Cherry Adair - Slow Burn

“I’ve got a lot to make up for. I’m not going to blow it.” Luke tossed his uneaten sandwich into the box they used for trash. He wanted to pace, but that took up too much energy, so he leaned against the counter.

“Got a beer in here?” He dug through the ice and pulled out two cans. “Hey, Cat?” he shouted, handing Nick a beer. “Come and get it.”

He waited a beat for her faint answer, then popped the can and took a long swig. “If she wants help finding a husband, then I’ll help her find a husband. Between us, we must know a hundred eligible single guys. Hell, it can’t be that difficult.”

“Wanna bet?” Nick asked, looking up; his pale blue eyes weren’t smiling as he issued the age-old refrain. Polishing off his sandwich, he reached for another. “Engagement or wedding?”

Luke narrowed his eyes. Man. He hated this whole situation. “Wedding, I guess.”

“Four months.”

“Six. Payoff?”

“Milk in my oldest gym shoe?” Nick asked seriously.

“Get real, Stratton! This is Cat we’re talking about here.”

“Aah! A Major Bet. Mmm,” Nick rubbed his chin. “An all-expenses-paid trip to Vegas. For two.”

They shook on it.

* * *

“I’M ECSTATIC TO announce the toilet in the master bath flushes,” Catherine said to the room in general. She stumbled into the kitchen, then her knees folded and she sat down in the middle of the floor with a thump.

“First order of business—” Luke broke off abruptly as he turned from the window. “You look like hell. What’s wrong with you?”

“Your bathroom made me sick.”

At the speed of light, Luke came down on one knee in front of her. “How sick?” He pushed her hair off her clammy forehead.

Catherine gave him a look. “Barf sick.”

He rose, scooping her into his arms. Very manly, Catherine thought as he strode through the house, yelling for Nick to open the damn front door. She rested her throbbing head on his nicely muscled shoulder and closed her eyes to stop the world spinning.

“Take a couple of deep breaths,” Luke demanded, stomping to the edge of the porch and sitting down on the top step. Right, like she could draw a breath while sitting on Lucas Van Buren’s lap.

“Cat? Breathe, dammit.”

She took a shuddery breath. His splayed hand on her rib cage moved with her lungs. She tried it again. It felt good. She couldn’t figure out now if she was still dizzy from the glue or if it was Luke’s touch making her head spin.

Catherine squinted her eyes open as Nick settled himself on the other end of the step and leaned against the post, a beer can in one hand. He gave her a small, one-dimple smile. “Glue?” he asked Luke, swallowing his amusement with a gulp of brew.

Luke’s hand slipped a fraction of an inch down her rib cage as his breath fanned the top of her head. He was probably getting a mouthful of her unruly hair. His hand shifted up again. Up, Catherine silently ordered. Move up more.

“Fool woman, I told her to open the window.”

“The one you painted closed last weekend?” Nick asked.

“Why didn’t she say so?” Luke’s chest huffed under her cheek. His hand was directly under her right breast. If he’d just move his thumb...

“Perhaps because you weren’t listening when she did tell you.” Catherine joined in the conversation. “Nevertheless, she is a big girl, and should have figured out a way to ventilate her workspace.” She tilted her head to look up at Luke’s very nice chin. “Aren’t I squishing you?”

“No.”

“The last time I sat on your lap, I was nine.” It hadn’t felt nearly this good. Or this dangerous. In fact, what she remembered was feeling safe for the first time in living memory.

“You were covered in mud.” Luke’s voice carried a reminiscent smile.

“You pushed me.” They grinned at each other.

Nick rose with a groan. “Oh, bliss, another trip down memory lane. I have molding to finish installing, then I’m outta here.”

Luke, as if suddenly realizing the position they were in, slid her unceremoniously off his lap and plopped her on the step next to him. The front door closed behind Nick.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” Luke told her. “If you’d passed out in there, I couldn’t have opened the door.”

“As much as I thrill at being called stupid, I have to admit I should have thrown my shoe through the window for ventilation. Point taken. Lecture over.” She rose, staggered and clutched the roof support. “Oh, ick.”

Luke shot up as if someone had lit a firecracker in his back pocket. He grabbed her upper arm and pushed her back down. “That’s it. You’re useless to me now. I’ll never get a lick of work out of you if you keep toppling over and I have to stop what I’m doing to hold you up. You’re going home.”

* * *

THERE WERE EXACTLY twenty-six paces from one wall in his condo to the other. Luke knew. He’d counted them off about nine zillion times. He strode across the living room to glare at the clock near the TV. It was after 1:00 a.m. He’d about worn a path in the carpet. Where in the hell were they?

He cursed taking the Harley to the beach house. With Cat asphyxiated by the damn glue, he’d been afraid she’d fall off the bike coming home. But he hadn’t wanted her to go in Nick’s brand-spanking-new Beemer, either. Luke did the nine paces from the wall unit to the window like a one-minute mile.

The vertical blinds clattered against the wall as he peered down into the dark street. Unless Cat and Nick were the couple blatantly boinking under the streetlamp on the lawn in the park across the street, they still weren’t back. And if they were, he’d kill Nick.

He yanked the cell phone out of his back pocket and punched redial. It rang. And rang. If they were hiding down on the nineteenth floor, at Nick’s place, his business partner–ex-best friend was dead meat. Luke slammed the phone off and into his pocket midring. He didn’t bother with the elevator, he simply jogged the three floors down, then three floors up again.

Irritated that he was so damn irritated, out of breath and out of ideas, Luke threw himself into his favorite chair. The black leather smelled like her and annoyed him even more. He glared at the open front door, willing Cat to walk in before his murder plans were fully hatched.

* * *

“ARE YOU SURE we know what you’re doing, Nicolas Stratton?” Catherine yawned, barely awake, and rested her head on the padded headrest of Nick’s car, her eyes closed. They’d been parked near Fisherman’s Wharf, a good two miles from the condo, for an hour and a half.

“You want Luke to see you as a desirable woman, don’t you?”

“It’s what I’ve spent the last six hours telling you,” she grumbled, rolling her head his way. Catherine opened her eyes. “I want him to see who I am, but I’m scared. What if this doesn’t work? God, I couldn’t bear losing the relationship we do have.”

“Honey, I think you’ve only thought through part of this plan. Be brave, be daring, be bold. Moving in with him was a smart idea. But what’ll really do it is if he has the opportunity to see you through the eyes of someone else. I volunteered. Don’t worry, gorgeous, I have the plan well in hand. And my plans always work.”

“Yeah,” Catherine said, “except when they don’t. And Nick? I want you to promise on a stack of Bibles that you’ll never tell him how I feel. This has got to be Luke’s idea. He has to make the first move.”

“This is woman’s logic, right? Chase him until he catches you?”

“Basically. Just promise you won’t tell. Never. Do you swear?”

“Constantly.”

“Nick!”

He crossed his chest in the vicinity of his heart. “I swear I’ll never tell Luke how you feel about him.”