Reckless (Blue Collar Boyfriends Book 1) (3 page)

Should she make a break for it? Try to run from the
house while the man tucked his daughter back in? If she did, where would she go? She wracked her brain for where she might live or who she might turn to for help, but no names, faces, addresses or phone numbers came to her.

She couldn’t even remember what she looked like. The mirror on the closet door offered no help. She stood right in front of it and only saw the reflections of the rumpled bed and the window behind her. She wiggled her fingers experimentally, but the reflection didn’t
so much as waver.

“Creepy.”

Looking down the line of her body, she at least knew she was slender, on the busty side and wearing a dark blue sleeveless top, white shorts and flip-flops. Fingering her hair, she could feel thick layers a little longer than shoulder-length. When she lifted the tips to the lamplight, the strands winked various shades from strawberry blonde to deep auburn. It smelled like melon.

Before she could decide what to do with herself, she heard the man say, “Goodnight, Haley-girl,” through the wall.

“Night, Daddy-man.” The sleepy reply made her smile.

The man padded toward the bedroom.

She stiffened. The impulse to hide made her grab the closet doorknob. The brass felt cool and solid in her palm, but it wouldn’t turn. Wouldn’t even wiggle.

Her heart hammered with the fear of being discovered. It might have been smart to dive under the bed at the last second, but in a panic-induced fit of optimism, she kept yanking at the closet door. It wouldn’t budge.

The man came into the room, and she froze with both hands on the knob and one foot on the doorjamb. He didn’t spare her a glance as he shuffled in her direction, stopped a pace away, and peeled off his t-shirt to toss in the hamper beside the closet.

Ah. Mystery solved. That torso was the stuff of dreams.

The man’s chest looked like molded armor covered with tawny velvet. Soft-looking hairs nestled in the cleft between his pecs made an inviting trail to the waistband of his sweats. His stomach was firm with muscle, but a healthy layer attesting to a moderate appreciation for food and drink muted the six-pack that might have doubled as a cheese grater ten years ago. He was probably in his thirties, which appealed to her. That narrowed her age down to somewhere between twenty and Cougarville.

She released her chokehold on the doorknob and stood
there stupidly, staring at the masculine perfection an arm’s reach in front of her. The man swiped a left hand with no ring on it over his stubbled jaw and yawned. He made an adorable, unselfconscious sound. His exhalation lifted a lock of her hair and smelled of earthy hops and sleep. Lightly-creased eyes looked through her to the bed, and she glimpsed some heavy burden in his gaze, something darker than the memory of a nightmare. An urge to shine a light into that darkness eclipsed her fear.

He moved toward the bed, and she had to suck in a lungful of air and flatten herself against the closet door to avoid a collision.
The fresh bite of Irish Spring soap wafted by. Her skin zinged with the nearness of a man so stunning and haunted.

He clicked off the lamp, casting the room in orang
e-tinged darkness, care of the streetlamp outside. The moment his cheek mashed into the pillow, he began breathing in the deep, regular pattern of a heavily sedated rhino.

“Now what?”

As far as dreams went, this one could use more action. The thought of crawling into bed with the attractive, single man and turning it into one of
those
dreams would have had some merit if a child hadn’t been sleeping in the next room.

For lack of anything better to do, she tiptoed to the cracked-open door, planning to snoop around the man’s house, maybe go outside and check out the neighborhood, see if anything triggered her memory. But like the closet, the door wouldn’t budge. Not even when she wedged her foot in the crack and pulled on the handle with all her might.

Her fear threatened to kick back into action, but she held it in check long enough to cross the room and try thumbing the latch on the window. It wouldn’t move.

“Okay. Not going to panic.” But her shaking hands didn’t get the memo. She was trapped in this room by some strange object stasis. Did the phenomenon only apply to means of egress?

She squared off with the baseball mitt on the dresser.

“I am going to pick you up,” she informed it. She re
ached out and grasped the soft leather. Despite its worn appearance, the supple glove wouldn’t dent under her fingers. She could feel the texture of the leather, the roughness of every stitch. When she squeezed the woven netting, the edge abraded her skin. But she couldn’t move it or change it in any way. It might as well have been a bronzed display fixed to its pedestal in the Baseball Hall of Fame. She couldn’t lift it off the dresser or even slide it a millimeter in any direction.

