Dylan (18 page)

Slumping into the chair, she wondered if she should call her family. Her cousin Vito had always said family took care of family. But didn't you have to pay them back sometime? She didn't envision heading back to New Jersey and had no desire to get tangled up with owing anyone at this point in her life. She'd made it this far on her own and intended to keep going forward. Was she just being stubborn?

Too bad she'd hit a snag when she'd moved to Pleasure, Texas, and foolishly thought it was an idyllic community without crime. Imagine that. Crime was everywhere—just like back home. “And if Jolene and Emily were to be believed, the kids who did this were just bored and having themselves a time.”

Instead of doing what she'd told Dylan she needed to, her mind drifted, remembering the shock that rooted her feet to the sidewalk outside of her shop. Her beautiful shop smashed to pieces and everything inside destroyed. The sheriff hadn't arrested anyone in connection with the break-in yet, but he was of the opinion that the same person (or persons) who had shot out the sign hanging outside of the Lucky Star was responsible for vandalizing her store and then repeated the performance at the Mysts of Time, Shannon's store.

Ronnie leaned her elbows on the table on either side of her laptop and let her forehead drop into her hands. What was she going to do? “I've already cashed in my half of the divorce settlement.” The trip out West seemed to be just what she needed. She hadn't stopped until she saw a sign on the highway for Pleasure, Texas, Population 439. She'd grown up in a town with 60,000 people and couldn't even conceive of so few people in one town. “All things considered, I still think I made the right decision settling here. I like the people I've met and the sights I've seen—especially one dark-eyed, handsome hunk of cowboy.”

Shutting down her laptop, she knew she wouldn't be headed back to New Jersey unless it was to visit Nonni. Once she'd turned off the highway and drove into the town of Pleasure, she knew she was going to stay. The quaint storefronts looked like something out of one of her grandmother's favorite TV Westerns. Harrison's Feed Store and Dawson's General Store were across the street from one another and housed in two of what she'd learned were a handful of historic buildings in town. Enjoying the idea of living out West, just far enough from where she'd left her past, she drove farther and saw a building with a signpost out front advertising it was for sale.

On autopilot, she had parked her car in front of the building and got out, walking toward it as if in a trance. It was perfect: two stories with a space for her shop on the first floor and living quarters upstairs. It needed work, but Ronnie knew in that moment that she was destined to end her journey in Pleasure, which sparked the name of the lingerie and perfume shop she intended to open: Guilty Pleasures. Maybe it would be harder to make her business work out here in the middle of a ranching community, but she would add an online store and she was willing to work hard to make her dream a reality.

The sound of hammering broke through her thoughts. Since she wasn't getting any paperwork done, it was time to start cooking, even if she wasn't certain she'd be able to continue with their bartering agreement. She needed to come up with a way to earn money fast, or her dream of owning her own business and flourishing out West was going to evaporate under the brutally hot Texas sun.

Cooking helped her mind sort through her troubles. She grabbed her frying pan and set it on the stovetop. Opening the cabinet, she found the Italian flavored bread crumbs, canola oil, and cooking sherry. Setting everything out on the counter, she opened the fridge and pulled out two eggs and the chicken breasts she'd bought earlier in the day.

Knife in hand, she started to debone the chicken.

***

Dylan's gut clenched with need, but he strove to ignore it as the vision that greeted him just a short while ago replayed in his aching head. He hadn't slept much, troubled with dreams that didn't make sense. Well, part of his dreams made sense—the ones where he'd emptied himself into the brunette currently driving him crazy—but the other part was actually what had given him the ache at the back of his skull and between his eyes.

He'd dreamt of a man, a tall man with a build a lot like his own, but the face wasn't Dylan's face. It was similar, but more like their grandfather's. The man had lifted a young boy up off the ground and tossed him in the air, catching him at the last moment, thrilling the boy. In that moment, Dylan had felt that thrill right down to his toes and knew he was that boy.

