Hometown Girl (9 page)

“What did you want me to tell her? She asked for help, I sent help.”

“You also failed to tell me about the kid.” Storm didn’t know what to do with a kid, especially a girl. Women, sure. Girls, no way.

“What’s this about a kid?”

“You didn’t know either?”

“What the hell are you talking about? What did Pop do now, take in another stray?”

“This one is a little kid.
Her
name is Nicki.”

“Did you say
her
?”

“Yeah. Her, as in ‘Congratulations, it’s a girl.’ ”

“How old is she?”

“How the hell do I know? She’s not walking around with her date of birth stamped on her forehead.”

“Well, is she two? School age?”

“Definitely school age.” He tried to think back that far. He didn’t see many kids, so he didn’t have much to compare her to. “She’s at that awkward age when nothing quite fits together. Her legs are too long and skinny; her teeth are too big.” She was old enough to have the same look in her eyes he’d seen every time he’d looked in the mirror as a kid. Nicki was on a first-name basis with pain and fear and the dirty underbelly of society. Still, that knowledge came to some really young. “I don’t know, somewhere between eight and twelve.”

“Why didn’t Pop tell me?”

“How the hell do I know?” Storm kicked the wall under the breakfast bar, something that never failed to get him a smack on the back of the head from Pop when they were kids. “I guess I shouldn’t feel so bad since he didn’t tell you either. After all, I’m the black sheep.” Pop had never forgiven him for leaving without a word, even though he’d planned to join the merchant marines. He never explained why he’d shipped out two months earlier than expected—explanations were always messy.

“When did the kid show up?” Logan asked.

“Bree said it’s been a couple months. Why the hell has it been months since you’ve talked to Pop?”

“Look who’s talking. I’ve been busy at the vineyard.”

“And Slater?”

“School and work. Pop came out last winter, and the three of us got together in Vancouver.”

Storm hadn’t been invited. Not that he would have flown to the West Coast, but shit, he used to be one of them. An invite would have been nice.

“It must have been before he got her. Pop never said anything about a girl. He never said anything about a heart problem when he was with us either.”

“A quadruple bypass is a little more than a problem.”

“I was shocked when Bree called and told me he had a heart attack.”

“Yeah, I know. Looks like he’s closer to Bree and Nicki than to any of us.”

“What are you waiting for? The pity platoon to come rescue you?”

Storm groaned. Even to his ears that sounded whiney. After all, Pop had rescued him, Logan, and Slater from foster care and loved them as if they were his own. Then they’d grown up, and Storm had moved on. Hell, he’d left Red Hook, but not because of Pop. He left because he had no choice—he couldn’t disappoint Pop, and he couldn’t stay. There was no future for him in Red Hook, only a past he wasn’t proud of.

“Are you going to see him tomorrow?” Logan asked.

“No, I came all this way to hang out at the bar. Of course I’m going to see him. I’ll be at the hospital first thing.”

“Good, get some sleep. And Storm, you might consider buying a helmet.”

“Don’t laugh. I might do more than just consider it. The woman has one hell of an arm.”

“I’m glad you’re home.”

“Yeah, well, I’m here. But I need to get back in two weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

“I told you, this is the busiest time of the year for me. I just landed a commission for a Class 40 racing yacht. I’m slammed with tight deadlines. As much as I love the old man, I can’t stay in dry dock forever.”

“Okay, I guess we just have to hope Pop’s better. I’m in the middle of harvest, and it’s not something I can take care of from Red Hook.”

Storm ended the call and stared at Breezy’s door, wishing he had X-ray vision. Even after all these years, he hadn’t needed the lights to know who lay beneath him. One breath and Bree’s scent—an intoxicating blend of citrus and spice—tossed him back eleven years, landing him in the exact place he’d been before. On top of her. Between her legs. Hard.

“Fuck.”

He wasn’t sure what had him reeling more—the conk on the head or seeing Bree.

He’d done the right thing eleven years ago. He’d left because he knew he wouldn’t have had the strength to walk away from her again. Bree was like a daughter to Pop, and Storm had broken the cardinal rule: Don’t mess with Pop’s little girl.

Storm rounded the breakfast bar and tossed the wet bag of once-frozen peas back into the freezer with more force than necessary. Being in Red Hook with Breezy was as dangerous as sailing through the Bermuda Triangle—he couldn’t afford to get sucked back in.

