ROMeANTICALLY CHALLENGED Page 3

  He held the notes back out to her. “Can you find the one from Sweet P?”

  “I’m not your secretary.”

  “Now, there’s another side of Annie I’d like to see. Glasses, pencil skirt.” He gave a low whistle to which she responded by folding her arms over her chest.

  The action didn’t do much up top but gave him a hell of a lot of skin to admire down below. This getup was far less revealing than what she’d been sporting a minute ago, but he liked Hot Nurse Annie almost as much as Stripper Annie.

  Almost.

  “But just the message from Sweet P will do for now.” He shoved the remaining sticky notes into her hands. When she didn’t move to take them, he sighed. “Seriously, you’ve been squatting in my place for what?” He looked around at the cozy little nest she’d made for herself. “Six months?”

  “Six weeks.”

  “You did all this in six weeks?”

  His normally sparse cabin was decorated with minimal furniture, minimal fuss, and minimal effort. All he wanted was a quiet street with unobstructed views of nature. It was the one place on the planet he could decompress, find a sense of balance and peace.

  There wasn’t a shred of peace left. Every surface held a picture frame or stack of old books. His beer stein collection was hidden behind sparkly wine flutes. And the usual scent of cedar was now masked by some kind of flowery candle. Probably the light purple ones burning on his mantle beneath his stuffed moose head.

  He blinked—twice. “When did I get a mantle?”

  She shrugged.

  Then there was his couch. His very manly leather, made for watching hockey and Bear Grylls couch was barely visible beneath 137 throw pillows and a matching blue blanket.

  And not a masculine dark blue either. Not even superhero blue. Nope, the big fuzzy atrocity was the same light blue as those jewelry boxes women go bonkers for. And don’t even get him started on the twinkle lights dangling from Bull’s antlers.

  Emmitt had barely been upright when he’d arrived from the airport, so he hadn’t noticed the changes. But now they intruded so violently, it was triggering a migraine.

  “It’s not permanent, so when I go, it goes.”

  At least she was honest about her crimes. Other people, he’d witnessed firsthand over the years, would go to great lengths to hide them.

  “Then reading me one message is the least you can do for emasculating Bull”—he pointed to the moose—“and violating the privacy of my messages.”

  “Your voice mail is apparently full, so they started calling here. All hours of the night, ringing and ringing, so I began jotting down messages. And you emasculated him when you stuck his head on your wall as a trophy.” She took the stack and flipped through it, huffing the entire time. Then handed a sticky note to him. “Here it is. Sweet P.”

  “Bull isn’t real, and he was a gift. Now, could you read it aloud to me?” There went the stubborn set of her chin again. “I don’t have my contacts in and I don’t know where my glasses are,” he lied.

  With an exasperated sigh, Annie took the note.

  “She’s called a million times—her words, not mine—about this dress she’s just got to have, again her words, not mine.” To his relief, she didn’t do some kind of sex operator impersonation. “She’s saving you the first dance. How sweet.” She looked up. “Although, I bet Tiffani will have a problem coming in second.”

  Shit. He’d been looking forward to this dance for a long time, and he would be pissed if he missed it. “Did she say when the dance was?”

  “No. Now, is that all, or do you want me to recite her number too?”

  “I know it.”

  She considered that. “Do you know all of their numbers?”

  “Nope.” He smiled. “Just Sweet P’s.”

  Paisley’s was the only one that mattered.

  “You might want to tell the others so they stop calling. It only leads to misunderstandings,” she said, all kind of hoity-toity in her tone.

  “So does pigeonholing,” he said without further explanation, impressed by the way she managed to look both accusatory and apologetic.

  It wasn’t his fault Annie had jumped to conclusions. Emmitt worked hard to ensure that when it came to the most important person in his world there were zero misunderstandings—Paisley Rhodes-Bradley was his everything. His beautiful surprise of a daughter who owned his heart.

  “Is the woman who’s holding a bridal dress hostage judging me?”

  “It’s. My. Dress!” She stuck the message to his chest.

