Somebody's Ex (3 page)

Could they?

* * * * *

“But David, everything’s starting
to get better now. We feel like a family again. Why do you have to leave?”

David winced at the pain in his
mother’s voice, etched into the lines on her face. But getting better? Nothing
was normal, not with Taylor and Jace getting married. Hiding his feelings about
that was getting more difficult every day.

He hated to cause his mom pain, but
a man had to do what a man had to do. “I’m not leaving the family, Mom, I’m
just working for Rich.”

“What’s wrong?”

He resisted rolling his eyes. Mom
was as bad as his dad. Making a change automatically meant something was wrong.
It pissed him off that he had to keep explaining, but his mom’s concern didn’t
deserve the anger.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

He braced himself for some of the
same irrational crap his dad had thrown at him. It never came.

Instead, his mom rose from her
chair, came around to his side of the desk, and pulled his head to her
shoulder, hugging him as if he were a kid.

“I’m sorry. Your father and I can’t
expect you to live your life our way. But with Jace settling down, I was sort
of hoping you’d find the right woman, too.”

An image of Randi Andersen’s short
skirt and tight top flashed across his mind.

He’d always been the cautious one,
always done what was expected of him. Even the women he’d dated were somehow
family-related. He’d had three serious relationships, and they’d all been with
women his family approved of: the daughter of Mom’s best friend, a friend of
his sister-in-law, the sister of a friend of Lou’s. And David would have fallen
right in with the family pattern, if he’d actually fallen in love with any of
them.

Randi seemed anything but the
homemaker type even if she was cooking him dinner tonight. He was glad of it,
too, because right now he wasn’t looking for anything serious.

“Mom, I’m getting a crick in my
neck.”

She let go, then put her hands on
his cheeks, and forced him to look up at her. “I just want my boys to be
happy.”

She wanted her family to be normal
again. They never would be. Lou’s death had changed them forever, but he
wouldn’t squash her fantasy.

“I am happy.”

He stood, patting his back pocket
where he’d stowed the paper with Randi’s phone number and address. She lived
near him out on Griswall Road, a few acres down. Now that he thought about it,
he’d seen her faded, dented truck before. He’d just never seen the driver.

“I gotta go. Dad’s expecting me by
noon.”

“You’re a good boy.” His mother
patted his cheek.

Yeah, he was a good boy. He’d
always done what was expected of him. That was constricting him, too.

Randi Andersen seemed the perfect
antidote.

* * * * *

David heard the dog bark even
before he killed the engine. Randi Andersen’s house appeared little more than a
run-down shack. There were more weeds than grass poking out of the hard-packed
earth, as if the place hadn’t seen a drop of water since the last rain back in
May. Her dented truck sat forlorn beneath a large oak as if it had been
abandoned. The porch was missing several boards. Despite the shabby exterior,
lacy curtains fluttered at the windows, and a brightly colored wind chime
tinkled in the breeze at the far end of the porch.

The house was a bit like the woman,
seemingly rough around the edges but softened on the inside. She’d thanked him
politely for everything he’d done that morning. From driving her to the gas
station, paying for the gas, taking her back, letting her use his cell phone,
and following her to the edge of town once again to make sure she made it.

He couldn’t pigeonhole the woman.

Avoiding a missing board on the
front step, he knocked on her door.

When she answered, he almost ran
for his truck.

“Hi.” She smiled with softly
pink-tinted lips.

This morning’s hot, bare-legged
woman with the uncensored mouth had morphed into June Cleaver, the
personification of the fifties housewife. Pearls circled her throat, her summer
dress poofed at the waist, and her blond hair was neatly braided. In flat
sandals, she was five inches shorter than he remembered.

“Hi.” He had little more to say,
sort of stunned by the transformation. Then he remembered the wine bottle in
his hand. “To go with dinner.”

“You didn’t have to do that. I’m
supposed to be paying you back.” With a curve of her pink lips, she opened the
door wider, took the wine, and drew him in.

Man. He felt almost guilty about
the condoms in his wallet. A guy wasn’t supposed to lust after Beaver Cleaver’s
mom.

