Something to Prove Page 16

  “See, I didn’t find that one as helpful. My mother made it clear she never wanted me to begin with, and we’re certainly not in contact now, so I had to work out my mommy issues differently.”

  “Trust issues?”

  “And anger. And doubting my own self-worth. I got the trifecta.”

  “Your mom sounds like a real gem.”

  “It’s been fifteen years since I’ve seen her. I think I’m safely over it.”

  “That’s why I like the Happiness book better. Demons makes too many assumptions and tries to spread out the responsibility.” Handing Helena the screwdriver, she added, “You should really read Loving Yourself When Others Won’t.”

  “That sounds like porn.”

  Molly blinked but then nodded. “You know, in a way, it is exactly that—self-help porn. It tells you all the things you need to hear to help yourself feel better. It’s what you read when you’ve read all the other books and are convinced you’re just too screwed up to be fixed.”

  “Ah, that was when I started therapy and Prozac.”

  Molly sighed. “God bless Prozac. Better mental health through chemistry.”

  “Amen. But now that I’m off it, why do you think I need so much caffeine?”

  Molly gave her a look. “And why do you think I opened my own coffee shop?”

  The absurdity of this conversation seemed to hit them both at the same time, and they burst into laughter. The curtain fell as Helena collapsed against the wall, tears rolling down her cheeks. Molly leaned against the dresser, holding her ribs and gasping for air.

  It took Helena a few minutes to find enough breath to speak. “Oh my God. We are so messed up. You’re like my soul twin.”

  “I know.” Molly fanned her face and coughed as she calmed down. “It’s so refreshing. I love this town, but I swear everyone seems so mentally healthy, it’s just downright weird.”

  “Oh, trust me, they’re not. Scrape away the Mayberry frosting and you’ll find Magnolia Beach is a nutty fruitcake underneath. And it’s not the cute, small-town eccentrics you see on those made-for-TV movies, either. I could tell you tales of dysfunction that would make you feel like the poster child of good mental health. We just don’t talk about them in public.”

  “Interesting.” Molly smiled at her. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I kinda wish Ms. Louise weren’t healing so quickly. I’m going to miss you when you go back to Atlanta.”

  “I’m going to miss you, too. But I have a futon in my office that’s yours anytime.”

  “I’ve never been to Atlanta. Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  “You’d better.”

  Molly grabbed the curtain rod at her feet. “Come on. Let’s try this again.”

  They hung the curtains up this time without incident. Helena stepped back to admire their handiwork, when she heard the screen door open and someone knock before coming in.

  “Anybody home?”

  “Tate?” Helena looked and saw him standing in the front room. Thank God. She’d sent him a text yesterday asking him to call or come by so they could talk, but he hadn’t responded. Unfortunately, she still wasn’t sure what to say. “I wasn’t sure you’d still come.”

  “I said I’d be here to help. So, here I am.”

  “I know, but . . .” This was much more important than the house. She moved farther into the room and lowered her voice. “Can we talk?”

  He shook his head. “No need, sweetcheeks.”

  “Can I apologize, then?”

  “What for? If anything, I should apologize to you.”

  “Not for that. Never that. But I do want to fix this somehow.”

  “There’s nothing to fix. I’m over it. We’re good. We go on like it didn’t happen.”

  She wished it could be that simple. And while Tate was talking a good game, she wasn’t necessarily buying it. But what could she do? Force him into awkward conversations that only rubbed his nose in it? “Are you sure?”

  “One hundred percent.” When he smiled at her, she felt better. That wasn’t a “one hundred percent fine” smile, but it was definitely in the “fifty percent fine” range. Maybe the other fifty percent would come with time. She wrapped her arms around him, and he returned the squeeze.

  “Um, sorry.” She heard Molly behind her. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Hey, Molly.” Tate kissed the top of her head and let her go. “You’re not. I just brought my big manly muscles over to help this poor little weak lady move heavy things.” He struck a pose, flexing his biceps—which weren’t too shabby, Helena noted, sneaking a peek at Molly to see if she was checking them out, too. She couldn’t quite tell if she was or not.

  She poked him. “Then get your butt upstairs and grab the headboard. I’ll be up in a second.”

  “Oh, yes ma’am,” Tate said, his voice husky and filled with innuendo. Molly laughed, and Helena’s mouth fell open as she realized what she’d said.

  Maybe they’d be all right after all.

  * * *

  Midway through the third quarter of the Auburn game, Ryan’s doorbell rang. He debated not answering it. He’d ignored several phone calls today already and found it immensely satisfying, so ignoring the door should be even more so. Plus, Auburn had just gotten hold of the ball on their own fifteen-yard line. . . .

  The bell rang again, followed by a rather insistent knock.

  He paused the game and went to the door. There’d better be blood. Or fire. Or a hurricane on the way.

  Instead, he found Helena. Which, depending on why she was here, could easily equal the catastrophe of all three.

  “You left a screwdriver at the house the other day,” she said by way of explanation. “I thought you might need it.”

  He took it. “Thanks. You didn’t have to make a special trip.”

