Falling for the Marine (A McCade Brothers Novel) (Entangled Brazen) (11 page)

Chapter Eleven

Three…two…one
. Michael counted down the seconds as he walked to his car. Right on cue, his friend started in. “Sorry for barging in. I didn’t realize you had company. I thought you’d thrown your back out and couldn’t get to the door.”

“Nope, my back feels pretty good, actually.”

“No doubt, considering you scored a sleep over with your massage therapist.”

Michael turned and led the way to his Jeep. “At this point, Chloe’s more than a masseuse to me. She’s more like a…roommate.”

Dane’s
say-whaaaat?
expression would have inspired a cartoonist. “You’re living together? Better be careful, man. Harding’s not going to smile on one of his officers shacking up with the local talent. And his opinion matters, because, rightly or wrongly, he’s got a hell of a lot of say over your career—especially at the moment.”

“Well, technically,” he hit the unlock button on his key and waited for the double beep, “we’re not shacked up, we’re engaged.”

“Wow. You work fast.”

Michael shrugged and got in the car. “She was in a little bit of a bind and needed a place to stay for a few weeks. I wanted to help, but I also have my reputation to protect, so…”

“Ah,” Dane nodded from the passenger seat, “an engagement for show only. In that case, I have to say the eyeful I got this morning of you two all cozy on the couch looked pretty convincing.”

Yeah. It had felt pretty convincing too. “That was perfectly innocent.”
Mostly innocent
. “We stayed up late talking—preparing for dinner tonight with Harding and his wife to celebrate our engagement—and fell asleep.” He put the car in gear and steered out of his parking space.

“And after the gym, you’re going to run to the store for her?”

“Yep. It’s the least I can do. She vacuumed yesterday.”

“And she’s going to bake something for tonight’s command performance at the Hardings’?”

“So?” The skepticism in Dane’s voice was starting to chafe. “What’s your point?”

“My point is, you two stay up half the night talking and fall asleep in each other’s arms, you do little chores for each other, and you socialize as a couple. You’re more engaged than half the
real
couples I know. Are you sure this thing is for show only?”

“Yes. She’s leaving in four weeks.”

“She doesn’t have to. There are jobs in San Clemente.”

“Staying in one place isn’t for her. She’s not looking to settle down, and I’m not looking for a casual, catch-you-next-time-I’m-in-town kind of thing. I’ve ridden that merry-go-round for a long time and I’m ready to get off.”

“So four weeks, and then have a nice life?”

“In a nutshell.
My
life will get back to normal.”

Dane shrugged and faced front. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Hell, yeah, it would. No more nerve-racking engagement charade. No more having his apartment look like it had been invaded by a band of gypsies, no more chick food in his kitchen…no more homemade dinners, no more sexy massages, no more waking up surrounded by the scents of cinnamon and honey. No more Chloe.

…

Chloe knew she was making herself, and Michael, crazy, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She walked from the bathroom to the living room, where he was trying to watch a ball game, and stood beside the oversize flat screen…again. “Are you
sure
this looks okay?” She smoothed her hand over the billowy skirt of her pink, strawberry-print sundress, sending a stack of slim, pink, enamel bracelets tinkling down her arm to gather at her wrist. This was the closest thing she owned to a church outfit but the halter top of the dress had her worried and her lucky shoes weren’t giving her much of an advantage. “I want to be presentable.”

“Huh?” he said absently, his eyes never drifting from the screen.

She huffed out a breath. Men had it so easy. Had he agonized over his wardrobe? No. Had he spent an hour in front of the mirror taming his hair into a smooth, subdued twist? Not even close. He’d come home, showered, thrown on flat-front khakis and a white, linen shirt, and run a comb through his hair. And he looked perfect.

Michael reached out, quick as a snake, and caught her around the waist. Despite her halfhearted struggles, he tugged her down onto his lap. “You look fine.” He nuzzled her neck, but she had a funny feeling he kept one eye on the game. He disabused her of the notion when he fingered her bracelets, and then parted them and swept his thumb lightly over the flesh-colored Band-Aid she’d used to cover the little burn from last night.

“Very presentable.” His nose brushed her throat. “And you smell almost as good as the cobbler.”

