It's in His Kiss (17 page)

“No, darlin’,” Mark said. “Don’t defend me. It’s okay. I deserve his mistrust, believe me.” He met Sam’s gaze. “I’m sick.”

Sam felt this news reverberate through him. He searched his dad’s expression. The truth was there, and his gut tightened painfully. “How sick?”

Mark grimaced.

“Cancer?” Sam asked. “Your heart?”

“No.” Mark paused. “Liver stuff.”

Sam drew in a long, unsteady breath, unable to reconcile all the years-old resentments with the new and terrifying fear for his dad’s health. “I’ve got a spare bedroom at the house,” he said. He spent the majority of his time here. This was his
real
home, his
first
real home that he’d gotten for himself, and he wasn’t sure he could share it with his dad.

“Thank you,” Mark said, with genuine humility. “I won’t be a bother.”

Feeling like a first-class dick, Sam reached into the desk, pulled out a key, and tossed it to his dad.

Mark pocketed it with a nod of his head. “See you later then. Love ya, son.”

Sam closed his eyes, and when he opened them Mark was gone. Not quite trusting himself to speak, he stayed still. After a moment, he felt a gentle hand slide up his back.

“You okay?” Becca asked.

He was a lot of things. Gut sick. Angry. Furious, even. And afraid. One thing he was not was okay. Shoving free of the desk, he dislodged her hand, picked up the snowman on his desk, and chucked it across the room.

It shattered on the far wall.

Becca leapt back, inadvertently slamming herself into his desk. At the impact, she jumped away and then tripped over his trash can, hitting the floor on all fours.

“Jesus.” Sam crouched down and reached for her. “You okay?”

It was her turn to shove free of him, and he discovered
he didn’t like the feeling very much as she got to her feet on her own.

He got slowly to his as well. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t. I. . .saw a spider. It’s gone now.”

Shit. He really was an asshole. “Becca—”

“I’m . . . fine. Totally fine.”

“You said it twice.”

“So?” she asked.

“Saying it twice implies that you’re not fine at all.”

“No. Saying it twice makes it true,” she said.

Sam let it go because she was desperately trying to calm her breathing while not meeting his gaze. He watched her hand shake as she lifted it to push her hair from her face.

“Becca,” he said softly.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought him back here without asking—”

“It’s not your fault. Becca—”

“Is he really sick?” she asked, clearly not wanting to discuss her reaction.

“I have no idea, but I’m going to find out.”

She stared at him. “And if he is?”

“I’ll take care of him.”

She eyed the snowman on the floor in a thousand pieces. “My break’s over,” she said, moving to the door.

As gently as he could, he caught her by the wrist and slowly reeled her back in. Her breathing was still a little off, and her eyes were far too bright, but she met his gaze. “What?” she asked.

There were lots of
whats
going through his mind, but
he settled on one. “You’re safe here,” he said. “You know that, right?”

“Of course I know it.”

“I was just pissed off because—”

“He drives you crazy. But he’s your dad. I get it.”

He could see that she did, but they were going to have to circle back to that fascinating subject because it wasn’t what he wanted to cover right now. “You thought I was going to hurt you.”

“No,” she said. “Of course not.”

Chest tight, he bent his knees to look into her eyes as he slowly slid his hands up her arms to cup her face.

“My break’s over,” she said again.

He shook his head and pulled her into him.

She remained frozen for one beat, then relaxed against his chest, pressing her face into his throat. They stood like that for a long moment. “I didn’t think you were going to hurt me,” she said. “I just . . . you surprised me.”

“I lost my temper.” He pulled back and met her gaze. “It doesn’t happen very often, but I can lose my temper and not hurt you.”

She nodded. “I know.”

He wanted to believe that. He pulled her in again but the phone started ringing, accompanied by that stupid red light Cole had put in to be funny, and Becca backed away. “Later,” she said.

Sam tried to go back to the books, but after an hour he gave up. He pulled out his cell and called his dad. “Define liver problem.”

There was a long pause. “I don’t know medical shit.”

“Dad.” Sam rubbed his temple. “Be straight with me. For once.”

“It’s a liver problem,” he repeated.

Sam drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What’s the plan?”

“My insurance’s crap.”

Of course it was. “What’s the plan,” Sam repeated.

“I don’t know yet. I’ll fill you in when I do.” Mark paused. “Your woman’s a real catch, you know. You should hold on to her.”

“She’s not my woman, dad. She’s my employee.”

“Son, if that’s true, then you’re not as smart as I’ve always thought. She gave me a sandwich.”

“Becca gave you a sandwich.”

“Yeah, and she put chips on it. The girl’s brilliant, I tell you.”

“When did she feed you?”

“After I left your shop, I sat on the beach for a while, then wandered back to the hut. Becca asked if I needed anything, and I said not unless she had a sandwich, and she said she
did
have a sandwich, and yeah. It was amazing.”

“You realize that you probably ate
her
lunch.”

“She said she didn’t want it.”

Sam rubbed his temples again but it didn’t help. The headache was upon him. “She was just being nice,” he said. “Next time, if you’re hungry, come to me. Got it? Not her, never her.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’d give you the shirt off her back, Dad.”
And you’d take it
. . .

“She said it was okay,” Mark said stubbornly. “She said I could go see her any time I wanted.”

Sam could actually feel his blood pressure rising. Before he had a stroke, he said, “I’ve got to go.”

“You coming home soon?”

The thought of going home to his dad didn’t help the blood pressure levels one little bit. “I don’t know.”

“Can’t work the remote.”

