Marriage, Maverick Style! Read online

  As he chattered excitedly in her ear, a sort of calm settled over her.

  She knew two things: She didn’t want this job. And she was keeping her baby.

  As soon as Jason paused for a breath, she told him where she stood. “I appreciate your calling me, Jason. I appreciate all the effort that you and your team put into making a place for me at IMI. But the truth is I just don’t think we’re a good fit.”

  Jason sputtered a bit, but he quickly recovered. He asked what her issues were, specifically, so that he could address them.

  She stalled. “Exactly how frank would you like me to be?”

  He didn’t give up. “You feel...uncomfortable—is that it?”

  “Yes. I know Carson pushed you to hire me. And you’re right. I’m just not comfortable with that.”

  “Honestly, Tessa. You’re clearly very talented. You impressed us. I really do feel you would make a great addition to our team.”

  “Well, thank you, Jason.”

  “So...how do I change your mind?”

  “You don’t. But I will definitely tell Carson how terrific you’ve been. I’ll make it very clear to him that you, and everyone at IMI, have been helpful and welcoming. I’ll let him know that the offer is excellent, but that it just doesn’t work for me right now.”

  “You mean that.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes. I do.”

  “What else can I say?”

  “Nothing. Thank you again.”

  Jason let it go then. He wished her well and said goodbye.

  After she hung up, she wondered if maybe she’d lost her mind to turn down a second chance at the big time. But it didn’t really feel like she’d blown it. It felt more like the right choice, one that worked for her.

  She should call Carson. She’d promised him that she would call as soon as she heard from IMI.

  However, she had something a lot more important than a job offer to tell him about. And she couldn’t make herself call him until she’d figured out what to say. And as for that, she had nothing.

  Another day went by. Thursday she had an idea: maybe a letter. At the very least it might help to write down her thoughts, to plan out what to say to him.

  She wrote the letter—or rather, an email. In it she told him she was pregnant and she was keeping the baby and she was sorry, but that was just how it was.

  It was awful, that email. Whiny and wimpy. She trashed it and tried again. That time, she opened with “I love you.”

  Ugh. Opening with “I love you” and moving right on to, “And I’m having your baby.”

  That somehow didn’t work, either.

  She tried writing it out on actual paper, the way she had the letter to Della. Nope. Putting it on paper didn’t make it even one tiny bit better.

  About then she had the blinding realization that telling a man you’re having his baby was something you ought to have guts enough to do straight to his face.

  So, okay. She needed to return to LA and speak with him in person. Probably the best plan was just to book a flight and go to him.

  But that seemed all wrong. The poor man deserved at least a little warning. He didn’t need her showing up on his doorstep out of the blue, babbling about love and babies.

  Finally, on Friday, she made herself call him.

  At least he picked up on the first ring. “Tessa. What a surprise.” And not a happy one, judging by the ice-cold tone of his voice. “How are you?” Before she could decide how to answer that, he added, “I understand you turned down the job with IMI.”

  She winced and stifled a groan. “You, um, talked to Jason, then?”

  “I did. And he talked to you...when was it?”

  She let out a slow, careful breath. “Wednesday. And, yes, I promised I would call you. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  “You’re sorry. Now, that really helps, Tessa. That makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

  “You’re mad.” She stated the obvious because she didn’t know what else to say. “You’re really, really mad.”

  “Figured that out, did you?”

  She had so messed this up. Better, she decided, to cut to the point. “Look. I called because I...want to see you.”

  “Excellent,” he muttered, ladling on the sarcasm. “I’ve got a few things I have to deal with here. Then I’ll fly up there on Wednesday.”

  Her stomach lurched. “Did you just say you’re coming back to Rust Creek Falls?” Hope bloomed within her. Bright, beautiful, ridiculous hope.

  Hope for what, she wasn’t sure.

  But maybe he wasn’t as finished with her as she’d thought.

  “Yeah. Wednesday.” He still sounded as cold as the dark side of the moon.

  “Carson, are you sure? I’m happy to come there.”

  “Happy. Interesting word choice. No, I’ll come to you.”

  She got the message. “You don’t believe I’ll actually show up, do you?”

  “And what, I wonder, could possibly cause me to doubt that you’ll do what you say you’ll do?”

  She was very close to yelling a few bad words into the phone and hanging up on him—because she knew he had a right to be mad at her and she didn’t know what to do to make it better. She really, truly sucked at relationships. Women like her should not only not be allowed to get pregnant; they should never fall in love. People only got hurt when women like her fell in love.

  “All right,” she said at last. “See you Wednesday, then.”

  “Dinner,” he growled at her. “I’ll pick you up at seven. We’ll go to that Italian place in Kalispell.”

  “Okay. That’s good,” she said. “I—I’m looking forward to seeing you and...” About then she realized she was talking to dead air.

  He’d already hung up.

  Chapter Eleven

  Carson’s plane landed in Kalispell at a few minutes past noon on Wednesday. He rented a car and headed for Rust Creek Falls, planning to go straight to the boardinghouse. So what if he was several hours early? He would surprise her. Maybe he’d catch her at a weak moment and she’d say something honest for a change.

