Always Mine (8 page)

Then she happened to knock a piece of bacon off a plate, sending it toward the floor. Nugget, aka “the Nug,” caught it in midair. She stared at him. “You're not suspicious, you're a mooch.”

He didn't appear to take offense. In fact, he kept even closer to her as she put Owen's plate on the tray, the coffees, and then carried the food and beverages up the stairs. She found the two men around the small meal table she'd set up. Trying to remain unobtrusive, she put Owen's breakfast in front of him and then placed the mug of black coffee at Mr. Marston's elbow.

She and the Nug were ready to slink off when Owen caught her wrist. “Stay,” he said, his tone soft.

His grandfather glanced up at her. “By all means. Maybe an objective viewpoint is exactly what we need.”

Izzy avoided both men's gaze. Objective? Could she possibly be nonpartisan when she'd spent the night before in Owen's arms? “I, um…” But her protest,
such as it was, died, as she lowered herself to the free chair. Even without looking directly into his eyes, she was aware that Owen's tense, tired expression had turned grim. She couldn't ignore that, could she?

He was her husband, after all.

“I'm just explaining to my grandson, here, that it's time to reconsider his choice of career.”

Izzy glanced at Owen. “Well—”

“It was fine for a time, but…”

She glanced at Owen again. His face was expressionless. She remembered the conversation he'd had with his mother, when he'd defended his job as a firefighter, but now he didn't look interested in sticking up for himself. “I think he likes his work.”

“Because he hasn't truly considered the consequences,” Philip Marston said with a wave of his hand. “Young men believe themselves immortal. It's biology. The brain isn't sufficiently formed to foresee the risks of a particular action.”

“Well, that's true of many adolescents,” Izzy agreed. “But you can't lump into that group every single person who pursues a job that involves some personal risk.”

Owen's grandfather's eyes narrowed. “Tell me again how you came to be a home health worker?”

She ignored the question. “We need our first responders. Surely you would admit that.”

The elder Mr. Marston frowned. “All first responders aren't my grandson.”

Izzy looked over at Owen. It was obvious he
wasn't listening to their exchange. His gaze was unfocused and trained on some inner movie screen, and uneasiness trickled down her back. It made her voice sharp. “You don't give your grandson much respect,” she said, more direct than her usual Izzy's-here-to-please style. “His work is important.”

“Hah.” The older man sent her another piercing look. “Well. You're awfully loyal for a temporary, hourly employee.”

That caught Owen's attention, and he looked over. “Leave Izzy alone, Granddad.”

“What?”

“Leave Izzy alone,” Owen ground out.

“I'm not bothering her,” his grandfather replied in a mild voice. “Now, Nugget on the other hand…”

She glanced down and had to laugh. She'd been so caught up in the conversation that she hadn't realized the beast was resting his head on her lap. When it came to canines, bacon must hold a special power.

“I don't know anything about dogs.” Her hand caressed the buttery fur on the top of his head.

“I thought I explained all about them last night,” Owen murmured.

It startled another laugh out of her, but then it died, as “last night” came back to her: Owen's grin, his touch, the intimacy of the darkness and his caresses.

In the silence surrounding them, his grandfather humphed. “Nothing anyone has said negates my concerns, Owen. Your coworker was killed.”

His grandson stilled. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it's true.”

And Izzy could see the knowledge of it wash over Owen. His posture didn't change—it remained straight and strong—but she could see anguish ripple across his face, deadening the color of his eyes and setting his mouth into a grim line. His gaze unfocused again and she knew he was once again tuning them out.

She leaned forward. “Owen…”

Her voice jerked him out of his reverie. He blinked, his gaze focusing on her. “Jerry's wife, Ellie, is expecting a baby in a few weeks. Maybe any day now, I'm not sure.”

“Oh, Owen.”

“She's a widow. That baby won't have a father.”

“Exactly my point,” Philip Marston boomed. “You'll get married soon. You'll have a child. Will you still take the same risks with your life? I say leave now, and get back into the family business where you belong.”

You'll get married soon. You'll have a child.

Of course he would. She and Owen would undo their whim of a wedding and he'd find himself a real wife.

That couldn't be her, because she couldn't see herself settling down. She didn't know how to do it. How did anyone trust someone else with their heart?