“Oh, shit, the cobbler!” She squirmed off him and hurried into the kitchen. A peek inside the oven confirmed the dessert was done. “Thanks for reminding me.” She turned off the heat, grabbed a couple pot holders and placed the square pan of bubbling apple-brown-sugar decadence on the stove to cool.

She fanned the cobbler with a pot holder. Sudden silence from the living room told her Michael had turned off the television. Next thing she knew, he wandered up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders.

“Don’t worry about this evening, Chloe. Just relax and be yourself. We’ve rehearsed and we’re ready. You look beautiful. This dessert looks amazing. The Hardings are going to love you.” He reached around her and took a swipe at the cobbler.

She swatted his hand away but not before he stole a crumble of topping. “Hands off. That’s for tonight.”

“I’m selflessly serving as the taste tester.” He dropped the crumbs in his mouth, swallowed, and smiled. “Oh yeah, they’re going to be eating out of your hands. You ready?”

Oh, God. Her stomach bungee jumped to her knees and then sprang back with a sickening lurch. Ready? Not so much. She shoved the cobbler pan at him. “Here, wrap some foil over this. I have to check my hair real quick, and…” She hurried out of the kitchen…
Put on more deodorant, meditate, pray
.

By the time she returned from the bathroom, Michael stood by the door. “All ready.”

She drew in a deep breath, ran her palms down her skirt, and nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He grinned and led her out the door.

On the drive to the base she silently reviewed everything she and Michael had discussed last night. They’d only touched the tip of the iceberg. There was tons of stuff she still didn’t know.

“What’s your middle name?”

“James—there will be no quiz, Chlo.”

She ignored him. “Michael James McCade.” She repeated his full name several times in a low whisper.

“Okay, not that I think it will come up, but just out of curiosity, what’s yours?”

“Um…Chloe is my middle name, actually.”

His eyes darted to her, and then back to the road. “Seriously? Wow. Now I’m glad I asked. What’s your
first
name?”

“You can’t laugh.”

Michael pulled the car to a stop at the Camp Pendleton main gate and showed his military ID to the marine on guard. He waved them through with a salute. “I would never laugh…Ethel…Myrna…Harriett…whoever you are.”

“Scarlett.”

“As in, O’Hara?” His lips twitched once, before he tamed his feature into his stoic, I’m-a-badass-marine expression.

“Yes.
Gone with the Wind
was one of my mom’s favorite books.”

“Scarlett’s a nice name. Distinctive. Why don’t you go by Scarlett?”

She shrugged. “It didn’t suit me. Everyone pretty much called me Chloe from the get-go. Then, when I was twelve or thirteen, I read
Gone with the Wind
, and I was like, ‘Hey, Scarlett’s a complete bitch.’” She laughed, despite her lingering tension. “I vowed never to be a Scarlett, literally or figuratively. But now you know the awful truth. I hope you’re not ashamed to be engaged to a Scarlett woman.”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

She giggled, but the humor subsided as Michael turned into the Del Mar Military Housing tract, and, a few seconds later, pulled to the curb in front of a sprawling gray, single-story Cape-Cod at the end of Dolphin Way, with a bluff’s top view of the Pacific. She inhaled an unsteady breath. So this was officers’ housing. Nice.

He came around and opened the car door for her. She held out the cobbler, expecting him to take it from her, but he leaned in and took her arm instead. The next thing she knew she was standing on the sidewalk beside him, clutching the cobbler pan. She stared down the front walk and whispered, “Michael James McCade” under her breath.

“C’mon, Scarlett,” he took the cobbler from her stiff fingers and then wrapped his hand around hers and navigated them down the front walkway to the door. Chloe had time for one more deep, stabilizing breath while he rang the bell, and then the door opened and a tall, slim, sixty-something man with pewter-gray hair and ice-chip blue eyes stood in the entryway. He wore his pressed, dark blue polo shirt and starched jeans with the bearing of a dress uniform.

His stern expression cracked into a smile, and he clapped Michael on the shoulder. “Right on time, Major. And you must be Chloe.” He engulfed her hand in his and gave her a firm, precise shake. “Pleased to meet you.” Although he spoke at a normal volume, his voice held a booming, authoritative note. This man was accustomed to giving orders.

“Nice to meet you too, Colonel.”