  He was still very angry at her. And he would probably say things to her that he’d regret later.

  Well, too bad. There was no way he could wait until seven to see her. He’d already waited twelve never-ending damn days since she left him in Malibu. Because if she wanted to talk to him, she could damn well pick up the phone and call.

  But she hadn’t called. Until Friday.

  And as of now, today, this moment, it was enough.

  He was finding her immediately, and they were having it out. If it was over, he would damn well know sooner than later.

  At the south end of town, he turned onto Main Street, headed north. He crossed the Main Street Bridge and saw a whole lot of red, white and blue up ahead. Coming even with the cluster of public buildings between the bridge and Cedar Street, he rolled by the library, all decked out in patriotic bunting. The town hall façade was the same—and the Community Center on the other side of the street, too.

  Monday had been the Fourth of July. They must have left the decorations up.

  Damn. He’d missed the parade. No doubt there had been babies involved, lots of flag-waving and veterans in uniform, chest candy glinting in the midday sun. True, he had no interest in small-town parades. Still, he felt strangely regretful that he’d missed the Rust Creek Falls version of the Fourth.

  Did they have a barbecue in the park after the parade? Had Tessa been there?

  He was so busy feeling left out and kicking himself mentally for even caring, that he was not the least prepared when Homer Gilmore suddenly materialized in the middle of the street waving his arms wildly, shouting, “Stop!”

  Carson wasn’t goi
ng very fast, but Homer had appeared out of nowhere. Carson hit the brakes, hard. Rubber squealed and burned as he slid to a stop a hair’s breadth from mowing the old fool down.

  “What the hell, Homer?” Carson yelled out his open driver’s side window. “I could have killed you. Have you completely lost your mind?”

  Homer didn’t answer. And he didn’t even look bothered that he’d almost become roadkill. Instead, he pointed a scrawny finger heavenward, as if to say, Hold on a minute.

  Carson leaned on the horn.

  Homer moved then—and fast, too. He darted around to the passenger door and tapped on the window.

  Reluctantly, Carson rolled it down. “What?”

  Homer stuck his head in. “We need to talk.”

  “No, we don’t. It didn’t go well with the moonshine that night.”

  “What’s that mean, exactly?”

  “It means that Drake Distilleries is having nothing to do with that stuff of yours. End of discussion.”

  Instead of replying, or pulling his head out of the window so that Carson could move on, Homer reached in and popped open the door.

  “Homer, don’t—” But Carson was too late.

  The old miscreant had already hopped in. “Take me to the Ace in the Hole. I need a burger. And we still need to talk.”

  Someone honked. Carson checked the rearview mirror to see that a quad cab pulling a horse trailer had stopped behind him. The driver honked again.

  “Let’s go.” Homer made a shooing motion with his left hand as he hooked the seat belt with his right. “You can’t just park yourself in the middle of Main Street, blocking other people’s way.”

  * * *

  At the Ace in the Hole, Homer insisted on a quiet booth in the back. “So’s we can talk business private-like.” He ordered a double-decker cheeseburger with fries and a beer.

  Carson hadn’t eaten since before he’d left the house in Malibu that morning, so he went ahead and ordered the same. “Now what?” he asked the old man once their waitress had brought them their beers.

  Homer took a pull off his longneck and set it down hard. He burped good and loud. “I needed that.”

  Carson tried again, speaking slowly, as one would to a child. Or an idiot. “Did you hear what I said back there on Main Street, Homer? I’m not interested in your moonshine formula anymore.”

  Narrowing his reddened eyes and bunching up his grizzled eyebrows, Homer leaned across the table. “You tellin’ me you didn’t have the best night of your life that night?”

  Carson scoffed. “I’m not telling you anything of the sort. I can’t even remember what happened that night. That moonshine of yours causes blackouts, Homer. I had one. And so did Tessa. That is dangerous stuff. You’re lucky no one’s sued you yet—not to mention, had you arrested.”

  “Arrested? For what?”

  “I don’t know. Running a moonshine still without a distilled spirits permit? Or maybe just plain drugging people?”

  Homer drew his scrawny shoulders back and announced with a sniff, “Everybody who drinks my ’shine does so of his or her own free will.”

  Now Carson was the one leaning across the scratched table between them. “Don’t give me that. I’ve heard the stories. You spiked the wedding punch a year ago, on the Fourth. The people who drank it then had no idea what they were in for.”

  Homer took another swallow of his beer. He set the bottle down more gently that time. “I just wanted ’em to loosen up, you know? Make connections, have some fun.”

  Carson opened his mouth with a comeback. But what was the point? He might as well argue with the wall. “Whatever excuses you want to make for yourself, at least get clear on the fact that I’m not buying your moonshine formula.”

  Homer’s eyes lit up as he stared past Carson’s shoulder. “Oh, look. Here come our burgers.”

  The waitress served them. When she left, Homer dug in. Carson ate, too, his mind on Tessa, on what she might be doing right now. He hoped she would be at the boardinghouse when he finally ditched Homer and got over there.

