” With a loud groan, Radar collapsed on the floor in front of the sink, clearly untroubled by his status as wuss dog of the family. “Although,” Carly was saying, “Dad never resorted to notes or lists. He tended to rely more on the bellow and glare method.” Then her mouth quirked up. “With good reason.”
Yeah, Lane had shared a few stories about his daughter. Stories he doubted Carly would appreciate being bandied about, Sam mused with a smile as Henry, an ancient, chewed-up-looking tomcat whose few waking hours these days were mostly devoted to tormenting the dogs, paused in his travels to sniff Radar’s butt. The startled dog leaped to his feet, only to immediately cower against the cabinet door, ears tucked against his skull, eyes wide with terror. Satisfied, Henry flicked his tail and stalked off. Travis giggled; Carly gave the little boy a smile softer than Sam would have thought possible, given the sharpness of her features.
“Yeah,” he said, unable to take his eyes off that smile, “Lane definitely gave me the impression that you were a bit of a handful.”
She smirked. “Are you kidding? I made his life a living…” She glanced at Travis, then back at Sam, her eyes glittering, defiant, like her makeup, which, while anything but subtle, ventured no where near tacky. This was simply a woman who had no qualms about making herself look good. “Let’s just say I took the concept of challenging authority to a whole new level. Which begs the question…” She swept one arm out, indicating the notes. “Does this work?”
“Mostly. Once everybody realized I meant business.”
“And how old’s your daughter?”
A cold, clammy chill tramped up his back. “Almost fifteen.”
All she did was smile. And change the subject, her smug expression clearly indicating her belief that she’d won that round. “So. You get that fence fixed?”
“You’re still doing it, aren’t you?” Sam said.
A bite of salad