“Come on in.” He stepped aside to give them room, and Michael’s hand at the small of her back guided her over the threshold. “I’ve got the grill warming out back, but we’ll swing through the kitchen so I can introduce Loretta and get you two set up with drinks.”

“You have a beautiful home,” she commented as they passed the open living room and dining area.

“Thank you. That’s Loretta’s doing. No matter where I’m stationed, no matter how rustic the conditions—and, believe me, there have been some damn rustic ones—she always manages to make us comfortable.”

The interior was as meticulously clean and stylish as the outside. Items from across the globe brought an eclectic mix to the beachy furnishings, but the order and arrangement kept the place from looking like a hodgepodge. Chloe immediately pictured the mess she’d left at Michael’s…rejected outfits tossed on the bed, makeup littering the bathroom counter. She could never pull off a home like this. A certain amount of clutter and disarray just seemed to spring up around her.

Still, under the
House Beautiful
surface, there was a depressing familiarity. She recognized the telltale signs of a military household, even though the Hardings’ souvenirs from places like Japan, Germany, and the Middle East were more upscale than the tourist-level knickknacks her father had carted home from his various deployments. Growing up, it had seemed to her as if every memento marked an argument between her mom and dad—about his career. His priorities. Did these walls bear witness to the same painful memories?

The colonel led them down a hall decorated with family photographs, including a boys-to-men progression of school portraits featuring what had to be the colonel’s sons. In the kitchen, a petite, auburn-haired woman in a flattering, peach-colored shirtdress stood at a granite-topped island, putting the finishing touches on a vegetable tray. Chloe fiddled with the neckline of her dress, suddenly self-conscious of her bare shoulders.

The woman looked up as they came in. “Michael,” she said, smiling warmly. She dried her hands on a towel and then came around the island and gave him a hug. “So nice to see you again.”

“You too, Loretta. Thanks for having us.”

“Thanks for getting engaged and giving us an excuse to celebrate.” She turned to Chloe, “Hi, Chloe, I’m Loretta. I’m thrilled to meet you, and, can I just say, I love your dress?”

Chloe found the warm smile directed at her. She nodded and attempted her own breezy, “Thank you,” despite her stiff cheeks. Maybe she didn’t quite pull it off, because Michael gave her an odd look, and handed her the cobbler. She offered it to the older woman. “And thank you for hosting us this evening, Mrs. Harding.”

“Loretta, please.” She peeled the foil back and inhaled appreciatively. “Mmm. I asked Stan to tell you not to go to any trouble, but now I’m glad you did. Stan, will you get our guests something to drink—I’ll take a glass of the Cabernet you decanted—while I see to a couple more things?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He strode to a bar area at the other end of the kitchen. “We’ve got wine, beer, soft drinks. What can I get you, Michael? Chloe?”

Michael wandered over to handle their drinks, and Chloe jumped on the opportunity to be useful. “Is there something I can help with?”

Loretta shook her head. “No, no. Get a drink and then go on out to the patio and relax.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.” She grinned. “It’s all part of my strategy. I ply you with food and beverage and then I get the scoop on this happy development.”

“Oh, well…there’s not much to tell, really.”

“Are you kidding? I pride myself on keeping my finger on the pulse of all the happenings around here, but you and Michael flew completely below my radar. I have some catching up to do. I’m going to pump you both for
every
single little detail.”

Chloe swallowed hard and sent Michael what she knew was an anemic smile when he handed her a glass of wine. He wrapped an arm around her waist and led her out French doors to the patio. “You’re doing fine,” he whispered in her ear.

“We’re screwed,” she whispered back.

An hour later, Chloe leaned back in her chair, exhaled a small sigh of contentment, and turned to soak in the apricot-raspberry sunset. Michael had his arm draped along the back of her chair and traced intricate, meandering designs along her shoulder with his fingertip.

As screwings went, this one had been fairly painless. Conversation had flowed during dinner but nothing too pointed. Mostly questions Michael had predicted—how had they met? How had Michael popped the question? There was no way to camouflage the short time line, but the Hardings merely echoed Mrs. Waverly’s sometimes-you-just-know sentiments. Michael succeeded in turning the conversation to other topics easily enough. The colonel knew his way around a grill and didn’t mind talking technique. He’d earned the right, as far as Chloe was concerned, because he served up baby-back ribs as good as anything she remembered from her Texas barbecue days. She felt herself starting to relax.