Blame it on Cupid (7 page)

Possibly he'd recognized there was chemistry before this. Why wouldn't there be? She was gorgeous. And he'd always had a hefty dose of testosterone. It didn't matter if she was on the flaky, ditzy side; his body was always going to respond to a beautiful woman. Still, a guy on the experienced side of thirty-five knew enough to ignore the bulge in his zipper.

Like in her case.

One look and he'd known she was trouble clear through. Nothing he'd seen or heard from her since had changed his mind.

So he wasn't looking at her
that
way. She was the one who was suddenly looking at him. Her expression changed. A quick frown furrowed her brow, almost gone before it started, as if she'd discovered something curious that she wasn't expecting. And then, swift as a spring breeze, she suddenly leaned closer to him. Suddenly put a hand on his shoulder to brace herself. Suddenly tilted her head.

Suddenly kissed him.

Hell, was a guy ever prepared for Armageddon? Her mouth was satin-soft, the scent of her dizzying. His body perked up as if he hadn't been laid in a blue moon. His heart abruptly remembered that it was lonesome. Beyond lonesome. And she was exactly the one it'd been lonesome for all this time.

More mortifying yet, she wasn't coming onto him. It was just a kiss. A kiss where she touched his shoulder, then cupped his head, then simply laid those irresistible lips on him for a single miraculous second. Maybe two.

Then she eased back, still looking at him. “Thank you, Jack,” she said quietly, and then stood up, smiled. And simply went in the house. Even closed the door.

Hokay, he told himself.
Hokay.
But it wasn't okay or hokay. Slowly he lurched to his feet and hiked back to his place. He told himself there was nothing wrong with what just happened, no reason to make more of that kiss than it was. She'd just apparently been trying to express a thank-you for talking to her. And that was just fine.

It was just…he'd never expected to feel anything honest and real with her.

He stomped in through his back door, hung up his jacket and abruptly caught the smell of his burned dinner. His very burned dinner. His inedible—very burned dinner.

Eventually the smoke cleared out, but Jack stayed fuming a while longer.

The new neighbor wasn't working out at all well.

T
HE INSTANT SHE HAD
a spare second, Merry wanted to analyze the confounding range of emotions her neighbor had aroused in her. Last night, she'd mused quite a while about that kiss. About the kind of man who went out in the cold to help a stranger. About how honest he'd come across. And, yeah, how sexy.

Merry believed in listening to her instincts. Believed that it wasn't impulsiveness, but natural good sense, to be aware when her body perked up near a certain man. It wasn't as if she'd slept with hordes. But every time her body sent out warning signals—and she'd talked herself out of listening—it turned out that the guy was a dog and her initial instinct had been correct.

Last night there had been none of that dog stuff. It had been all lights-turned-on, whew-where-did-that-heat-come-from, this guy is unbelievably-good-news instinct stuff.

Right now, though, God knows, she had to shake him completely from her mind.

Charlene had just joined her in the kitchen. So far things weren't going too stellar. Partially Merry blamed the gray breakfast counter between them, because the gray counter/black sink kitchen décor was enough to depress anybody. The modern art all over the place was even worse—not just depressing but weird enough to give a girl the willies.

Right now, the chicklet sitting across from her was the scariest problem, though.

Charlene had emerged from the bedroom this morning, ostensibly ready for her first day going back to school, wearing the combat gear again. The newly-waxed brush cut looked awful silly on that tiny, feminine little face. The pants had been cuffed up a half dozen times, but the shirt collar was still buttoned tight enough to choke the throat. The clothes dwarfed her skinny little frame—especially the combat boots—but the saddest part was that closed-in, closed-up expression.

Merry had started out with a bubbly, “Hey, g'morning, cupcake!” But that went over like a double homework assignment, and since then, the silence in the kitchen had built up to deafening proportions.

The differences between them, Merry realized, were a lot more complicated than just combat boots versus rhinestone-studded flip-flops. For breakfast, Charlie had chosen a bowl of Wheaties—no milk, no sugar—and an apple. A tidy paper napkin was folded with the edges just so.

Merry was eating breakfast, too, but she'd chosen a gooey cinnamon roll, tomato juice with a bit of pepper, two Oreos, and a highly sugared cereal with fresh blueberries on it.

It was unnatural to eat that healthily, Merry fretted, and even more frighteningly unnatural to be so damned quiet and obedient. The other differences contrasting them were even more pronounced. She was wearing comfortable old frayed jeans with a hole above the knee. The kid had actually ironed her khakis. Repeat, ironed. Whoever ironed unless threatened at knifepoint?