  The old man demolished his meal in no time flat, finishing up the first beer and ordering a second one. Finally, he wiped his mouth with his napkin and pushed his plate away. “Nothin’ like a burger and a beer, I always say.”

  “Homer, are we clear, then? I’m not buying your moonshine. There will be no deal.”

  Homer only grinned wide, showing off those yellowed teeth that had never made the acquaintance of a competent orthodontist. “I do like your style, Carson Drake. And I just need a few more weeks to decide for sure if I can work with you.”

  About then, Carson realized that trying to get on the same page with Homer Gilmore was an exercise in futility. The old guy lived in his own world on his own terms. “Whatever you say, Homer.” He put his concentration where it would do some good: on eating his burger and enjoying his fries.

  And then Homer asked in a very serious tone, “So, what do you think about the situation with Tessa?”

  The old guy was more than a little creepy. At that moment, Carson almost felt that Homer could see into his brain. Carson answered warily, “I...like Tessa. Very much.”

  Homer waved a bony hand. “I didn’t ask if you liked her. I asked how you’re doing with her having your baby and when are the two of you steppin’ up and makin’ it legal? That’s what I asked.”

  What the...?

  Carson choked down a last bite of burger and pushed his own plate away. “Who told you that Tessa is pregnant?”

  Homer thought that was funny, apparently. He chortled. “Nobody told me. Nobody had to tell me. You both had my moonshine, didn’t you? And everybody knows what happens when a man and a woman drink my moonshine together.”

  The sudden knot in Carson’s stomach untied itself. Tessa wasn’t pregnant. Homer was just being Homer. The old coot had probably been sampling his own product.

  “Well?” Homer demanded.

  Carson leaned forward again and pinned Homer with a cold glare. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, old man. And you should know better than to go spreading stories you made up in your head.”

  Homer gave a slow and weirdly satisfied nod. “You’re protective of that sweet girl. That’s a good thing. A man should be protective of his woman.” He leaned in, too, until his road map of a face was only inches from Carson’s. “And I don’t carry no tales,” he muttered on a beery breath. “This here conversation, it’s just between us. Strictly man-to-man. You can walk out of here dead certain that I will never share your private business with another living soul. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see a man about a horse.”

  Homer got up and followed the signs to the men’s room. Carson paid the bill and finished his beer, his impatience growing as the minutes ticked by and the old man failed to reappear. The guy was not only a menace to society with his dangerous moonshine and his tendency to pop up out of bushes and materialize out of nowhere in the middle of the street; he was downright rude. Carson should just get up and go. It wasn’t as if he’d even wanted this impromptu meeting with the old reprobate.

  Finally, he decided he could use a trip to the men’s room himself. He got up and went in there.

  Empty. Of course.

  He took care of business. On the way out, he asked the waitress if she’d seen where Homer went.

  She shook her head. “Sorry. I never saw him leave your booth.”

  * * *

  Five minutes later, Carson parked on the street in front of Strickland’s Boarding House and marched up to the front door.

  Old Gene answered his knock. “Hey.” Gene wore a wide smile. Whatever might be going on with Tessa and whatever Old Gene knew about it, he seemed to have no issue with Carson. “How you doin’, son?”

  The tension between Carson
’s shoulder blades eased a little. “Great, thanks.”

  “Lookin’ for Tessa?” Old Gene ushered him in. “She’s down in the basement on laundry duty.”

  And just like that, Carson was heading down the back stairs. He found her at the folding table busy with a tall pile of towels. Both of the dryers and the two washers were going, making enough noise that she hadn’t heard him coming. She just went on folding, her back to him, completely unaware of his presence.

  His footsteps slowed at the sight of her. He paused at the base of the stairs, his heart roaring in his chest, his belly tight, burning with a potent mix of frustration and yearning. She wore Chuck Taylors, torn, faded jeans that clung to her fine butt and a striped tank with a neck so wide, it had fallen down her arm one side to reveal the soft curve of her shoulder. Her hair was piled in a sloppy bun at the top of her head, wild curls escaping in little corkscrews along the back of her neck.

  His heart rate slowed to a steady, hungry rhythm and the burning in his gut became something closer to arousal than anger. It was the best he’d felt in days.

  “Tessa.”

  Her slim shoulders stiffened. She dropped the hand towel she’d just grabbed and whirled to face him, those dark eyes taking him in, that wide mouth not quite knowing whether to smile or to scowl. “Carson.”

  The sound of his name on her lips broke the spell that held him rooted in place. Yeah, they really needed to talk. But more than that, he had to have his hands on her.

  In five long strides, he eliminated the distance between them, reaching for her as she grabbed for him. He lifted her, and she jumped right up into his waiting arms, wrapping those slim legs good and tight around his waist, plastering her sweet self against the front of him.

  She was on him like a barnacle, her hands in his hair, those lips he needed so badly to taste hovering just out of reach. “You’re early,” she whispered, wonderfully breathless with what just might be a longing equal to his own. God. She smelled so good, sweet and fresh, like rain and flowers and fabric softener.