Sweet Surprise (8 page)

“This . . .” He pointed to himself. “Is me being serious. How about you tell me what you’ve got planned here, so we can get to work. The sooner we get things done, the sooner you can open your shop.”

“I am
not
paying you in cupcakes. There’s too much to do, and I’d never be able to fulfill my debt.”

“No worries. We’ll figure out payment later.”

As they’d done before, her eyes searched his face. He appreciated that she was cautious. The careful consideration gave them something in common. And while he knew what caused him to be on guard, he had to wonder what had happened to put her in that same rickety boat.

“So you’re agreeing to let me pay you?”

“I’m agreeing to whatever it is that will let me get to work,” he said. But what he meant was, he’d agree to whatever was necessary so he could be done and gone. The faster he got away from her, the better.

His sanity depended on it.

Chapter 5

T
he hours crawled by as they worked side by side. Mainly because Fiona had a hard time keeping her mind on her project. Each time she dipped her roller in the paint and lifted it to the wall, she’d tell herself “Stroke. Stroke. Stroke.”

A litany that led to less than appropriate thoughts.

And then, without any effort at all, her eyes would inadvertently find Mike bent over a sheet of wood with the white cotton T-shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders and flexed biceps, and his 501’s cupping his perfectly divine posterior. For most of the afternoon, her body hummed with awareness louder than his damned miter saw.

As if she’d called his name, he looked up, and their eyes met. For a long, hot moment, they stayed connected, and Fiona could feel the impact of his dark allure down from her head to her toes and all parts in between.

Because she couldn’t take the heat, she got out of the kitchen and into her rental car. Picking up Izzy from day care was not only a necessity; it was a necessary diversion. It was also a cowardly exit, but Fiona didn’t care. Maintaining sanity for the duration of their working together was vital. And she could hardly accomplish that feat if she were drooling like a St. Bernard.

When she returned about an hour later after chatting some more with Andi, she’d expected Mike to be long gone. But he was still there. Still nailing stuff together. Still looking hotter than a man had a right to.

Izzy skipped inside the shop as Fiona dropped her keys in her purse. “I thought you’d be gone.”

He looked up, pushed the protective glasses up on his head, and set down his electric drill. “Wishful thinking?”

“Not at all,” she lied, tossing her bag on the counter. “It’s your day off from the fire station. Don’t you have a date or something fun you want to do?”

“No date. And believe it or not, this is relaxing for me.”

Izzy worked her way through the cans of paint and construction paraphernalia. “Hi, Mike.”

“Hey, Isabella.” He pulled off his work gloves, knelt down, and held out his hand. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Izzy’s little hand disappeared inside Mike’s big grasp, but Fiona could tell his grip was gentle when Izzy giggled.

“Know what?” Izzy asked in an excited voice.

“What?”

“I gots new shoes,” Izzy told Mike, then did a little dance to show off her black-and-pink polka-dotted sneakers.

“Those are very nice.”

“Know what else?” An infectious grin brightened Izzy’s face.

Mike grinned back. “What?”

“I want a puppy.”

“Izzy.” Fiona used a warning tone that was cut short when Mike looked up at her. His expressive eyes practically begged her to take a step back and let Izzy talk.

Fiona didn’t mind admitting her surprise that Mike seemed so at ease with a little kid. For the most part, when he wasn’t looking tough and sexy as hell, he appeared pretty easygoing. You couldn’t fake it with kids. You either liked them or you didn’t. And it showed. Mike’s complete ease with her four-year-old put yet another X in his good-guy column.

“What kind of puppy do you want?” Mike remained crouched down to her daughter’s height.

“A cute one!”

He tipped his head back and laughed. “And what color puppy do you want? A black one? A brown one? A white one?”

Izzy’s hands went up like she was leading a cheer. “Brown an white wif liddle white boots.”

“That’s very specific.”

Izzy’s eyes widened. “I been dweaming for a long, long time.”

Fiona crossed her arms and smirked while she watched her daughter reel in the big, bad fireman like he was a little fish on a big hook. No matter how dramatic Izzy got in her expressive desire of wanting a puppy, or any number of issues that sidetracked her—like how chocolate cupcakes were her favorite, or how her goldfish Bubbles got lonesome for his mommy and they had to flush him down the toilet so he could go back to the sea to find her—Mike listened. And smiled. And seemed like he could go on listening to Izzy ramble for a really long time.