  “So you said earlier. I don’t think Clark got the memo.” He pulled off a blank note and stuck it to her collarbone. “Maybe you should write it down for him.”

  She looked at the sticky note, then up at him through her raised brows. Neither gave an inch until the tension between them became murderous. Then she smiled, a bite-me smile that was surprisingly a turn-on.

  “That’s great advice, Emmitt.” She grabbed a pen, scribbled something, then held it up.

  “Fuck off?” He read with a chuckle. “Simple, straightforward, and leaves zero room for misinterpretation. I approve. Do you need an envelope and stamp?”

  “It was meant for you.” She tried to stick it to his forehead but she was too short, so she settled on his chin. His five o’clock shadow was too much for the glue, and they both watched it flutter to the floor. “I would never say that to a friend.”

  “Maybe you should try. Because from where I’m standing, he isn’t a very good friend.”

  “Just because it turned out he’s not my guy doesn’t make him a bad guy,” she said, trying to defend something that, in Emmitt’s opinion, was not defendable. But he’d learned from experience, and she was going to have to come to that conclusion on her own.

  “All I’m saying is, exes can’t be friends.”

  “How about all of those.” She pointed to the stack of sticky notes. “They seemed ready to get friendly.”

  “Those aren’t exes. They’re friends.” He wiggled a brow and she smacked his hand, sending to the floor the notes he was holding.

  “Then why don’t you give one of them a call, see if they want to share a bed with you? Because I don’t, and yours came as part of the rental agreement.”

  Emmitt choked on the residual bubbles stuck in his throat. “What?”

  “Oh yeah,” she purred. “If you want, I can write down the day my lease is up. That way you’ll know how many friends you need to have lined up. I’ll even read it to you.”

  Emmitt rarely spent more than a few weeks in Rome at any one time. In fact, since he’d purchased the house a decade ago, he’d spent more time overseas on assignment than in his cabin. So he’d sometimes rent it out as a rustic Airbnb, splitting the profits with his buddy Levi, who managed things while he was gone.

  “How much time left on your vacation? Morning snuggles for a few days won’t be so bad. I’ll even let you be the big spoon.”

  She moved until she was practically shrink-wrapped to his body. “I’m sure Tiffany wouldn’t mind spooning. But be careful. She might turn into one of those Crazy Cuties.”

  “I’m leaving in a few weeks.” As soon as he got a doctor to sign off so he could go back to work. His editor was intentionally following every rule to the letter. No doctor’s clearance, no more assignments for her news desk. Including the one he’d been injured researching.

  Carmen was a perfect example of why exes should never remain friends. Three years later, she was still holding his nuts to the fire because he’d moved on more quickly than the Girlfriend’s Guide to Breakups thought respectful.

  “Have a nice stay in Rome.” Annie gently took the beer bottle from his fingers. “My lease lasts for another four months and I’m not leaving.”

  With that she swished her ass all the way into the bedroom.

  “It’s been fun,” she said shortly before the door slammed, and he heard the lock engage.

  Chapter 4

  September was in a mood. The air was so thick that with one breath Emmitt choked on the humidity. He took it as a sign that Mother Nature was menopausal and his trip home was going to be a series of hot flashes with intermittent night sweats and unpredictable outbursts.

  Emmitt shoved his hands in his pants pockets and took in the yellow and white house on the other side of the street. The large Cape Cod-style house was family ready with a charming front porch, matching bikes, a mini-me mailbox, and a Subaru that had just enough mom-mobile vibe to give any self-respecting bachelor hives. It was a far cry from the bungalow he’d grown up in a few blocks over.

  It was the kind of place that had happy family written all over it.

  Emmitt had never experienced that kind of family until the day he’d met Paisley.

  One look at her and his entire world had changed. Emmitt had changed. Becoming an insta-dad had that kind of effect. And every day he was changing more and more. He only hoped he could change as fast as Paisley deserved.

  But instead of knocking on the front door, he stood on the curb sweating his balls off in a hoodie and ballcap, looking like some kind of stalker casing the joint. By tomorrow his stealth homecoming would likely make the front page of the morning paper, and he wanted Paisley to hear it from him first. Which was why, instead of picking the lock and climbing into bed with his smart-mouthed tenant, Emmitt had come here.