And the child's brush cut might look goofy, but it was certainly ultra tidy compared to her own tumble of dark chestnut hair that hadn't even seen a brush yet.

Charlie looked ready to run the world.

Merry didn't figure anyone should be expected to seriously wake up until midmorning. On the other hand, she might not be thinking clearly yet, but she was definitely cheery enough for two. Good thing, since ole stone-face on the other side of the counter looked as if a smile might crack her cheeks.

“So,” Merry said, starting a conversation for maybe the fourth time in the last ten minutes. “You need to be at school by eight-fifteen. How do you usually get there—walk, bus, what?”

Charlie didn't look up from her fascinating bowl of Wheaties, but at least she answered. “My dad drives me. It's on his way to work, so he always said it was no trouble.”

“Is there a bus, though?”

“Probably. I don't know. It's like a mile. I could walk it.”

“I'll take you, Charlie. I just wondered if there was a regular school bus in case there was a day I was sick or something.”

“Yeah, I guess there is. I'll find out. You don't have to do anything about it.”

Merry heard the unspoken message.
I won't bother you. Just let me be home. You don't have to even pretend I exist.
Darn kid was breaking her heart even when she said nothing at all. “What time do you want me to pick you up after school?”

“No reason to pick me up. There's a car pool thing. Because my dad worked. So, like there are four moms. He always paid the gas. They rotate who's driving. Mrs. Sheinfeld picks me up today. The phone numbers are all in the Rolodex.”

“Okay. And then you get home by what time?”

“Depends on the day. Usually before four. Unless there's soccer practice or something like that. Until I was ten, my dad had, like, a babysitter here until he got home, but that was stupid, I told him. There's always somebody around the neighborhood if I needed something. And he trusts me.”

Merry felt her heart lurch. Her heart had been regularly doing that lurching thing since she got here. The military looks and the taciturn expressions were worrying and disconcerting, for damn sure, but somewhere under all that attitude was an awfully miserable kid. Tight as a drum. She sure didn't seem to want nurturing—at least not from Merry—but Merry couldn't help feeling that she'd never met a kid who needed more plain old loving affection.

On the legal pad next to her—and Merry was
not
one into making lists—she was on the third page just this morning. She needed the names of the moms who drove Charlene, besides today's Mrs. Sheinfeld. And they needed to know her. Cripes, maybe she was supposed to be part of that car pool now? How many kids was she supposed to be able to fit in her Mini Cooper? Who was the kid's doctor? Her dentist? Who picked up the trash?

Truth to tell, the list thing was scaring the hell out of her—but at least yesterday's overwhelming panic was gone. She was up and ready to boogie, all renewed and charged to take this on again, all because of Jack, she thought. It helped so much to have another adult to talk to. To vent on.

To kiss.

Between bites of blueberry and cinnamon roll, her mind wrapped around that kiss from last night yet again. She tested her conscience, but nope, there wasn't a lick of guilt. He'd been a brick. There was nothing wrong with expressing thanks and affection. It's not as if she laid up against him in some way he could have construed as a come-on.

Even if she'd thought about doing just that.

Still. She readily recognized that he rang her chimes—and that was the whole scale of chimes. But it was the wrong time in her life to finally find a diamond. She just couldn't be thinking about a man right now, couldn't be curious about one, couldn't allow hormones to color anything about her judgment, either.

She couldn't let anything matter right now but Charlene.

So far she'd carefully refrained from saying anything about how the child was dressed, but it was just too hard not to express a teensy hint of honest worry.

“You'll feel okay going to school in those clothes, right?” she asked casually. “There isn't a dress code in your school?”

“Yeah, there's a code. Girls have to cover their stomachs. And you can't have bra straps showing. Like I'd be worried about that.” A noisy snort effectively expressed Charlene's opinion about budding breasts. “Oh. No dirty words on T-shirts. And no face jewelry.”

Merry had to translate what face jewelry meant. Nose and lips rings, she assumed. “Those rules don't sound too bad.”

“Yeah, well, nobody's gonna tell me what to wear.” It was the first time Charlene had met her eyes—not just with some life but a full splash of belligerence.