Fiona knew from experience that her daughter could ramble until your ears practically bled. Not that Fiona minded. And then she remembered what he’d said about having five sisters. Whether they were younger or older, he was probably used to listening to them chatter on and on. It was what girls did. It was also obvious he had a lot of patience when it came to the so-called fairer sex.

When it appeared Izzy ran out of steam–or stories–Fiona recognized the tired-and-hungry look in her eyes. They’d have to wrap things up here fast, or her little girl would go into a need-sugar-now meltdown. Fiona had seen it plenty of times, and it wasn’t pretty.

“We should probably wrap it up for tonight, so you can get back to San Antonio,” she told Mike.

Across the room, he rose to his full height. “I’m in no hurry.”

“Well, I need to get Izzy fed, and her bedtime comes shortly after that, so . . .”

“I could take you both to dinner.”

“What?” No. Dinner would change everything. Working in the same small one-thousand-square-foot space was difficult and distracting enough. Sitting across from him in a restaurant would be impossible. True, she’d have Izzy to run interference, but chances were a four-year-old could only entertain the adults for a brief time. And then what would Fiona do?

Drool.

Daydream.

“Dinner?” he repeated, and one dark brow lifted as though he’d read her mind.

“Ummm. Maybe . . . another time. I have a few things I promised Abby I’d help her with tonight, and–”

“No problem.” His broad shoulders lifted, then dropped. “I just thought if you were hungry, it might be easier to grab something before you went home.”

“I wanna go to dinner, Mommy.”

Fiona stroked her hand over Izzy’s soft curls. “Not tonight, sweetie.”

“Awww.”

“And no pouting, please.”

Mike turned away to pack up his equipment, and she tried not to notice that it seemed she might have hurt his feelings.

“I really do appreciate the offer,” she said.

“Like I said. No problem.” He picked up his toolbox and slung a hooded sweatshirt over his shoulder. “I’m off again tomorrow, so I’ll be back early in the morning.”

“How early?” Heaven forbid she’d have to wake Izzy earlier than her usual time. Her daughter wasn’t exactly known for being a cooperative, early-morning riser. She fell more into the obstinate, early-morning dragger. Bless her little heart.

“Around eight o’clock?” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t sound sure.

“Then I guess that will work.”

He leaned down and patted Izzy’s shoulder. “It was nice seeing you again, Isabella.”

“You can call me Izzy.” She stood on tiptoe to be able to pat his shoulder in return.

On his way out the door, he tossed them both a cautious smile that left a cloud of gloom in his wake.

Though his words repeatedly tried to convince her that he was good with being there and giving her a hand, his mood often rang a different bell.

Again, somehow, she got the feeling she’d disappointed him.

Because she’d taken away his ability to repay Jana the debt he owed? Or did it go beyond that? Fiona didn’t know, and she shouldn’t care. It didn’t make sense.

What made even less sense was how much it bothered her that she did care.

“S
tupid ass.”

Mike threw his toolbox in the back of his truck, unhooked his tool belt, and gave it the same treatment. He climbed up into the cab of the white Silverado and slammed the door.

“Stupid, stupid ass.”

Keys were jammed into the ignition and given a hard twist. He backed out of the space in the alley behind the row of shops, thrust the gear into
DRIVE
, and took off at a speed that conveyed his frustration.

He cranked up the radio, and Travis Tritt’s “Trouble” roared through the speakers.

What the hell was he doing?

When he’d woken up this morning, the last thing he’d intended to do was let the debt to Jana percolate in the back of his mind along with the fact that she’d been so nice and made him feel so welcome. Like she was someone he could come to in a time of need. Like she was a true friend, not like some of the acquaintances he’d met along his rocky path in life.

For whatever reason, he found he wanted to please the woman. To give her what she needed. What she’d asked for. During his morning shave, he found himself laughing when he remembered some of the times Jackson, Jesse, or Reno described their mother’s way of wiggling into their subconscious just to get her own way. She’d done exactly the same thing to him. Next thing he knew, he’d gone against his own good advice and ended up on the highway headed toward Sweet.

Headed toward a woman who had trouble written all over her.

The moment he’d walked through the back door of her shop, he’d sensed impending doom as potent as the acrid scent of a toxic chemical fire.