  Ignoring the sweat on his brow, which had nothing to do with Mother Nature, Emmitt strode up the cobblestone pathway to the bright red door. There was a wreath of sunflowers hanging in the center, twinkle lights lining the porch rail and twisting up each of the columns, and a bronzed plaque on the wood shingled wall, reading THE TANNER FAMILY.

  Emmitt let that sink in, and even after ten years it didn’t sit right. r />
  He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes and, ignoring how gritty they were, entered the door code. The lock clicked open, and he let himself in. He considered hanging his jacket next to the others lined in a neat little row on their rightful hooks. Then he considered just how pissy Gray became over “outside” clothes lying on the upholstery and had a better idea.

  Grinning, Emmitt tossed his jacket over the back of the couch. His ballcap went over the lamp, sneakers stayed on, and the loose leaf stuck to his right heel went squarely in the middle of the coffee table. Satisfied with his handiwork, he walked down the hallway toward the loud voices erupting from the kitchen, sure to squeak his shoes on the recently polished wood floor.

  Sunday at the Tanner house was reserved for football, barbecuing, and—after Paisley went to bed—a few rounds of poker. And while he’d missed the feast part of the festivities, the four-letter tirade coming from the kitchen told him he’d arrived just in time for the cards.

  In keeping with Tanner tradition, his buddies were engaged in a high-stakes game of car-pool poker where someone’s man-card, it sounded, was in question.

  “It’s just a few hours out of your week,” Gray said, cards in hand and working extra hard to maintain his poker face. For a guy whose career included delivering life-and-death news, he had more tells than an OCD patient in a public bathroom. “You know how important this dance committee thing is to Paisley.”

  “The science club was important to her, too, which was how I wound up spending a good chunk of last year knitting sweaters for penguins in New Zealand.” This came from Grayson’s brother-in-law, Levi Rhodes. A straight-shooter and retired sailing legend who now owned the Rome marina and attached bar and grill, he was also Emmitt’s best friend—and the reason Emmitt had a half-naked woman sleeping in his bed. “I paid my time. You’re up, pal.”

  “When she told me she’d signed me up to help with the dance decorations, I completely forgot that tomorrow is my only day off,” Gray said and Emmitt might have stepped in to help a friend in need—had either one of his friends bothered to remind him that the dance in question was this month. Okay, so he’d been out of reach for a few weeks, but an e-mail would have been nice. So he stood quietly in the doorway and waited for them to notice his arrival.

  “I have plans,” Gray added.

  Dr. Grayson Tanner was only a few years older than Emmitt but acted as if he were the grandpa of the group. He was stable, straitlaced, starched, and in the running for Stepdad of the Year. He liked long walks on the beach, shell collecting, and making detailed grocery lists color coded by category. He was a hometown freaking hero, and every single lady’s real-life Dr. Dreamboat.

  Not that Gray was all that interested in dating after losing the love of his life four months ago. Emmitt wouldn’t be surprised if the guy never looked at another woman again.

  “What? With a bottle of lotion?” Levi plucked two cards from his hand and placed them facedown, pulling two fresh ones from the deck.

  “With your mom.”

  Levi met Gray’s gaze over the top of his cards. “Everything all right?”

  Gray shrugged. “Just catching up. We haven’t seen each other much since Michelle’s... uh... funeral.”

  “Want me to talk to her?”

  “I don’t need you holding my damn hand,” Gray said, discarding not a single card. “What I need is for you to find someone to cover the bar so you can go with Paisley to the meeting, then take her home.”

  “No can do.” Levi leaned back and cracked his neck from side to side. He was built like a bouncer; had more tattoos than fingers; and, with his buzzed head and badass attitude, was often taken for a fighter rather than a boat builder who hand-carved high-end sailboats from wood boards.

