No Perfect Hero(19)

People wouldn't love him nearly as much if they knew where that influx of dirty money was coming from.

By the time midnight rolls past, I need to admit I’m human and get some rest.

I’m calmer now, but not in the best place, either.

Just to make sure everything’s fine, I slip into the bedroom to peek in at the girls. I doubt anyone could've gotten into the cabin without me hearing them climb through the window.

Still, I need to see for myself that there's no bedbugs around to bite.

They’re sound asleep, tangled up under the covers. Hay’s shifted to hold on to Tara protectively, cuddling her like a little doll, curling around to shield her with her body. They’re both a tangled mess wrapped up in the sheets, a few damp spots from Haley’s hair on the pillow.

My pillow. It does something odd to see them in my bed.

If I’d had a normal life, if I was a normal man, maybe I’d be here on vacation with my wife and kid.

Some boring-ass job in the big city, but in the summer we'd pack up the 'stang and drive to my hometown and stay at Grandma's inn for a sweet month.

Instead of a stranger, the little girl would be my daughter, riding on my shoulders while I take her hiking and show her all the places where I grew up. I'd tell her all the stories of Heart’s Edge, and maybe when she’s thirteen or fourteen, she’d meet a local boy and get a crush.

Then I’ll tell her the story about throwing flowers over the cliff, and why the town’s called Heart’s Edge. All the local lore based on love, the sappy shit every local boy pretends doesn't count, but really keeps it close because it's part of hometown pride.

And if I had a normal life, that woman in my bed would be my wife, my love, my lover for the taking.

Not this strange wildfire who came tearing into my life, fucking me up every which way.

But my life isn’t normal. Bress made sure of that.

And this dream we’re pantomiming, as they sleep so sound, secure in the knowledge that I’ll keep them safe...

It’s not for me.

It's not meant for Warren Ford.

My chest aches, this dark, heavy weight inside me. It shouldn't be there at all.

I don’t know what I’m thinking right now, but it’s far more distracting than Haley’s tight body in that skimpy little sleep set.

But I know one damned thing.

There's no way in hell I’m letting her stay at Stew’s.

The very idea of her walking around his place dressed like that, wet and lush, curves falling out everywhere? That's a big screaming NO.

Go ahead. Judge.

I've got no right to be territorial. Hay's nothing to me, just a stranger who shouldn't be here. We’re not even friends.

But the beast inside me says it’s my job to protect her because I’m the asshole who put her in danger. I can't let her out of my sight for the last few days she’s here.

It's my fault she's in this mess, so it's my job to fix it.

I’ll figure something out in the morning.

Maybe after some sleep, I’ll get my head screwed on straight.

And maybe by the light of day, I'll have answers.

I’ll know what the hell I’m supposed to do with Haley West in my life.





*



The smell of frying bacon wakes me up.

I don’t even remember falling asleep, but I know I did with the sun beating down on my eyelids in hot orange bursts. My back sticks to the couch cushion under it, the support bar below the upholstery digging into my spine. Soft, feminine voices are murmuring somewhere nearby, animated but muted, as if trying not to wake me.

That’s not what woke me.

It was my stomach growling like a damn bear, slamming against my abdomen like it wants to crawl out of me and go on the prowl for the tantalizing smell of cooking meat.

Groaning, I open one eye, squinting against the sunlight.

It must be almost ten o'clock, judging by how bright it is. Guess I wore myself out yesterday, but even if I’m still tired, my houseguests are bright and chipper.

Haley and Tara are moving about the kitchen like they live here, putting together breakfast. Two skillets sizzle away on the stove. The girls are up to their elbows in flour as they shape biscuits on the counter. While I watch sleepily past the forearm draped over my face, Tara reaches up and dots Haley’s nose with a fingertip of flour, only for Haley to cross her eyes comically, making the little girl laugh.

I’m not sure when I started smiling like this.

This isn’t me.

And what the hell is this ache?

I force myself to stop grinning like a fool and push myself up, wincing as my vertebrae all realign like someone picked my spine up and snapped it like a whip. The girls look up, watching me as I stand, before Haley grins and wipes her nose free of flour.

“Morning, Rip Van Winkle,” she says.

“Very funny.” I stretch wide, rolling my shoulders, and risk letting myself look at her fully.

Today she’s in jeans and a coral-pink shirt. It's loose, almost see-through, hinting at a tank top underneath. Pretty and feminine but much less distracting. I shouldn't feel a pang of disappointment.

“Looks like you got over your scare mighty fast,” I say.

She shrugs merrily, rolling another biscuit between her palms before placing it on a cookie sheet with rows of others. “When you think about it, it’s pretty childish. Paint and craft feathers? I mean...hard to be afraid of someone who’d do something so silly.”