“Maybe you're right, Granddad,” Owen said. “I'll be thinking about that.”

Izzy barely heard him. She pushed out of her chair, murmuring something about cleaning up the breakfast dishes. With the Nug dogging her footsteps—so that's where the phrase came from, she thought—she returned to the kitchen. There, she stood, unmoving, as Philip Marston's words repeated in her head.

You'll get married soon. You'll have a child.

Yes, she wasn't part of that picture, was she? She caught sight of her reflection in the silver surface of the refrigerator and her hands went to her belly. Really, she couldn't see herself that way. Pregnant and barefoot? No.

Pregnant and wearing those cute slides she'd spied at Nordstrom the other day? Well…

No!

And…yes.

The dog pressed up against her thigh and she rubbed the top of his head. “I'm crazy, right?” she whispered.

Because there was a picture forming in her mind. Izzy, the perpetual outsider, having her very own family. Being someone's wife.

Owen's wife.

The Nug whined, the sound popping that aberrant mental bubble. With a sigh, she glanced down at the dog. “Yeah, I know. You're hoping for more bacon to fly through the air, and when pigs do that very same thing is when I'll allow myself to rely on someone for that forever-after thing.”

On another sigh, she moved to the sink and started dealing with the dishes, not allowing herself to get caught up in the domestic intimacy of it all. “It may be like playing house,” she told the Nug, who continued his crumb surveillance, “but it's not my house, and this is definitely not the way I would play it anyway.”

Nobody was supposed to have to cook
and
clean up, after all. “Which just goes to show I'm merely the hired help. The health worker, right, Nug?” Even Owen's mother had figured out Izzy wasn't wife material.

The doorbell rang and she was glad for an excuse to hurry away from her own thoughts. She swung open the door, only to see a mail service truck lumber off. On the doorstep were four large cardboard boxes.

Frowning, she checked the address.

It was Owen's, all right.

But the name on the
To:
line was all wrong.

Isabella Cavaletti Marston.

O
wen groaned from the easy chair by his bedroom window as he watched his brother stride over the threshold, his arms full of bound reports. “Tell me those aren't what I think they are.”

“You told Granddad you were thinking about joining the company,” Bryce said, dropping the stack at Owen's feet. “What, you thought he'd forget about that?”

“I didn't think he would have you bring me homework, like you used to do when we were kids and I missed a day of school.”

Bryce settled in the matching chair. “You never
missed a day of school, remember? Perfect attendance, six years running. God, I hated you for that.”

“Wasn't my fault you didn't remember that girls have cooties. That's where all those coughs and colds come from, you know.”

“Well, the one who I think is sick now is you. Sick in the head.”

Owen narrowed his eyes at his brother. “What do you mean by that?”

With a nod, Bryce indicated the window. “Why are you up here moping and not down there with her?”

“Down there” was the courtyard they could see below. Izzy had discovered the neighbor's cat sunning itself on the bricks and she was crouched beside the fluffy creature, alternately petting it and letting it bat at a long piece of yarn she held.

“Yeah? What excuse could I give?”

“That you, too, want to pet a—” He broke off at Owen's sharp glance. “You have a dirty mind! I was going to say ‘pet a cat.' Yeesh.”

“I'll just bet.”

Bryce grinned. “Speaking of gambles…I never really got a chance to hear the full story about your whirlwind Vegas, uh, vacation. You went for the adventure and came home with—”

“Nothing,” Owen ground out. “You know that.”

“But then five weeks later this pretty woman trips into your life and claims she's your wife. Don't you
think I've been patient long enough? Don't I get all the details now?”

“Since when are you like a teenage girl at a slumber party?”

“Since you turned so close-mouthed and crotchety.”

Bryce said it with his usual smile on his face, but Owen still felt the sting.
Crotchety
sounded old and cranky, and damn if that wasn't the way he felt. “I hate being cooped up.”

“But you're cooped up with a babe. C'mon, surely I don't have to spell out ways to lift your mood.”

The thought didn't lift Owen's mood. He'd woken up two days ago, feeling about as good as a man could, and then his grandfather had called and he'd remembered what the sex had pushed aside.

Jerry Palmer, imminent father-to-be, was dead.