Tomorrow he’d go to the hospital, size up the situation, and figure out what to do. If anyone thought Storm planned to stay here for more than two weeks, he was a few hands short of a full crew.

* * *

Mug in hand, Bree waited for the coffee to brew. She looked away from the pot when Storm walked through the front door, wearing running shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt. The sight of him stole all the oxygen from the room, maybe the whole building.

“Morning, Breezy.”

“Morning.”

Storm lifted the hem of his shirt and wiped his face, baring his washboard abs and revealing the treasure trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. Rounding the breakfast bar, he set two bags of what smelled like bagels and all the fixings on the counter, then grabbed a water from the fridge. As he downed the entire bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbed with each gulp.

“Coffee?” She cleared her throat, hardly recognizing her own voice. She grabbed another mug and, without waiting for the machine to finish, poured two cups.

Flashbacks, like grainy sex-tapes of the last night she’d seen Storm before he’d left, ran through her mind. Every. Humiliating. Moment. She took a slow, deep breath.

Storm stared at her.

She raised her chin and stared right back. He’d changed—physically at least. He was broader and more muscled. His tall, skinny frame had filled out in manhood, and the angles of his face had sharpened. His nose was narrow and a little crooked, probably the result of all the fights he’d gotten into as a kid. His square jaw was more defined, and his neck was chorded with muscle. He was solid, heavy, dangerous, and so full of charged energy, he seemed to barely kept it in check.

Needing something to do, Bree opened the bags and peeked in. “Thanks for picking up breakfast.”

“Anything to keep you away from a frying pan.”

She winged her eyebrow as she snatched the first salt bagel she saw, ripped a piece off, and stuffed it in her mouth.

“I didn’t know what you and Nicki liked, so I got a little of everything—just to be safe.” He pulled his shirt off and dragged it across his neck and chest. “I’ll just grab a quick shower.”

She stared at his six-pack. Why couldn’t it be a keg?

“Hello? Breezy? Did you hear me?”

“Uh, yeah.” She handed him his coffee and watched him walk to Pete’s room. Wasn’t she just chock-f of inspired repartee? She wasn’t out to impress him or anything, but sheesh, she’d sounded like a member of the dim-bulb club.

Nicki padded out of her room in her Hello Kitty nightgown. “He’s still here?”

“Shh. He might hear you.”

Nicki smiled as she climbed onto the barstool. “I can live with that.”

“What, that Storm is here or that he might hear you?”

“Both, actually. I bet Pop will be happy to see him.” Nicki tilted her head to one side. “How come Storm’s been gone so long?”

Bree closed her eyes and rubbed the spot on her temple that throbbed with every beat of her heart. God, she was in no mood for twenty questions. “I’m not sure.” She knew why Storm had left, but not why he stayed away. “I guess you’ll just have to ask him.”

Bree poured a glass of orange juice and slid it across the bar. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine after you took Storm down. Man, that was epic. You were like Wonder Woman with a frying pan instead of the rope.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Wonder Woman with her frying pan of truth.” Bree arranged the bagels on a plate and grabbed another for the whitefish and lox. There must have been seventy-five dollars’ worth of lox, not to mention the schmear. She handed the plates to Nicki. “Why don’t you set the table so we can eat? We need to get down to the hospital, and I’m already running late.”

Nicki walked around the table, placing the napkins on top of the plates.

No matter how many times Bree corrected her, she couldn’t break Nicki of the habit. “Food goes on the plate. Napkins belong under the fork or on your lap.”

Nicki stopped. “When you sit down, the first thing you do is put your napkin in your lap. What’s it matter if the napkin’s under the fork or on the plate?”

Bree sighed. What was the point? They’d had the discussion thirty times. It never changed the way Nicki set the table, and it only served to remind her of Nicki’s first dinner at Pete’s, the day Bree fell in love with the little scamp.

Pete had asked Bree to come because Nicki seemed uncomfortable alone with him. The poor thing had just been abandoned by the only parent she’d ever known. She was hurt, scared, and thrown into the care of a big bear of a man.