This morning, when his eyes had opened and he’d climbed out of bed, he hadn’t imagined driving into Sweet and inserting himself into Fiona’s world.

Yet that’s what he’d done.

He hadn’t intended to talk her into letting him help her with her shop.

Yet that’s what he’d done.

And he certainly hadn’t intended to allow himself to want her as badly as he did.

Yet that’s exactly what he’d done.

Stupid ass.

He had to get ahold of himself.

Rarely had he ever let a case of the crazies take him over.

When his sister had died, he’d tried to step up and be the man his family had needed him to be. His lack of maturity and knowledge had been too great, and he’d failed. When he’d become a soldier, he’d tried to step up and be the best man for the job. Soldiers had died because he’d failed. When he’d convinced Heather that they weren’t too young at eighteen to get married and that he’d prove himself to be a good husband, he’d lacked the skills and the heart, and he failed.

His attraction to Fiona was impossible.

She was off-limits.

A forbidden desire.

His friendship and loyalty to Jackson came first. They’d shared a death fall through an inferno that could easily have killed them both. Yet they’d survived. Jackson had been burdened with guilt because he’d taken control and made a bad decision that had put them both in danger. But Mike had understood his intention. There had been possible victims inside that factory inferno, and all Jackson had on his mind was doing what he could to save them. Mike had totally been on board.

Flirting with Jackson’s ex-wife was inexcusable.

Fantasizing about her was unforgivable.

Wanting her was intolerable.

He could and would get control.

He had no choice.

Because in the end, no matter how good his intentions, he’d fail.

S
ometimes you scored good-mom points just for what you put in the oven—even if your child would have preferred chicken fingers and fries from Whataburger. Usually to score the good-mom points, that something-in-the-oven needed to be in the form of cookies or cupcakes. Tonight’s throw-together dinner consisted of a quick shepherd’s pie, which also happened to be one of Izzy’s favorites.

While Izzy busied herself playing in the bathtub with her animal-party squirties, Fiona ran interference to keep the floor from getting drenched. Between dashes for kid-and-tub-overflow check, she dragged out her laptop and set it up on the kitchen table.

Always looking for a way to cut costs, she’d discovered a program to design labels for her cupcake boxes. There were so many small things she needed to do for the shop that they tended to get lost in the mix of bigger things.

Bigger things included a superhot fireman who made her naughty self want to kick down the door of her responsible self. She couldn’t let that happen. There was too much at risk.

Even if one night in Mike’s bed would seem worth it, morning would come, and regret would sink in. She’d worked too hard to gain respect from the Wilders—who, despite the divorce, she still considered family—from friends, and also new business associates.

Most of all, she’d worked too hard to get back her self-respect.

She’d lost it there for a few years. She’d also lost her touch with reality and her ability to feel compassion. The only thing she’d felt during that dark, ugly time in her life had been animosity and self-loathing.

Had her Gma G been alive, she would have given Fiona a good shake, then pulled her into a hug. Fiona missed her hugs. Missed the woman who’d offered a home for Fiona’s wounded heart when, after her parents’ divorce, she’d become a pawn in their brutal game against each other. Gma G meant the world to Fiona. And there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d let her down again.

Not even if the woman wasn’t around to see her actions.

Fiona planned to live up to her grandmother’s expectations. She’d put together the dreams they’d discussed those many nights baking side by side in her grandmother’s tiny kitchen. She’d be a respectable mother and business owner to make her grandmother proud.

Maybe she was making assumptions that Mike would even consider a one-nighter with her, but she didn’t think so. When he thought she wasn’t looking, those dark eyes of his would take their time traveling over her body. He was a hot guy who was probably quite knowledgeable about one-night stands.

She couldn’t be one of them.

Though it would probably sizzle her socks off, a one-nighter with Mike—or any guy for that matter—would destroy everything she’d worked hard to gain. And above all, she needed to be a good example for her daughter.

The knock on her door gave her a start. A quick peek through the peephole revealed friend, not foe. On her front porch stood Abby, wiggling her fingers in a hello. Fiona laughed and opened the door.

“What are you doing here?” Fiona asked. “I figured you’d be home putting the rest of the house together before the wedding crunch kicked in.”

“I needed a break.” Abby dropped her distressed leather hobo bag on the sofa and took a good look around. “Wow. The place looks great. And you’ve put it together so fast. Especially for someone who’s been a bit busted up.”