She couldn’t open drawers. She couldn’t leave a smudged fingerprint on the mirror. Fear slithered down her spine like trickles of ice water.

Beside the hamper, a crumpled sock collected dust. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she nudged it with her toe. It wouldn’t move. Crouching down and fighting tears, she curled her fingers in the oddly-stiff ridges of cotton and pulled with everything she had. She pulled until her shoulders creaked and the cotton cut into her hands. And still, the darn thing wouldn’t move. The world was frozen to her. Like a movie on pause. She could feel, but she couldn’t be felt.

She fell back on her butt and yelled, “Get me out of here! I want to wake up!”

The man didn’t stir. No sound came from down the hall.

Loneliness closed around her, and she desperately wished she could remember her name.

“It’s only a dream,” she told herself, but bands of despair squeezed her chest.

Time passed far too slowly for her to buy the dream theory any longer. Dreams shouldn’t be this boring. And crazy ought to be way more fun.
Which meant she’d have to consider the possibility she might be—

A quiet sob drew her attention to the bed. Eager to abandon the depressing train
of thought, she crept to the man’s side. Anxiety lined his forehead. His chest rose and fell erratically. He made soft whimpering sounds, terrified sounds.

Worried he might cry out again and wake up his daughter, she said, “Easy. Take it easy. You’re okay. You’re not alone.” She brushed her knuckles over the hair at his temple. The soft strands moved under her touch.

The knot of unease in her stomach relaxed. So did the man’s brow. He stopped whimpering.

“That’s right. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” She stroked his hair less tentatively, letting her fingers comb through to his warm scalp.
“Nothing to be afraid of.”

She kept stroking even after his dream seemed to be over, unsure who was more comforted.

The cab of Derek’s truck smelled like coconut sunscreen and French fries. Across the console, Haley bounced to the beat of some pop song on the channel he’d let her choose. She had on a purple sundress, and the laces of her swimsuit made a neon-blue bow behind her neck. Her tanned shoulders glowed from their afternoon at Shasta Lake, and she kicked her sandaled feet at a rumpled McDonald’s bag.

“Thanks for the fries,” she said as she licked salt off her fingers. “Mom won’t let me get them. If we go to McDonalds, I have to get apple slices.”

“Well, that’s okay. Apples are better for you than fries.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“But fries are okay sometimes,” he added, reaching over to ruffle her hair.

She swatted his hand away with a roll of her eyes. But she had a lopsided smile for him too.

“Want to get a movie?” he asked.

“Sure. Can it be
Tyler’s Ransom?
”

“No. I hate those teen movies. And you’re too young for them.”

“Am not. Mom let me see it with Annabel in the theater.”

He’d have to talk to Deidre about that. He’d seen the previews for
Tyler’s Ransom,
and he didn’t like the thought of Haley seeing a film where a teen-singer-turned-actress showed that much cleavage and kissed a guy with tongue. “How about
E.T.
?”

“That movie’s so old.”

“It’s not old, it’s a classic. I loved it when I was your age.”

“It’s low budget.” She tossed her ponytail in disgust. “They didn’t even have CGI back then. And classic is just another word for old.”

He shook his head. His little girl was growing up too fast. “How’s this? You can pick the movie, but I get veto power.”

“You get two
vetos.”

“I get unlimited
vetos, but I’ll throw in a bucket of popcorn.”

She puckered her mouth while she thought about it.
“And a bag of Red Vines?”

“Deal.”

Half an hour later, he pulled the extra-butter popcorn bucket from the microwave and lowered himself to the floor to curl up with Haley in front of the couch. She was too old for cartoons, she’d informed him at the video kiosk when he’d extolled the virtues of Pixar, but she wasn’t too old to cuddle with her daddy. It wouldn’t be long, though. Pretty soon she’d want to do her own thing on the weekends, and he’d be relegated to the role of chauffeur or chaperone.

Then before he knew it, the only female in his life he’d ever been able to keep his temper around would be off to college and all grown up.

“Why don’t you date anyone, Dad?” she asked.

“Why don’t you watch the previews? Someone worked really hard to put all those clips together and try to get you interested in their movie.”

She dug her elbow into his ribs. With a mouthful of popcorn, she said, “Mom says you’re in danger of becoming a crotchety old man. She thinks you need to have a girlfriend.”

