Something to Prove Read online

  “But you don’t feel that way. I get it, Helena. You don’t need to belabor the point.”

  Damn it, damn it, damn it. “It’s not that simple—”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. “Well, this is awkward and embarrassing.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out over the water.

  “Please don’t feel that way. If anyone should feel embarrassed, it’s me, not you.”

  “Yeah. Right.” His shoulders slumped. “I should probably go—”

  “No. Please not like that.” She sat and patted the ground beside her. “Come on, sit. Let’s talk about this.”

  “Oh, I’d rather not. In fact, I’d just like to pretend it never happened.”

  “Done. It’s already forgotten.”

  He looked down at her and shook his head. “I wish it were that easy.”

  “Then just tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do it.”

  “Let me walk away with a bit of dignity, okay? I’ll see you later.”

  She didn’t really have a choice, as Tate took off and was quickly swallowed by the shadows. Oh God. Could she have made a bigger mess? She tucked her dress around her feet, wrapped her arms around her legs, balanced her chin on her knees, and sighed. A couple of tears escaped, and the wind chilled them as they slid down her cheek.

  This was all her fault, and she hated herself for it. Tate was the one person in Magnolia Beach she could count on, the one person who genuinely cared for her, and she’d latched onto that, desperate for the support and acceptance. Now she realized she’d latched on a little too tight and crossed a line. Damn.

  Tate was the last person on earth she wanted to hurt. Plus, she’d reacted badly, compounding the situation and making it worse.

  But what was she supposed to do? Lead him on? Let him think she felt something she didn’t? Take what he offered and worry about the lasting effects later—if at all?

  Friends could be excellent lovers, but there was never a guarantee that the friendship would survive. And she didn’t want to lose Tate as a friend. Not when she’d just gotten him back.

  And what about new friends? She liked Molly, and the more she was around her, the more convinced she became that Molly might like Tate. Knowing that, there was no way she could ever sleep with Tate—even if she wanted to.

  She was damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.

  The story of my whole sorry life.

  Sitting here wasn’t going to solve the mess she’d made of things, though. She pushed to her feet, grabbed her shoes, and walked back up to the road. As she brushed the sand off and slid her feet back into her shoes, she watched the kids down at their fire again. Even from here, seeing only the dark outlines of their bodies, she could recognize the teenage dating rituals—the playful shoves, the halfhearted chase, the ones standing off to the side, probably too nervous to make a move. . . .

  It doesn’t get any easier, kids.

  Dear God, she really was getting old.

  She walked back to Grannie’s, trying to figure out how she could fix this with Tate—running possible scenarios, carefully choosing words. She was so lost in her own head that she was halfway up the front walk before it registered that the lights were on inside the house and Ryan’s truck was parked in the driveway.

  She cursed, fighting the urge to just sit on the grass and pout. Ryan Tanner was the very last thing she needed right now.

  She’d been enjoying his company lately, feeling flirty and liking the attention. It had made her feel normal, less on edge, which was nice. Plus, the ideas her libido and overactive imagination kept throwing at her seemed merely crazy now instead of flat-out insane.

  But she couldn’t deal with that tonight—especially not after what happened with Tate. Hurting Tate was bad enough for one evening. Coming home to someone she shouldn’t want and couldn’t have was just salt in the wound.

  She desperately needed a drink.

  Deep breath. Chin up.

  Ryan was on all fours, installing a ramp over the threshold from the front room to the kitchen. While usually she’d appreciate that view, it just made her grumpier tonight.

  Sitting back on his haunches, Ryan seemed surprised to see her. “You’re back early.”

  She dropped her purse into a chair and kicked off her shoes. “Yeah.” She had to shimmy past him to get to the kitchen, but she needed that drink. “Excuse me.”

  The words came out sharper than intended, and Ryan’s eyebrows went up. “You’re in a bad mood. You and Tate get in a fight or something?”

  Argh. “Shut up.” Condiment bottles rattled in the fridge door as she jerked it open. She looked inside, then cursed. Why was there no alcohol in her fridge?

  “Whoa. I was just kidding.”

  “I’m not in the mood.” Oh, thank God, there was a bottle of Chardonnay in the vegetable crisper. She grabbed the corkscrew as if her life depended on it.

  “Obviously,” he said quietly. “I’m almost done here, so I’ll finish up and get out of your way.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” She sent the corkscrew in crookedly, and the cork split and broke. “Damn it!”

  “Would you like some help?”

  The need for the wine outweighed everything else. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Please. I’m a little ham-handed at the moment.”

  Ryan reached for the bottle, unscrewed the corkscrew, and examined the damage to the cork. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked casually. Too casually, actually. What was he getting at?

  “What do you mean?”

  “You come back from a date—”

  She nearly interrupted him to correct that it wasn’t a date, but it rather seemed like she was the only person who didn’t see it that way, so she kept her mouth shut.

  “And you’re upset, your hair’s a bit crazy—”

  A hand automatically went to her hair, smoothing it back into some semblance of order. “It was windy on the shore.”