And Owen still couldn't figure out why he was alive.

“If you're not in any hurry to seduce the lovely Isabella, I think you're going to have to tell me how she ended up as your wife.”

Owen stared through the glass at her profile, the smooth curve of her cheek, that plum-colored purse of her mouth. Her fingers swept through the cat's fur and he remembered them buried in his hair as they sank into yet another kiss. “The usual way,” he answered. “Elvis asked. We said ‘I do.'”

“No. Way.” Bryce hooted. “I love it. Golden Boy Marston, Granddad's favorite, the one Mom loves best, the guy Dad envies because he doesn't have to
deal with the old man on a daily basis, was married by an
Elvis impersonator?
”

“Who says he was an impersonator? And so you know, Priscilla can play a mean Wurlitzer organ.”

Bryce started laughing, hard enough that Owen couldn't stop his own smile. “You're not kidding.”

“Would I kid you about the complimentary, post-ceremony, grilled peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches?”

“It's so bad, it's good.” Bryce leaned close. “Tell me there are pictures.”

“There are pictures.” He put up his hand to stop his brother's next question. “But no, you can't see them. Izzy took them with her, and knowing her habits, I'd guess they've been shipped to some friend of hers in Timbuktu.” Yet, he discovered he was still smiling. As rash as their decision to marry had been that night, he'd enjoyed the hell out of himself the entire time.

From the moment he'd met her, he'd enjoyed the hell out of himself. But who could believe something like that could last?

He had.

“So what happened?”

“Hm?” Owen looked over at his brother.

“What happened? A second ago you were wearing one of those Perfect Attendance Award smiles and then next thing you look like someone told you the principal was taking away your traffic patrol captain's badge.”

He stared at his brother. “You really did hate me during our school years, didn't you?”

“Nah. You've just always been a hell of a brother to follow after. And if you were going to buck the family and go for a job outside the company, why couldn't you have chosen to be a shoe salesman or something? Not that all work isn't honorable, but hell, bro—A firefighter. I'll be in your shadow for the rest of my life.”

“You're so full of BS.” As if Bryce was in anyone's shadow. “And I don't know how long I'm going to be with the department anyway.”

Bryce wagged one foot. “Pull the other one. I don't care what you told Granddad, but you're not leaving the Paxton F.D.
And,
you're not putting me off my slumber party sensibilities. I'm still waiting for the details. What happened between you and your bride that she went running?”

“She went running.” Owen spread his hands. “I caught her in the hotel lobby as she was hotfooting it out of the place. She looked scared. I acted certain. She got mad. I got madder. Next thing I know—”

“She doesn't look scared when she looks at you now.”

“Yeah, instead she looks sympathetic. I'm her pity project.”

Bryce shrugged. “Maybe you need to show her that you still have some moves.”

He'd shown her his moves. Moves weren't the
problem. Things between them had been good in bed. Better than good. He knew that. But what came after?

He hadn't gone looking for a repeat. And not just because they hadn't resolved or even discussed their marriage. That was just one of the pile of issues that was taking up the front and center of his head.

“Well.” Bryce slapped his palms on his thighs. “Gotta go. I delivered your spelling and math as ordered. Except, oh, yeah, there's this little question I believe you should be addressing. In regards to entering the family business: What the hell are you thinking? Write up five cogent paragraphs and get back to me.”

He passed Izzy in the doorway, pausing only long enough to grab her by the shoulders and buss her on the cheek. “Yum. You smell good. When you want the better brother, let me know. In the meantime, I think you should take the big guy over there to the fire station. Someone needs a little face time with his team.”

Izzy blinked as Bryce strode away, then came farther into the room. Her eyebrows rose as she took in the mountain of materials that the other man had left behind. “Most people recuperate with lighter reading. I have several recommendations for you. Do you like mysteries? Thrillers? Or, if you're serious about heavier fare, I know a great biography of one of our founding fathers.”

“These are some of the company's financial reports,” Owen said. “Granddad sent them over.”

“You're not really thinking—” She broke off. “But it's none of my business.”

“Yeah.”