Merry was delighted to see some normal kid rebellion, and warned herself not to blow it. “Hey, if you're waiting for me to criticize your choice of clothes, it'll never happen. If you're okay with your choice, then so am I.” Well, she was
almost
okay. Or trying to be okay. Well, maybe she thought the military thing was over the top—and worrisome besides—but she was a ton more concerned about creating some trust than superficial nonsense like clothes. “Charlie…you haven't said anything about the classes you're taking. Are there any subjects you have a hard time with? Or any teachers you really like?”

“Burkowitz.”

Not an answer exactly, but Merry had something. “Yeah?”

“He teaches math. And computers. He's definitely frantic.”

“Frantic?”

“Frantic. Like, he rocks. He's cool. Frantic,” she repeated, as if the meaning should be obvious.

“Got it. Frantic.”

The kid, unlike her, tidily rinsed her bowl and put it in the dishwasher, then pulled on a jacket and stood at the door. Merry scrambled after her, searching for shoes and her own jacket, which seemed to have thrown itself on a chair in the living room.

“While I'm at school, you're not going in my dad's room, right?” Charlene reminded her as they walked outside.

“Right.”

“And you're not gonna touch my dad's stuff. Any of it. Nothing in his study either, right?”

“Stop worrying, Charlie. I told you I wouldn't.” They'd been through this last night, when Charlene had brought up the issue, her fingers twisting themselves into anxious knots and her mouth all but trembling. She seemed to be a little obsessed about any of her father's things being moved or disappearing. Either way, Merry couldn't think of a reason on the planet not to cater to her. Sooner or later the raw edge of grief had to wear off. And then there'd be plenty of time to figure out what to do with Charlie's stuff.

It took less than ten minutes to be parked at the school. Merry didn't walk in with her—how mortifying would that be? It's not as if she'd forgotten how ghastly it was to be a sixth-grader—the lowest rung on the middle school social ladder. Besides which, girls in that preteen age were meaner than bobcats.

Once Charlene disappeared inside and the school bell rang, though, Merry figured it was safe to go inside. She took a quick look around before aiming for the office. The principal turned out to be a woman, Mrs. Apple, a name that was distractingly appropriate because of the dark red color on her cheeks. Merry couldn't fathom why the woman would have chosen such a wildly bright blusher, when it didn't remotely go with her olive skin.

“I just wanted to meet you.” Merry extended a hand, explaining how she'd become Charlene's guardian, how Charlene had just lost her father. The principal swiftly interrupted her.

“We know. Very sad situation.”

The whole school was kind of a sad situation, Merry personally thought. Maybe she'd only walked down one long hall, but that single hall had been telling. There was no graffiti, no banged-up lockers, no noise. The bell had only rung a few minutes before, yet the kids were all sitting in their seats like model children. Not only was it a prep school with a capital
P,
but the classrooms were carpeted—besides which, half the girls she saw were already wearing cashmere sweaters. This was just middle school, for Pete's sake.

“Well, I just wanted you to know I'm here, that you can call me. Charlene and I are just getting to know each other, so I'm afraid that right now I'm just another big change in her life. If there's anything I can do, as far as the school or any activities she's involved in—”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Apple abruptly perked up. “We're always in need of a field mother. Someone to go with the children on bus trips. Field or sports trips.” And then there was the PTO. And the bake sales. And the sports equipment fund-raisers. And Brownies. “We have a middle school dance coming up on Valentine's Day—the first one for the sixth-graders. We'll need parents to chaperone that.”

“I'd be happy to,” Merry said, but on the inside, she was gulping to beat the band. In principle, she was willing to do anything that would help Charlene, but reality was that it was pretty full-scale transition to somehow immediately turn herself into a suburban soccer mom. “I was hoping you would let Charlene's teachers know what she's been going through. I know she missed more than a week of school, for one thing—”

“We're not concerned. Charlene, as you know, is an unusually gifted student. We know she'll catch up quickly.”

Well, that had been a little hair-raising but it had basically gone okay, Merry thought as she drove back to the house. Her next priority was conquering the coffee machine. And—after calling her dad to check in—her second priority of the day was finding a place to sleep.

The two obvious choices were the master bedroom or Charlie's study—both of which were nice, big rooms. But the first night, she'd camped on the couch because she'd fallen asleep there from exhaustion, and then last night, she'd just glanced in the master bedroom when Charlene saw her and went into that anxiety attack about her dad's stuff. So those rooms were out, and normally Merry wouldn't mind camping out indefinitely. Half the time she felt as if she were camping out in her own life, always ready to move on and move out…but this situation was different.

This time she had to try to settle down. To stay.