  She shrugged. “Well, we have some unfinished business, too, so . . .”

  “I think you made yourself pretty clear the other night. So we’re all good.”

  Helena’s eyebrows pulled together. “I meant the money.” She reached into her back pocket and produced a checkbook. “I never got around to paying you the other night.”

  “Oh.” Now he felt like a fool. “There’s no rush.”

  “Well, I’d like to take care of the bill now, if that’s okay. I don’t like owing people.”

  “Fine.” He opened the door wider to let her inside.

  She looked around as she came inside, far more intently than what would normally be expected. He looked around as well, not sure what had her so curious. It was a basic house, probably exactly what would be expected from a single male living alone—recliner, big-screen TV with the cheerleaders frozen midjump, the room tidy enough not to be embarrassing, but not immaculate, either.

  Tank came off his pillow to greet her. Tank didn’t like most people, but he’d taken a liking to Helena pretty quickly. “Cute shirt,” she said, giving him a pat.

  Tank was wearing the Auburn jersey his mother had made. “Game attire. Plus, it’s a little chilly tonight, and he gets cold easily.”

  “I didn’t realize there was a game tonight. Do you want me to come back later?”

  Really not. “This is fine. This is yesterday’s game. I recorded it.”

  “What’s the score?”

  “Fourteen to six, Auburn.”

  “Go, Tigers. Okay, I’ll make this quick.” She perched on the edge of his sofa, pen poised over the checkbook. Tank jumped up beside her. “I can’t thank you enough. I realize you probably don’t need references or testimonials for your business around here, but if you ever do, I’d be happy to tell folks how good you are.” She snorted. “I’ll leave it to you to decide if my recommendation would be a positive in the long run or not.”

  He leaned against the chair. “I’m glad I was able t
o satisfy you.” That came out slightly double entendre-ish, which he hadn’t intended, but when Helena tensed up a fraction, he wasn’t sorry that it had.

  She shot him a look out of the corner of her eye, then went back to writing. There might have been a small twitching of her lips. “Oh, I’m more than satisfied.”

  “Glad to hear it. I thought you were, but it’s hard to tell sometimes, you know.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” She cleared her throat and scribbled a signature before ripping off the check and setting it on the coffee table. Then she stood. “I know there were some unexpected things that came up, so if this doesn’t cover it all, just let me know.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But I do. I’m not that good in bed.” As he choked, she leveled a wicked look at him, and he almost regretted teasing her in the first place. He’d forgotten whom he was dealing with. Helena’s look clearly put the ball in his hands, and he had to decide whether to play or punt.

  Well, he might be foolish, but he wasn’t a coward. “I didn’t realize you were willing to work this out in trade. You should have brought that up during the initial negotiations.”

  To his surprise, Helena laughed at his crudeness. “I’ll remember that next time. But for now, we’ll just stick to money. Thanks to your ‘friends and family’ discount, I’m still under my budget,” she finished with a grin. Then she stood and put the checkbook back in her pocket. “I guess I’ll go and let you get back to the game.”

  Wait a minute. This was all just a little too odd. Helena moved toward the door, and he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “Why are you here, Helena?”

  “I told you. To return your screwdriver and pay the bill.”

  “Neither of which require you to come by my house at eight o’clock on a Sunday night. You could have brought them to the office tomorrow morning, or just left them on my porch. . . .”

  “That sounds like a good way to get your stuff and your check stolen.”

  That was a lame excuse. “In Magnolia Beach? Really? You know better.”

  “You’re right.” She shrugged. “I guess I’ve just been away too long and forgot that would work.”

  “No other reason?” It might be just hopeful thinking on his part, but he didn’t think it was.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He stepped aside and extended a hand toward the door. “Then I guess you should go.”

  “I will. Good night, Ryan.” She took a step, then turned to face him and crossed her arms over her chest. “Look, I give up. Why are you mad at me?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” He tossed her words back at her, earning him a frown.

  “When I asked you to leave the other night, it was because I didn’t want the whole damn town knowing my business.”

  “And I thought you just didn’t want Tate to know.”

  “I don’t. But it also wasn’t personal. There’s no need for you to be all bent out of shape over it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Could’ve fooled me. If you weren’t, you would have come by and picked up that screwdriver sometime in the last couple of days.”

  “I have lots of screwdrivers. I didn’t even know it was missing.”

  “Oh.” Her mouth twisted. “My mistake, then.”

  This was confusing, yet somehow he still thought he wasn’t completely off base in his hope that she was here for something else. “Did you want me to drop by?”

  “I expected you to come get your screwdriver, but when you didn’t, I thought your feelings might be hurt.” She lifted her chin. “I’m glad to know they’re not. So we’re good, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Oddly, though her words were brisk, her feet weren’t moving toward the door, solidifying his hopeful thoughts. But since she wasn’t saying anything, he didn’t quite know what to do or say next. He wouldn’t have thought Helena was one to hesitate or second-guess herself—and Lord knew she wasn’t one to mince her words—so, this weird, uncomfortable standoff had him at a loss. He guessed he could ask her to stay. The worst she could do was say no. And then he’d know for sure. “Want a beer?”