Trying to take his mind off of
Randi’s assets, he perused the front room. The interior was as shabby as the
outside. A ratty couch dipped in the middle, its once-blue fabric sun-bleached
to gray. The coffee table, draped with a flower cloth, was the exact size of a
power line cable spool. The television looked like it had been born in the
sixties and still had rabbit ears, though one was bent in the middle. Threadbare
carpets covered hardwood floors that might have once been gorgeous, but needed
stripping and refinishing some ten years ago. The three scented candles she’d
lit couldn’t extinguish the musty, mildew odor.

She sighed heavily. He was suddenly
aware of her beside him, of her eyes seeing the same thing his did.

“Well, this is...cozy.”

She snorted softly. “Cozy,” she
murmured. “Yep, it’s cozy,” she repeated, almost to herself. Then she
brightened. “But it’s clean. I cleaned all afternoon. I haven’t done that much
cleaning in years.” She covered her mouth. “I mean, I clean once a week. But
the dog hair,” she spread her hands.

“Hey, the barking’s stopped.”

“She heard me close the door. That
means I let you in and I’m safe and she has to stop barking.” She clapped her
hands together lightly. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Pearl earrings dangled at her
lobes, and her braid swished across her shoulders as she turned. He saw the
deep cut of her dress, baring her delicate skin almost to the middle of her
back. All that bare flesh flushed comparisons to the Beave’s mom right out of
his head, and he followed her into the kitchen as if she were a siren crooning
his name.

The kitchen was little better in
the shabbiness quotient, with enamel-chipped appliances, stained Formica countertops,
and a refrigerator that chugged as if taking its next to last breath. Post-it
notes covered almost every inch of the freezer door, though he was too far away
to read the tiny scribblings. But the place sparkled as best she could make it,
and mouthwatering scents bubbled from pans on the ancient stove.

The kitchen table sported more
stained Formica, but she’d picked wildflowers and set them in the table’s
center in a jelly jar. Mismatched china and cutlery sat in two place settings,
next to each other rather than opposite.

“The table looks nice.” It was the
best he could come up with.

Randi’s house didn’t have much
going for it. Then again, with her in it, who cared?

Randi wanted to cry.

David’s gaze wandered over her
possessions with wide-eyed horror. They weren’t exactly her possessions, of
course. Most had come with the house rental. She couldn’t afford to be picky,
but she’d scrubbed and cleaned for hours and put out candles and flowers and
still...he was looking at a dump.

Worse, it smelled like a dump.

Her mother’s expression had been
tight-lipped shock and dismay. Her father had simply turned around, walked out,
and hadn’t spoken to her for three days. David Nice Guy was at least struggling
to say something...nice.

It was sweet, but she still wanted
to cry. She hadn’t even been able to find an appropriately circumspect dress.
The front was fine, but her back was naked. Though his eyes had followed the
line of her shoulder blades, she felt...unsexy. Having a man in her house—this
was her first date since the divorce over a year ago—wasn’t in the least bit
exciting or sensual. It just made her nerves act up.

No point in crying over spilt milk,
as her mother loved to say. She wouldn’t think about the bad stuff, only the
good. He was a man, he was cute, he was nice, and he was in her house. There,
four good things. She struggled to find at least five good things that happened
every day. One more, one more...ah, he filled out his jeans to perfection, back
and front.

Okay. “Let’s eat. It’s ready.” She
tipped her head. “Gee, it actually smells good, doesn’t it?”

After dishing up, Randi set the
plate in front of him, then took her own seat. The sauce was a little runnier
than her mother’s, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t taste as good.

“This is my mother’s special
Norwegian meatball recipe, straight from the old country.” Hmm, the first bite
wasn’t so good. The noodles had stuck together like they’d been glued and the
meatballs were a bit...well, completely tasteless. Had she forgotten to add
some necessary spice?

“Your parents are Norwegian?” David
cut a meatball in half, scooped up some sauce with it, and put it in his mouth.
Odd expression, that, as if he’d just eaten sawdust.