And it was none of his business to absorb how beautiful she was, even in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. Even those brief few minutes in the sunshine had spread a layer of rosy warmth across her cheekbones…or maybe she was thinking, like he was, of how they'd been together that night. Of how the kisses had gone on forever and how seamlessly they'd joined and how he'd felt her orgasm pulsing around him as she came.

Sex had been as easy and as right as that first moment in Las Vegas. As well matched as their dancing. As hot as every glance they'd shared before they'd said “I do” while the rhinestones on Elvis's suit glittered in the disco ball light of the chapel.

She looked out the window. “Is Bryce right? Do you want to go to the fire station?”

The heat kindling inside him went cold. “I don't know if I should go back there.” He didn't know if he
could
go back there.

“Owen…”

“What?”

Her gaze stayed trained on the window. “We didn't talk about the other night.”

“That's right.” He touched the outside of his pocket. He'd made a habit of carrying around her
THNX, sap that he was. “I appreciate what you shared with me. That night…it was a tough time.”

“I know.”

“And you…?”

She shot him a quick glance. “You know darn well I have no complaints.”

“Good.”

“Good.” Her gaze cut his way again. “But…”

“But?”

“Does this need to be said?”

That it could never happen again? That it had been a huge mistake? That he was an idiot for not being able to keep her taste, her scent, the feel of her silky skin out of his head?

He steeled himself. “Does what need to be said?”

“That it's okay to delight in being alive.”

“I…I don't know what you mean.”

“It's all right to have enjoyed what we did, Owen. It's all right to have enjoyed our…pleasure. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

Owen stared out the window. Would she still say that if she knew? Would she say it was all right if she knew that every cell of him wanted to “delight in being alive” again? Right now. Tonight. Tomorrow.

But that
was
wrong, wasn't it? She was temporarily here. He was temporarily needing her near. And he was afraid that all that “delighting” that he wanted was just an excuse to get away from what really needed to be done: Facing all the questions about his future.

 

The next day, Owen felt so suffocated by the four walls around him that he gave in and agreed to go to dinner at Will and Emily's house with Izzy. Though he didn't want to talk shop with Will, he was fairly certain he could avoid what was happening down at the station by using the two women as a buffer.

His plan was to settle himself on the couple's couch and keep quiet.

His worries were needless, he realized, when he limped into the house, using the cane that he'd been given by the orthopedist. No one was going to be expecting him to maintain his end of a conversation because there were too many of them going on. He and Izzy were not the only dinner guests. Will's siblings were in attendance, too, along with a variety of spouses, girlfriends and roommates, which made it easy for Owen to hide behind the noise and chaos.

As she'd been doing lately, Izzy wandered off, leaving him alone. When they were at his place, she didn't hang around him, either. He supposed she read a lot of the time. He knew she talked on the phone often. It rang a heck of a lot—so much that the distinctive ring tone was starting to rub his nerves raw. Probably some of her calls were business related, and he'd brought up the fact that he was causing her trouble on that end—giving her the chance to say she needed to leave him—but she'd waved the concern away.

Too bad he couldn't bring up her other phone calls and have her wave away the concern he had about those, too. But that would mean admitting he'd been listening. That would mean admitting he was a little, um, well, irritated shouldn't be the word, but it was, by the many times she'd been thrilled to hear from “Greg” and “David” and “Brad.” Of course, there'd been calls from “Jane” and “Sally” and “Taylor,” too, but—but wait, “Taylor” was a name that could go either way, meaning yet another possible hash mark under the column entitled “Male Callers,” right?

The sofa cushion beside his bounced as a younger man dropped into the other corner. As tall and dark as his brother, but as skinny as only a twenty-and-change guy could be, Will's sibling Tom gave him a quick smile. “Yo. Owen.”

“Hey, Tom.” Owen smiled back, because Tom wasn't the type to take conversation into any uncomfortable territory. He wasn't likely to ask about the fire or about Jerry or about when Owen expected to be back on the job at the station. “How about those Raiders?” he added anyway, just to direct the conversation into a nonloaded area.

The other man groaned. “Did you have to bring that up?” he asked, his expression pained.

Owen did a quick mental review. It was early in the season, but the team was doing about as expected. “What's the matter? Did you make a bad bet with someone on last week's game?”

“This week's game,” Tom mumbled. “I have tickets.”

“And you have to work?”