  “All things that might be signs that . . .” He paused as if searching for the right words. “Signs the evening didn’t quite go as planned.”

  There was no real sense in denying it. “No, it didn’t.”

  Ryan got the cork out, poured a good-sized glass of the wine, and handed it to her. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  In a way, she did want to, just to get an outside opinion. She could call Misha, but Misha didn’t know all the backstory or Tate and the wider implications. . . . But Ryan wasn’t really the right person, either, even though he did have that background knowledge. Anyway, even with all the time they’d been spending together recently, they weren’t exactly friends. Telling Ryan something private about Tate seemed disloyal to the one person she knew was her friend—even though Tate might not be feeling too friendly toward her at the moment. She took a long drink of wine, while Ryan waited patiently for her to decide. She sighed. “Ever been caught between a rock and a hard place?”

  “Yep. It’s not fun.” He motioned toward the bottle, seeming to ask if he could have some, and she nodded. “Are you sure there’s no way out?” he asked as he poured.

  “Not without hurting someone.”

  “Including you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m hurt no matter what I do. It’s only a matter of deciding who I want to share that pain with.”

  “Well, that does suck, then.”

  “Yep. There’s no way around it, though. At least not that I can see.” She stared at her glass. “I shouldn’t have given Grannie a choice. I should have just made her come to Atlanta.”

  Ryan snorted. “I can’t imagine that would have gone over well.”

  Since just the mere suggestion had been met with a flat-out refusal by Grannie, demanding it would have been a disaster. “You’re probably right. But at least I wouldn’t be in this mess. I’m no
t sure which I’d prefer.”

  “Tate will get over it, you know,” he said quietly. She looked at him in surprise, and he shrugged. “It’s not all that hard to figure out what you’re not saying. Tate’s always had a thing for you.”

  Ryan made that statement matter-of-factly, as if this were something she was supposed to know already. She was still recovering from the fact he’d known what she wasn’t saying, so that little bombshell of info sent her mind reeling. How was that even possible? After all those years and everything they’d been through? She stared into her glass again, hoping the wine might have an answer. “Well, it’s news to me.”

  It was Ryan’s turn to look surprised. “You’re kidding. The only real question was how you felt about him.”

  “I thought we were friends. Now I have to face the fact I’ve either been leading him on for years, or else he’s been banking Nice Guy credits in the hope they would one day pay off.” She leaned against the counter, suddenly needing the extra support. “Sweet Jesus, this is a mess.”

  “Do you honestly think either of those things is true?”

  “No,” she grudgingly admitted.

  “Then give him—and yourself—a break.”

  “But—”

  “Tate’s a big boy. It can’t be the first time he’s been rejected by a woman, and while rejection stings, it doesn’t do irreparable damage.”

  “Well, since you’re so damn smart, tell me how to fix this.”

  Ryan seemed to think for a minute. “You don’t. You give him space until he gets over it.”

  “Give him space. That’s your advice?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or bemoan the ignorance of the entire male species.

  Ryan nodded.

  “What if he doesn’t get over it?” She pushed off the counter and started to pace. She had to do something or else she’d start to cry. “I’ll have lost one of my best friends. I can’t—”

  Ryan reached for her arm, stopping both her pacing and her words. Leaning close to meet her eyes directly, he spoke quietly. “He will, Helena. I promise.”

  She wanted to believe him, and she needed that promise. Ryan sounded sincere, and the warm hand on her elbow reassured her. She took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

  Ryan smiled slightly and nodded, then gave her elbow a little squeeze. She still felt guilty and bad for hurting Tate, but she was calming down now, the fear she’d done serious damage abating.

  It took another couple of seconds to realize that Ryan hadn’t released her yet, and she was more bothered by the fact she hadn’t noticed than by the fact he hadn’t. Hard on the heels of that thought came the realization she didn’t mind, and might, in fact, actually like it.

  That was a little confusing. And while she might have liked the casual flirting and spent way too much time thinking about that moment when he touched her face, she wasn’t sure now was the right time for her to try to decipher any signals Ryan might or might not be sending her way.

  That could be something more than concern and reassurance in his eyes, but it also could be wishful thinking egged on by a revved-up libido. At least she was smart enough to realize that she was a little too raw and unstable right now to distinguish simple human courtesy from something else. And while Ryan seemed convinced no one could actually die from rejection, the embarrassment of reading this moment wrong could possibly kill her.

  She stepped back, removing her arm from his grasp and putting space between them before she could screw up tonight any worse than she already had. That might have been a flash of disappointment she saw on Ryan’s face, but it was gone so quickly, she couldn’t say for sure.

  This is the safer choice. The better choice.

  “I appreciate the pep talk.”

  “Feel better?”

  “I do. Thanks. But I am suddenly exhausted and think I should just call it a night.” That wasn’t a lie—the emotional roller coaster had drained her—but it was a handy escape route out of this, too.