“Yeah. They came over to the
States in the sixties. I was born here.” Randi decided to go for the carrots
next. Were they supposed to be as soft as mush?

She’d forgotten the meal cooking on
the stove while she was getting ready, worrying about her hair, her dress, her
makeup.

David valiantly ate on and plied
her with polite conversation. “They don’t happen to own that Scandinavian
grocery store down on Main, do they?”

“Please, it’s not a grocery store.
Scandia Haus is a place of culinary delight.” The name wasn’t Norwegian, her
parents deciding they needed something Americans could at least pronounce, but
it still had the right flavor.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Which means you’ve never even been
in it.”

He raised both hands in surrender.
“My secret is out.”

“Well, you don’t know what you’re
missing. When I came back here after my divorce—” She stopped. Maybe she
shouldn’t mention her defunct marriage. Well, the cat was out of the bag now,
so she went on. “That was a year ago. Anyway, I set up a website for my parents
and you wouldn’t believe how the Internet business has grown. It’s practically
taken over.”

“Impressive. There must be a lot of
Scandinavians around.”

“Yeah. They used to have a store
down in L.A., but they moved up here when I went away to college. L.A. wasn’t
their kind of town. You know, I think the mountains around here remind them of
home a little bit.”

“So you work for them?”

She smiled. “I take care of all the
Internet traffic, orders, shipping, site maintenance, all that stuff.” She
rolled her eyes. “My dad freaks when he gets too close to a computer.”

“And you like doing it?”

She tipped her head. She had to
think about that one. Did she like it? Or was it a place to run to after the
divorce? A hideout. Finally, she said, “It’s fine. I don’t know what else I
want to do with my life, so it works.”

He gave a soft snort of laughter.
“I know the feeling.”

She put her chin on her hand and
gazed at him. He hadn’t eaten very much.

“So tell me about yourself.”

Something flickered across his
face, then his eyes seemed to shutter themselves. “Not much to tell. I’m a
contractor. It’s good work.”

Well, that was a lot of info. For
some reason, he didn’t want to talk about himself. Maybe she’d get him to open
up later. Randi set down her fork.

“Well, I appreciate that you tried
to eat my dinner. But the truth is, it sucks.” She shook her head. “I don’t
know what I did wrong, but whatever. You don’t have to force the slop down.”

“It’s not slop. It’s
very...interesting.” He wore the sweetest smile when he said it, but he wasn’t
a very good liar. He couldn’t look her in the eye. And
interesting
wasn’t exactly a compliment.

She laughed. In the midst of
catastrophe, the best thing one could do was laugh. “It’s total crap, but
thanks for being polite. I’m sure I’ve got something else in the refrigerator.”
She’d actually stocked up on stuff when she went shopping for the meatball
mess. No, no, she wasn’t beaten. Not yet. “Why don’t you take the wine into the
living room,” the wreck room, meant literally, “and I’ll bring out some
treats.”

He raised a brow, and she tried to
discern the suggestive nature in what she’d said. Treats, maybe?

She heard him carrying plates to
the sink as she rummaged in the refrigerator. She really needed to get out of
this dress and into something more comfortable. The skirt underlining was
scratchy, the bottom of the short sleeves were too tight, yet the shoulders
kept threatening to slip down her arms. She’d bought it a couple of years ago
for a fifties Halloween party. She’d wanted a poodle skirt, but found only this
dress.

“Need any help?”

He was right next to her, gazing
not into the cold depths, but at her. His breath played across her hair and
tickled her ear. She suddenly wasn’t cold at all.

“No, no, you sit down. It’s a
surprise.”

He blinked and his mouth quirked.

“Better than the meatball surprise,
I swear.”

“Dessert?” He glanced at her lips
as if they could pass for dessert.

She was warm all over now. “This is
something better”—she let her eyelashes fall seductively—“then dessert.” She
hadn’t made dessert. Forgotten all about it. But she’d think of something
really good when the time came. She pushed at his chest. “Now, go. I’ll be
there in a minute.”

The wineglasses chinked as he
picked them up, then his footsteps faded into the living room. Ah, she could
breathe again. Now where was the caviar? A-ha!