Deidre dated enough for the both of them, but Haley didn’t need to know he thought so.

“I appreciate your mother’s concern, but my social life is none of her business.” He did his best to keep the ire out of his voice, but when Haley’s shoulder tensed, he worried she might have
picked up on it.

He fast-forwarded the previews and got the movie going. The upbeat
musical set in a high school that had never seen budget cuts failed to hold his attention. His mind wandered to the nightmare he’d had last night. Seeing that crash on the freeway must have done a number on him. He’d never dreamed the same thing twice in a night. Until last night. Fortunately, the second version hadn’t been as bad. He’d never forgotten it was a dream, and he’d had the strangest feeling he hadn’t been facing it alone. His arms erupted in goose bumps as he remembered what Haley had said.

Who was she?
The woman who tried to wake you up.

Had Haley seen what he’d glimpsed?
Auburn hair? Eyes so pure a blue they reminded him of the ocean when he went deep sea fishing?

Impossible.
Must have been part of the dream. Just his subconscious working out the kinks of witnessing something pretty hairy. He didn’t have to worry about it anymore. He’d had a great time with Haley today and had hardly thought about the wreck. Ancient history. Time to move on.

The movie ended, and he called bedtime. Haley tried bargaining for an extra half hour, claiming he’d eaten more than his share of the popcorn and thus owed her. He appreciated her effort, but didn’t give in.

“I’ll go to bed if you promise you’ll ask someone out this week,” she said.

“Not this again.” He got up off the floor about as gracefully as a drunken elephant. His back made a series of pops, and a rope of aggravated muscle kinked his neck on one side. “Sorry kiddo, but bedtime’s non-negotiable.” He extended a hand to her, and she popped up like one of those Whack-a-Mole things.

“I just don’t want you to be lonely,” she said, swinging his arm by their clasped hands, then letting go to pick up the popcorn bucket that now held nothing but kernels.

He followed her to the kitchen and poured her a glass of milk. “I’m not lonely,” he said as he plunked the glass on the table. “I’ve got my Haley-girl.”

She downed half the glass, then wiped her mouth on the back of her wrist. “But you only have me on the weekends. What about Monday through Friday?”

“I work hard Monday through Friday, and on Saturdays and Sundays, I like doing things with you. I don’t have time for any other woman in my life. Now go get ready for bed. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. Hiking at
Whiskeytown, then shopping for school clothes.”

“But pancakes first, right?” She drained the glass.

“Wouldn’t miss pancakes with my Haley-girl.”

Ten minutes later he found her on the futon amidst the sea of stuffed animals he kept for her. She’d wrapped herself up in the quilt his grandmother had made for him when he was a baby.

“Night, Haley-girl.” He kissed her forehead and switched off the light. “Love you.”

“Night, Daddy-man.
Love you too.” She only called him
Daddy
at bedtime now. The rest of the time it was
Dad
.

His chest tight with love, he pulled her door shut then sat down with a beer to watch
SportsCenter
on low volume. An hour later, he brushed his teeth and headed to bed.

While he ran through his nightly workout, he found hi
mself entertaining the idea of dating again. “Wouldn’t work,” he concluded, exhaling as he crunched forward in a sit-up. He wasn’t the strutting quarterback who had girls hanging all over him, anymore. And he’d married too young to get much practice at the whole bar-hopping, pick-up-line thing. He wouldn’t even know how to start talking to a woman.

He was thirty-four now.
Practically middle-aged. He didn’t have a six-pack anymore, even though he did sit-ups every night. His knees creaked when he did squats. Hell, sitting on the floor with Haley for two hours had nearly crippled him.

He was a classic.

And he was a dad. He didn’t need any more than that out of life.

Besides, he didn’t think he could take the failure of losing another woman because of his quick temper. Better to focus on his daughter and his day job and steer clear of that whole relationship mess.

* * * *

She had to be dead. There were too many checks in the column to keep denying it.

After spending the night on the edge of the man’s mattress, soothing him through his nightmares, she’d found herself back in the fog. Interminable hours later, it still held her prisoner.

She could move her limbs, but had nothing to move against, no foundation,
no gravity.

She didn’t know whether the person she’d been had believed in heaven or hell, but the fact that this disorienting nothingness clearly wasn’t heaven felt like a betrayal.

“Was I that bad?” she asked the fog. It didn’t answer. “Do you hear me? Anyone? Please!”