Sam closed his eyes. “I’ll text you directions.” He disconnected and considered throwing his phone, but then he spotted the pieces of the snowman still on the floor.
Shit
. He headed out and down to the hut, telling himself it was to get a soda.

He found his newest employee working the phones, the computer—hell, everything around her—with quick order.

When she saw him watching her, she tossed him the key to the back room. “Need two kayaks for these gents,” she said, nudging her chin in the direction of two college kids waiting off to the side.

Sam caught the key but kept walking toward her until she was forced to tip her head up to meet his gaze. “You gave my dad your lunch?” he asked quietly.

Something flickered in her gaze. “Working here, Sam.”

“You gave my dad your lunch.”

“He was hungry.”

“He’s a fucking mooch, Becca.”

“He’s still your dad, Sam.”

He dropped his head and studied his feet for a moment, then lifted his head. “Are you hungry?”

“No.”

She wouldn’t tell him if she was. He knew that damn well. Her picture was in the dictionary under Stubborn.

“The kayaks,” she said, clearly not wanting to discuss this. Or anything. Not that he blamed her. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her earlier, and she’d been right the other
day when she’d told him she was a quick learner. She’d learned from him how to be emotionally unavailable.

Sam watched the clock and tried to catch Becca after work, but he got caught handling the boat with Cole because Tanner had a previous commitment. By the time they finished mooring it, the hut was closed up and Becca was gone.

No strains of a haunting piano came from her windows, and she didn’t answer her door. With no reason to stand there in the hallway and wait for her like a stalker, he went back to his shop to work. He had the table saw on when a sound penetrated.

A piano?

He snapped off the saw and the music, and lifted his head.

Nothing.

He was losing it. He went back to work, but five minutes later he hit the switch again when he was sure he heard a piano.

It stopped immediately.

And then he got it. She was only playing when she thought he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, hear her. Goddamn it. Dropping everything, he strode out the door. Night had long ago fallen. He had no idea what time it was. Late.

Becca’s place was dark, but he was on to her now. He moved across the alley and knocked. She didn’t answer, but he’d expected that. He pulled out his phone and called her.

No answer.

He texted:
Open your door
.

Her response was immediate:
Not home
.

Bullshit. He could
feel
her. He didn’t care how crazy that made him, it was true. He knocked again, just once, softly. “Not going away, Becca.”

There was a huge hesitation from the other side of that door; he could feel that, too.

Then it slowly swung open.

Becca had answered the door against her better judgment, and at the sight of Sam standing there, a little bit edgy and a whole lot hot, she cursed herself for being weak. “You should be at home with your dad,” she said, and started to close the door.

He caught it and held it open. “I have questions,” he said.

“I’m busy.”

He looked around at the apartment. “Doing. . .?”

“Writing a jingle. A very important one.” She crossed her arms. She’d admit she was writing for a line of feminine products . . . never.

“I’ll start with an easy one,” he said, apparently not caring. “Ben told me he saw a Snapchat of you teaching at the rec center.”

“Snapchat?”

“It’s an app where you send a picture, but whoever you sent it to can only see it for a few seconds—”

“I know what Snapchat is,” she said. “What was I doing on it?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

She stared at him. “One of the kids,” she muttered. “My money’s on Pink.”

“So it’s true?” he asked. “You’re teaching music to kids?”

“Apparently.”

He took that in for a moment and nodded. “It suits you. Moving on to the next question.”

She leaned on the doorjamb, all casual-like, as if she wasn’t aching at the sight of him so at ease in his own skin—which, by the way, was dusted with wood shavings. “You miss the I’m-busy part?” she asked.

His eyes softened. Warmed. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Her knees wobbled. Stupid knees. “No, you won’t,” she said. “You’ve gone all prim and proper and stodgy on me.”

“Stodgy?”

She shrugged.

He stared at her, then let out a sound that might have been a laugh as he hauled her in close and personal, and kissed her right there in the doorway. It was a really great kiss, too, all slow and long and deep and hot.

Finally, when she was good and speechless, he pulled back and looked into her eyes. “Why do you play the piano when you think I can’t hear you?” he asked.

Still not the question she expected, but not exactly one she wanted to answer, either, so she dropped her gaze from his beautiful, piercing eyes and looked at his throat. But this only reminded her that she liked to press her face
there and inhale him because he always smelled amazing, like the ocean, like the beach, like one hundred percent
yummy
man. “That’s ridiculous,” she finally said.

He put a hand on her stomach and nudged her clear of the doorway, then stepped inside her apartment.

“Hey,” she said.

He eyed the portable piano keyboard on her bed and the blankets wrinkled like she’d just been sitting right there playing—which, of course, she had.

He turned back to her, brow raised.

She crossed her arms. “I—” But she broke off because he got right in her precious space bubble. Like he’d forgotten he’d made her choose between him and the job. She’d been trying to maintain some distance, but it wasn’t easy because . . . well, because she still wanted him, damn it. And she especially couldn’t maintain any distance with the taste of him still on her tongue.

Then he cupped her face and made her look at him, and she couldn’t remember her name much less why she didn’t want him to cup her face like she was the most precious thing in his life.

As if.

“Why do you play the piano only when you think I’m not listening?” he asked again, his eyes unwavering, telling her that her answer really meant something to him.

She closed her eyes.

He merely shifted closer. “And why,” he whispered against her lips, “are you giving me attitude when you used to give me sweet, like maybe you
want
to piss me off so I’ll go away and leave you alone.”

“Because I want you to go away and leave me alone,” she whispered back.

“Because you don’t want to talk about things,” he said, calling her on it. Didn’t he know that wasn’t the polite thing to do? The polite thing to do was let her hide, damn it.