  “The Patriots are playing tomorrow, which means all hands on deck at the Crow’s Nest. I know that’s breaking news, since I have so many free nights,” Levi patronized. “But I’ll be working the bar and overseeing my new manager, which means you’re doing decorations and babysitting.”

  “Can’t someone fill in for you?” Gray tossed three flash cards into the pile—two COOK DINNER and one EMPTY DISHWASHER. “I call.”

  “Since when does a fifteen-year-old need a sitter?” Emmitt finally said, stepping into the room.

  Both startled gazes swung toward him. Levi’s accusatory. Gray’s pissy.

  Ah, home sweet home.

  “What the hell are you doing home?” Levi asked at the same time Gray said, “Are you wearing shoes in my house? There’s a shoe rack for a reason. I even put a sign above it so you’d remember.”

  “Oh, I remembered.” Emmitt opened the fridge, and the light caused a sharp pain to build behind his eyes. “I trampled through your flower bed on the way in. Lots of tread on these babies, wanted to make sure they were nice and dirty.”

  “You don’t call, you don’t write, you just show up and drink my beer,” Gray said.

  Water was more Emmitt’s speed these days. Not that a cold beer didn’t sound good after the shit in his fridge at home, but it wasn’t all that compatible with the elephant-tranquilizer-sized painkiller he’d taken before leaving home. He popped the cap then tipped the bottle back, nearly emptying it in one swallow. He grabbed a second bottle before closing the fridge.

  He was still in the throes of jet lag. “Jet lag” that, according to the doctors in China, could last another three to forever weeks, depending on how lucky he got. Recent history told him lady luck was one vindictive bitch.

  “Seriously, what are you doing home?” Gray pressed.

  “Nice to see you too.” Emmitt flipped a kitchen chair around and, straddling it, took his seat at the table. “China was epic, by the way. The trip home was a little bumpy, but arrived safe and sound, thanks for asking.” He turned to Levi. “Call him out. He’s got a shit hand.”

  “Looking at my cards and then spilling isn’t cool.” Gray stood. “This is why I hate playing with you two.”

  “You love playing with us,” Emmitt said. “For the record, don’t look all smug when you have a shit hand. It tells everyone you have a shit hand.”

  “I fold.” Gray tossed his cards on the table and stomped to the stove. When he came back, he held a big plate with a piece of chicken and—what smelled like—Michelle’s mac-n-cheese recipe.

  The delicious scent of the melted cheddar had Emmitt’s stomach rumbling. He hadn’t eaten more than a few bags of peanuts and a protein bar on his flight home. That was thirty-some-long-hours ago.

  “Any more of that in the oven?” Emmitt asked.

  “Nope.”

  “How about an extra fork?”

  Gray looked up. Zero amusement on his face. “If you’d called to tell us you were home, I would’ve made more.”

  “Would you also have reminded me that the father-daughter dance is this month?” When the other two exchanged guilty looks, Emmitt added, “I got a note about needing a dress.”

  “Would it have mattered if I had told you?” Gray asked. “You’re supposed to be on assignment for another few months.”

  Jesus, was the guy serious?

  “Hell, yeah, it would have mattered,” Emmitt said. “It’s the father-daughter dance. I’m her father. Therefore, I should have been informed about the dance since I’ll be the one taking her.”

  Her name was Paisley Rhodes-Bradley, for Christ’s sake. Emmitt had first met Paisley’s mom when he’d moved to Rome in middle school. He was twelve, Michelle sixteen, and she was his best friend’s sister. But it wasn’t until Emmitt had come home from college, when those four years didn’t seem to make such a big difference anymore. Michelle was fresh out of a relationship and looking for a rebound, and Emmitt was looking to live out one of his childhood fantasies.

  The timing seemed perfect.

  All it took was one kiss and their fates were sealed. That kiss led to a sizzling-summer weekend spent together on a deserted strip of beach, sleeping in a tent and bathing in the Atlantic. They both knew it going in, the weekend was all they had, so they enjoyed every moment.

  It wasn’t until six years later, when he was covering a subway bombing in Berlin, that he heard from Michelle again. She’d had a baby. And she was pretty confident Paisley was his.