Frustration and desperation were her only companions.

“I hate this!” she yelled. The fog swallowed her protest without so much as an echo.

She felt abandoned.
Worse than alone. A lonely person at least had a sense of self. She didn’t even have that.

But she’d had the blond man for company, even if just for a night. And she’d had the feeling he’d needed her. Maybe she had some kind of weird commission to comfort people having nightmares, and if she did a good enough job, she could earn her way into heaven. Since that hope stood between her and despair, she clung to it like a lifeline.

Suddenly, the fog thinned. A solid surface came up to meet her feet, and the last of the smoky wisps parted to reveal the man’s room. She was back in her corner.

“Oh, thank God!” She fell to her hands and knees in relief. Being somewhere, anywhere, beat that nothingness. But she had to admit, this room made her feel safe.

As she regained her composure, she noticed the man doing push-ups between the foot of the bed and the dresser, in nothing but a pair of tight, black boxer briefs.

His toes braced on the floor mere inches from her hands. Directly in front of her, his calves and thighs made a long, muscular line to a cotton-hugged rear end. His tanned back flared from a narrow waist to broad, muscular shoulders. Powerful arms bunched deliciously as he pumped the plank of his body up and down. The hair at the nape of his neck curled with perspiration. She had an urge to plant her nose in that moist hair and draw in his scent of Irish Spring soap and summer sunshine.

Virile, masculine flesh filled her vision, and the rhythmic rush of heavy breathing bathed her ears with a sound of life so welcome after the deathly silence of the fog. After hours of sensory deprivation, she greedily feasted her senses.

Before she could think better of it, she extended her hand toward the man’s right foot and stroked a finger down his sole, tracing the arch from heel to ball. His skin was warm and taut, slightly pink, and toughened with every step he’d ever taken. The touch sent a thrill of connection through her while at the same time she cringed back, fearing his response.

He gave no sign he’d felt anything.

Disappointment settled in her belly. Some sort of reaction would have been nice.

She thought about attempting something more insistent, like a pinch, but the man finished his push-ups and got to his feet. He moved out of reach and bent at the waist to stretch his hamstrings. On one hand, being dead sucked. On the other hand, if she got to drool over buns like that as part of her afterlife, she supposed she could make peace with it.

She gave herself a mental shake. This man needed her help. That had to be why she was here.
Therefore she should not be staring at his behind and wondering if it felt as firm as it looked.

Focus, girlie.
Moving on is the name of the game. You don’t want to go back to the fog, do
you?

With a renewed sense of purpose, she watched the man roll his head on his shoulders, stretching his corded neck. Cautiously, she approached him.

“Why you?” she wondered out loud.

Predictably, he didn’t answer. He just kept stretching that
lickable body.

A thought struck her with sobering force. Maybe they’d known each other. She doubted they’d been married, since neither of them wore a wedding band and this sparsely-decorated, singly-occupied room paired with the little girl next door screamed
divorced dad
. Ex-wife was a possibility. But wouldn’t that make her Haley’s mom? While she liked the little girl, she didn’t feel maternal toward her. Not to mention, Haley showed no signs of recent trauma, like losing a parent.

Maybe she’d been dating the man. If so, that explained the way her body heated at the sight of him. And it explained why he’d looked so somber last night.

But he didn’t seem overly upset tonight. He had a hard look to him, like he could summon anger with little effort, but he no longer appeared troubled. A pulse of hurt tugged on her stomach. Was it too much to ask for two days’ grief?

She fisted her hands on her hips. “Either you’re a heartless jerk or we didn’t know each other very well.” Without warning, he pulled on one elbow to stretch his shoulder and she had to duck his loose fist. “Hey! Watch it!”

He didn’t acknowledge her.

She folded her arms over her chest and
huffed a lock of hair out of her eyes. If not for Haley in the next room, she might throw caution to the wind and try in earnest to make herself known. The thought of taking such a risk sent wonderful, naughty tingles through her.

She refused to be so selfish. Someone or something had put her here to help this man, and if she did a good job, she might not have to go back to the fog.
Patience
. If she paid attention, maybe she’d learn what she needed to do.

The man finished his stretches, used his discarded t-shirt to dab his neck and under his arms, and swiped a hand over the switch on the wall to cast the room into orangey darkness.