Nicki had spent the meal hunched over her plate, guarding her food. She’d even hidden some in her napkin for later. Bree’s heart broke every time she thought about it. She placed her hands on Nicki’s shoulders.

“What?” Nicki gave her that look—a little confused, a little shy, and still, even after almost three months, a little scared.

Bree pulled her close and held her, resting her chin on the top of Nicki’s head. She loved Nicki as much as she imagined any mother loved her child. She’d always wanted a family—a traditional family like the one she had before her father died. She remembered what it was like when she had two loving parents and then what her life was like after her father had died. She was afraid of being the same kind of single parent her mother had turned into—smothering, obsessive. Bree wouldn’t do that to a child. No, unless Bree found a man and was happily married, she’d never have a child of her own. Many single women had children and were fabulous parents, but the deep fear of becoming like her mother was enough to make her not want to take the chance. “I love you, Nicki.”

Nicki snuggled in. “For always and forever?”

Bree held her tighter. “For always and forever. No matter what.”

“Even if I never put the napkin in the right place?”

Bree felt a smile tug on the corners of her mouth. The little brat was testing her. “Even then. I love you for who you are, not what you do.” She kissed the top of Nicki’s head and looked up to find Storm leaning against the doorjamb. The curious look in his eye had Bree hugging Nicki tighter. She wasn’t sure what Storm was curious about, but then, she didn’t know Storm Decker—not anymore and maybe not ever.

It was an affront to all womankind that Storm could take a five-minute shower and come out looking edible when it took Bree an hour just to come out looking not scary.

Bree kissed the top of Nicki’s head again, released the little rascal, and then reached for a bagel for Nicki. Cutting it in half, Bree stopped just short of slicing her hand. The damn man made her nervous.

“Good morning, Nicki.” Storm sat at the head of the table while Nicki piled her bagel with lox. He took up more room than any man should—all spread out, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“That’s Pop’s chair.”

“Yeah, well, you’re sitting in mine.”

Nicki snorted. “Doesn’t have your name on it.”

Bree watched as Nicki sized up Storm. He looked loose and comfortable, as if his father weren’t in the hospital; as if he hadn’t been away for more than a third of his life; as if he ate breakfast with her and Nicki every day.

Storm set his coffee on the table and sat straighter in his chair. “What grade are you in?”

Holding her bagel with both hands, Nicki continued to eye him. “I’m going into fifth grade.” She took a big bite of her bagel and struggled to keep it in her mouth.

Bree stopped herself from telling Nicki to take human bites. The girl didn’t eat food; she inhaled it.

“So that makes you how old?” Storm asked, either not noticing Nicki’s lack of table manners, or ignoring them.

Bree pushed Nicki’s juice toward her. “Ten.”

When Nicki finally swallowed, she shook her head. “Ten and a half.”

Bree snuck glances at Storm as she fixed what was left of her bagel. Licking the remnants of schmear off the side of her finger, she lifted the bagel to her mouth to lick what had escaped.

She caught Storm staring. She remembered that look; no matter how many times she’d tried to forget it, it returned to her in her dreams. It was the same look she’d seen in his eyes right before he’d shut down and run away from her all those years ago, leaving her naked and needy. Fidgeting in her chair, she crossed her legs before wiping her fingers on her napkin, and tried to erase it from her inner hard drive.

Bree saw Nicki goggling at Storm. God only knew what would come out of Nicki’s mouth next. The girl was not only perceptive, but she said whatever went through her mind. “Nicki, why don’t you run and get dressed? Don’t forget to wash your face and brush your teeth. You can take the rest of your bagel with you and eat it on the way to the hospital.”

Nicki looked at her plate.

“I’ll wrap up the leftovers so when we come back, you can make another bagel to bring down to the restaurant if you want.”

“Okay.” Nicki rose, still looking longingly at her half-eaten bagel, and then swiped her tongue across the schmear.

Bree cringed—as if anyone else would eat it. “Just leave it. I’ll put it in a sandwich bag for you. And don’t forget to bring a sweater. It’s always chilly in the hospital.”

Nicki did the patented teenaged eye roll and headed to her room, muttering, “Bree, I’m not a baby.”

Storm turned the full wattage of his smile up a few degrees and aimed it at Bree. “The kid’s still protective of her food after three months? I’m surprised she didn’t spit in her juice.”