  He nodded toward the door ramp he’d been working on when she came in. “Give me fifteen minutes to finish this, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “No rush. Whenever’s fine.” She forced herself to walk slowly and calmly out of the room and up the stairs.

  Lying in her bed, she stared at the ceiling for ages, even long after she heard Ryan leave, trying to make sense of everything that had happened since she set foot in Alabama. The world had gone crazy around her. It was a lot to process.

  Tate—her friend, champion, and partner in crime—was carrying some kind of torch for her. It was hard to picture, and she could only hope Ryan was right and Tate would get over it.

  And Ryan . . .

  If he was sending out signals of interest, it would be very tempting to take him up on it. She wasn’t going to lie to herself and say she wasn’t interested in seeing some of those muscles up close and personal.

  Oh, good Lord, what was she even thinking? Ryan couldn’t be interested in her. He was the freakin’ mayor, for goodness’ sake. Were mayors even allowed to have casual sex?

  Argh. She pulled her pillow over her head. Nothing made sense.

  This wasn’t Magnolia Beach. It was the freakin’ Twilight Zone.

  Chapter 9

  At least he’d made up his mind.

  Choosing to make a pass at a woman shouldn’t feel like a monumental decision worthy of pride, but Ryan fully admitted these were unusual circumstances. Twice in the past few days he’d given Helena reason and opportunity to rip his head off and hand it back to him, and she hadn’t done it either time. That was definitely a promising sign.

  While that low-grade simmering attraction in his belly had been getting harder and harder to ignore, hearing Helena say she didn’t want Tate had turned that up to a boil.

  The problem, though, was that while Helena did not seem completely averse to the idea, she hadn’t exactly given him any encouragement, either. It was enough to give any smart man pause.

  But while he might be cautious, he wasn’t going to chicken out.

  If he hadn’t been so distracted by simply talking to Helena, he’d have finished working on the house days ago. Not that he minded the delays, but he only had a few piddling projects left to do, so one way or the other, he’d be finished tonight.

  His plan of action still wasn’t fully formed when he got to the house. He vaguely planned to finish up as quickly as possible, maybe sit and have a beer, and then he’d ask her to dinner or something.

  But even those few vague ideas went straight out the window when he got there, because Helena was anything but predictable.

  Usually, Helena would either be on her computer or she’d be working on something in another part of the house, and he’d see her briefly in passing. Tonight, though, he found her sitting cross-legged in the new recliner she’d bought for Ms. Louise. She wore a light yellow dress that looked more like an oversized T-shirt and had the hem tucked under her feet to create a sling for a big ball of green yarn.

  And she was knitting.

  The domesticity of it brought him to a screeching halt.

  Helena had looked up when he opened the door, and she greeted him with a smile. “Hey.” The smile faded. “Something wrong?”

  “You’re knitting.”

  “Yes.” She frowned at the yarn. “Not very well, though. I’m a little rusty.” She cut her eyes back up at him. “Is that look on your face surprise that I can knit or fear because I’m armed with pointy metal sticks?”

  “A little of both,” he confessed. “I just never pictured you as a knitter.”

  “Well, I’m full of surprises.”

  “I happen to agree.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a compliment?”

  “Since you’re currently armed and I’m not . . . yes.” When she laughed, he decided it boded well for his master plan,
and he whistled as he went to work.

  The swinging door between the kitchen and the living room was a hazard for a person using a walker and had to come down. He’d wanted to install a pocket door, but there wasn’t enough room, so he was replacing it with a pretty folding door Ms. Louise would be able to open out of the way with one hand. He felt eyes on him and looked up to see Helena sitting at the bottom of the stairs watching him. “Am I in your way?” he asked, already starting to climb down the ladder.

  “No.”

  When she didn’t elaborate, he asked, “So, are you supervising me or . . . ?”

  “Where’d you learn to do this?” she asked instead of answering.

  “Hang a door? It’s not hard. You just—”

  She waved that away. “I mean all of it. Replacing floors, tearing out walls . . .”

  “Trial and error, mostly.” He laughed as he sent another screw into the track, but Helena didn’t join in. “Wait. That was a serious question?”

  She nodded.

  “Some of it I taught myself. I did a lot of work on my parents’ house when I was growing up.”

  “With or without permission?”

  “Both, actually.” He went back to work, but since Helena seemed to expect more, he continued. “I worked for Harvey Meadows’s company on summer breaks and then full-time after college until I was ready to go out on my own about five years ago. I think I’ve worked on every building in Magnolia Beach at one time or another.”

  Helena’s head cocked to the side. “So why go study business at Auburn?”

  He grinned at her. “Mainly to figure out I’d rather do this any day.”

  “So you like it?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t do it otherwise.” After tightening the last screw, he climbed down and popped the door into place. “Why all the questions?”

  “I’m just curious.” She shrugged a shoulder. “It seems strange to go to all the hassle and expense of getting a degree like that and not use it.”

  “Well, I can say I have it. And it made my folks happy.”

  “Ah.” She nodded in understanding. “It’s their degree.”