  “You’re watching the game. . . .”

  “I told you. It’s taped.”

  “Then yes, I’d like a beer. If it’s not any trouble.”

  He went to the kitchen and returned with her drink to find her leaning against the back of the couch. He joined her there, copying her pose. The mirror on that wall reflected Helena and the TV behind her. It was a little less awkward to talk to her reflection. “Slow night?”

  “I’m a little bored of my own company today, tired of working, sick of dealing with the house, but Tate’s in Mobile at his sister’s and Molly’s at her book club meeting. . . . So, yeah.”

  “So I’m third on your list?”

  “Don’t get offended now. I thought you were pissed at me, remember?”

  “Hardly. I wouldn’t have dared believe I ranked so high.”

  Helena’s mouth twitched, but she covered it by taking a drink. “Amazingly enough, I’ve enjoyed your company.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Are you surprised?” she asked.

  “That you’ve enjoyed my company or that I’ve enjoyed yours?”

  She chuckled. “Either. Both.”

  He had to consider that. “Strangely enough, not really.”

  “Well, I am,” she muttered.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  She turned to look at him. “No, thank you.”

  Carefully, slowly, he set his beer down. This could be a mistake. This could be a trap. But the alternative was continuing to stand here like two awkward wallflowers at the junior prom.

  He held his hand out for her drink.

  There was a moment’s hesitation, but Helena gave it to him. He set it next to his, then turned to face her. “Well?”

  * * *

  That was a loaded question with a very obvious answer, and Helena nearly bolted for the door.

  She hadn’t really planned for this.

  Actually, that was a bit of a lie. She hadn’t planned on this exactly, but she had hedged her bet by shaving her legs once she’d decided to deliver Ryan’s check in person tonight.

  Just in case.

  Why was this so awkward? He was an adult; she was an adult. They’d had toe-curling, sweaty, athletic sex just a couple of nights ago. It wasn’t out of the realm of reason to want it to happen again.

  Since she wasn’t exactly the shy, retiring type, the fact she wasn’t being up-front and direct with what she wanted really bugged her. No wonder Ryan wasn’t making any bold moves. In his place, she’d be looking for the bear trap she was about to step in, too.

  Well, she could either stand here like a fool, hoping, or she could just make the move. Ryan had come more than halfway; she could close the distance.

  She pushed off the couch slowly, closing the space between their bodies. Ryan sucked in his breath. She could feel the heat from his skin, see the pulse in his neck jump to double speed.

  And, damn, he smelled good—like soap and clean laundry and sunshine and . . . Ryan. She let her hand rest on his chest, enjoying the way the muscle leapt under her palm, then tightened her hand, fisting the fabric of his shirt to give herself an anchor.

  Because if memory served, she was going to need it.

  Ryan’s kiss was hot and hungry, enough to make her knees wobble, yet unhurried, like he had no place he’d rather be. One hand threaded through her hair, his fingers gently massaging her scalp, supporting her without the feeling he was holding her in place. There was a freedom implied there, one that allowed her to break away without resistance at any time, but there was no mistaking that he wanted her, either.

  Damn.

  The kiss worked magic on her body, awakening every nerve en
ding and priming them for his touch. And when his hands did begin to wander, they left a sizzling path in their wake.

  She wanted so much more, attacking the buttons on her shirt until she could shrug it off and stepping out of her shoes. Ryan paused long enough to pull his shirt up and off, then slowed down to trail his hand from her chin to her navel with a deep, appreciative sigh.

  A slow sexy smile made her want to climb him like a tree, but she grabbed the hand he offered instead and followed him down a short hallway.

  Ryan’s bedroom was as masculine as his living room—neutral colors, clean lines, and no frills, bordering on minimalistic—but organized and tidy. Definitely a bachelor’s house, but a grown-up one with real furniture and some sense of decor beyond neon beer signs and dirty laundry.

  It suited him nicely.

  More importantly, it had a bed. A king-sized bed, with high-thread-count sheets that felt almost as amazing against her back as Ryan did against her front. The slatted headboard gave her something to hold on to as he peeled her jeans off and began a careful, thorough exploration of her erogenous zones that left her keening in pleasure and moist with sweat.

  But it was the incoherent mumble in her ear and the kiss pressed against her forehead when she finally collapsed atop him and they both fought for breath that struck the deepest chord in her, forging an intimacy that seemed far deeper than the sex itself.

  It was certainly worrisome, and that worry must have shown on her face. “You okay?” Ryan asked.

  “Yeah,” she lied, unsure of how convincing she was being.

  “We’ll work it out,” he assured her, making her feel better even though she wasn’t sure what he was assuring her about. He gave her that half smile. “Sneaking around is one thing. Being discreet is something else. I can handle discreet.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “Did you drive or walk over here?”

  Huh? “I walked.”

  “See, we’re already being discreet. The neighbors can’t talk about what they don’t know about, and I won’t have to kick you out of bed for several more hours.” Naked and tousled with an obvious postorgasmic glow, he lay back, hands stacked behind his head, and grinned at her.