Then the man turned to the other little boy and did the same with him. Dylan's heart nearly broke all over again as the man turned and set the boy on his feet and turned toward a woman holding the youngest of the three boys. She was his mother, and the man in the khaki-colored uniform was his father. He'd left that day to go on a peacekeeping mission in Beirut.

He didn't really remember, but he did remember his mother telling Dylan and his brothers that they should be proud of their daddy. He was a Marine. Three weeks later, their lives shattered when his mother's worst fear became reality and a dark sedan pulled up to the ranch house and two Marines came to their door with a letter.

His mother held the letter to her breast but didn't open it. The two officers saluted her as tears pooled in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. His father was one of the 220 Marines killed when their barracks exploded, the act of a suicide bomber that, to date, was the largest single-day loss in the Marine Corps since the Battle of Iwo Jima during WWII.

Their lives had irrevocably changed with that single act of terrorism. Their mother had gone on with their lives because she had three reasons to—five-year-old Tyler, four-year-old Dylan, and her youngest, Jesse, just two years old—but she'd never really recovered from the loss of the man she'd loved her entire life.

Dylan blinked and reality painfully intruded as he hit his knuckles with the hammer instead of the nail. “Sonofabitch!” He set his hammer down and shook his hand; it never helped with the pain, but was something he'd been doing for as long as he could remember. His grandfather had taught them to walk it off if they'd fallen and to shake it out if they'd smashed their hands.

“That'll teach me to keep my mind on what I'm doing.” Ignoring the throbbing in his hand, he went back out to his truck and hauled the first drywall panel over to the sawhorse he'd set up on the sidewalk. He measured twice and cut once, just as his grandpa had taught him. Armed with his reconditioned drywall screw gun, he was ready to rebuild the first of four walls.

The sound of footsteps overhead soothed the rough edges that remembering his dream had left behind. It must have been working with his brothers rebuilding their father's final gift to their mother that sparked the long ago memory. He didn't like to think about what might have been if his dad hadn't been in the Corps. Everything happened for a reason, his mom used to say. Although why God in His infinite wisdom decided he and his brothers would lose both parents before they'd learned to drive was beyond him. “Probably better that way,” he mumbled as he screwed the drywall into place.

Easing back to eye up the drywall, he took a moment to check the fit before pulling the tape measure off his tool belt to check the measurement for the next sheet of drywall. Keeping his hands busy usually let his mind wander, but not when he was using power tools; the slip up with the hammer earlier was just that—a momentary slip up. He normally paid close attention to what he was doing when he was working. If he didn't, he'd have ended up like Tyler, head-butted into a barbed-wire fence, or worse, trampled by their steer. When doing carpentry work, he had to keep focused, or else he'd end up measuring wrong. As a rule, his side jobs didn't pay much, but would end up costing him to do business if he wasted time and materials.

“Frigging perfect!”

His mouth twitched as he fought to contain his smile, knowing it would only open up the split in his lip. “Wonder what's got Ronnie riled.”

The overwhelming need to see her again, after holding her in his arms as they drifted off to sleep, had him heading for the stairs.

He walked into the kitchen in time to see her stick her bloody hand underneath the faucet. His gut clenched as he reached for the roll of paper towels. His hands weren't clean, but as long as they stopped the bleeding first, they could clean it out later.

“Easy, now,” he soothed, putting pressure against the folded wad of paper towels.

Her eyes met his and he felt his gut clenching with need. They'd taken a big step forward in their relationship earlier. She'd fallen asleep in his arms, and from the look in her eyes was willing to trust him when she was injured. Surely she'd trust him with her heart soon. He struggled but managed to get his thoughts back to where they needed to be. Carefully blotting the wound on the back of her hand, he noticed the bleeding had slowed down. “I don't think you'll need stitches.”

Her sigh of relief had him looking down to meet her gaze.

“How do you know?”

“I've had a lot of hands-on experience recently. I'm sure you heard about my brother Tyler's run-in with Widowmaker.”

Ronnie nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I hadn't met your brother then but I heard about what happened from Mavis.”

He still had ahold of her hand and was reluctant to let go until he was certain he was right about the wound. “I need to take a look at the cut to see how deep it is.” She agreed and buried her face against his side. His heart stumbled in his chest, and before he could step back, he was sliding headfirst down the slippery slope into uncharted territory.

Getting a grip, he uncovered her hand. Relief speared through him. It was an impressive slice across her knuckles, but when he gently manipulated the skin around the edges, he could see that he was right; it wasn't too deep. “A couple of butterfly bandages will hold the wound closed. We just need to clean it out with soap and water first, peroxide second.”

“I don't even know what a butterfly bandage is.” Ronnie sounded lost.

He brushed the hair out of her eyes and swept the tips of his fingers across her cheekbone. “I've got some in the first-aid kit in my truck.”

“Is there a story behind why you travel with one?”

He shook his head. “My grandfather taught us to keep one on hand; you never know when you're on a job or out on the range and need one.”

“But if you're on horseback—”

“Most times we are, but we transfer the first-aid kit from one of our trucks to our saddlebags before we head out.”

“So you're kind of like a Boy Scout.”

He tilted his head back and laughed. The woman was pure delight. He was the one who'd found her and was keeping her. “Not hardly, but I have been known to help damsels in distress.”

She smiled until Dylan started massaging his soapy hands over hers and then some soap went in the cut. She sucked in a breath and held it. “It only hurts for a little bit.” He blew across the cut hoping to ease the pain and distract her. When she looked up at him, he gave into need and pressed his lips to the tip of her nose.

“Thanks.” She looked down at her hand and the blood beginning to ooze out from the wound. “Are you sure about not needing stitches?”

He nodded. “Where's the peroxide?”

“In the bathroom.”

He ripped off another bunch of paper towels and folded them neatly, holding them against her knuckles. “Wait here. I'll go and grab the bandages from my car and the peroxide from your bathroom.”

“OK.”

He ran down the stairs and sprinted out to his truck. He wasn't worried that she'd lose too much blood, but he didn't like the thought of her being alone and injured. He took the steps up two at a time and found her standing at the sink pouring the peroxide over her hand.

“I thought I told you to wait here.”

She looked over her shoulder. “I'm still here.”

He narrowed his eyes and frowned down at her. “You went to the bathroom.”

She grinned. “I had to pee.”

He shook his head. “You were supposed to stay put.”

She laughed at him. “DelVecchio women don't like to be told what to do. You'd best realize that now.”

He nodded. “Got it.” When she set the bottle on the counter, he blotted it dry so the bandage would hold. “This won't hurt.” Dylan carefully squeezed a thin line of antibiotic ointment on the cut—too much and the bandage wouldn't hold. Careful not to hurt her, he fastened the butterfly on one side of the wound and pulled it closed, pressing the bandage to the other side of the cut.

“Don't get it wet.”

“Yes, doctor.”

Their eyes met, and he saw the moment her guard slipped and hunger filled her gaze. It was torture, but he tamped down on the overpowering need he had to sweep this woman into his arms and take… just take, until they were both limp and satisfied. He could make his move, and he could have her, but he knew now wasn't the time. They'd already talked about it earlier and had reached an agreement of sorts. He might have more instant gratification, but would lose in the long run. Right now, he needed focus so he could work toward a future with Veronica DelVecchio. Quirks and all, she was the woman he needed.

But if it wasn't soon, he'd didn't think he'd be able to control the greedy need he had for her. It would be raw and primitive, and he didn't want their first time together to be their only time. He knew one taste wouldn't be enough.

Closing the cage on the beast inside of him, he drew back and breathed deeply. The scent in the kitchen enveloped him. “Whatever you're cooking smells amazing.”

She smiled up at him. “It's just breaded chicken, but I thought you might enjoy it.”

He walked over to the pan and looked down at it. “Where's the bread?”