Judy Duarte: Worth Fighting For

“Come on,” Caitlin said. “Let’s get your wounds cleaned up.”

Brett didn’t know why he’d let Caitlin talk him into this. As he followed her to the house, he glanced at his bloody knuckles. Hell, this was nothing. He’d had worse scuffles as a teenaged delinquent—before Detective Harry Logan had taken an interest in him and helped an angry, surly seventeen-year-old get his life back on track.

So why had he agreed to let the petite blonde with sea-green eyes lead him into her house?

Because the nurse was one hell of an attractive lady, and he didn’t mind letting her practice a little TLC. It had been a long time since a woman had fussed over him.

Besides, her kid was really cute. And a cat lover, no doubt. Maybe she could coax that crazy feline to eat, so Greg wouldn’t come home and find out his good buddy had let the damn critter starve to death under the bed.

At the front door, which boasted a flowery wreath in colors of green, pink and lavender, the attractive blonde slipped a key into the deadbolt, turned the knob and let them inside.

Women sure liked to leave their mark on a place.

Inside, the house was neat and clean, although the furniture looked a bit worn. He caught of whiff of something fragrant. Potpourri?

His mom used to display crystal bowls full of that scented, shaved wood and dried flower petals throughout the house.

“The bathroom is this way,” Caitlin said.

He followed her down the hall and into the guest bathroom, which had pale pink walls and a lacy white curtain. Floral-printed decorative towels hung on the racks and matched the shower curtain.

“Can I help?” Emily asked.

“No, honey. There isn’t much room in here for three of us.”

She had that right. The walls seemed to close in on them the minute he’d stepped inside with her, making him even more aware of their difference in height. And their gender.

As she bent to retrieve something from under the sink, he couldn’t help but appreciate the gentle curve of her hips, the way the white fabric fit a nicely shaped bottom. She straightened and set a first-aid kit on the countertop.

“I can do this myself,” he said, feeling a bit awkward and vulnerable.

“Don’t be silly. I insist.” She took his bad hand in hers, gripping it with gentle fingers that sent a flood of warmth coursing through his blood.

Inside the tight quarters, he caught a whiff of her scent, something alluring and tropical.

While she worked on washing the grit and asphalt from his knuckles, he couldn’t help but assess her with an appreciative eye.

She wore a pair of white pants cropped at the calf. And a lime-green T-shirt that probably would reveal the midriff of a taller woman, but the hem merely tickled her waistline.

Did she have a husband?

He didn’t see a ring on her hand. But that didn’t mean much. Kelly had taken off her wedding band while he’d been in the Middle East.

The water and antibacterial soap stung, but her ministrations were gentle, thorough. Professional. Yet his thoughts weren’t those of a patient. Or a neighbor.

“Are you married?” he asked, unable to quell the curiosity.

Her movements slowed, but quickly resumed without her looking up. “No, I’m not.”

Divorced then, since she had a kid.

“Mommy,” Emily said from the doorway. “Can I get Brett a Popsicle?”

“You can’t reach the freezer door. And he might not want one,” the mother said.

“I can push a chair to the fridge. Then I can reach it.” The little girl offered him a bright-eyed grin. “Do you want a Popsicle? That’s what my mommy gives me after I get my owie bandaged.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m afraid a Popsicle will ruin my appetite for dinner.” Brett wasn’t used to kids, but he figured her mother would appreciate his thoughtfulness.

“What are you having for dinner?” Emily asked.

“I’m going to drive through one of those burger joints.” Whoops. Driving wasn’t an option until he got his Harley fixed. He chuckled, then added, “I guess I’ll have to walk, though.”

“Want to have dinner with us?” Emily asked. “We’re having spusghetti.”

Actually, he liked Italian food and wondered if Caitlin was a good cook. Probably. She seemed to have domestic stuff down pat. “Thanks for asking, Emily. But I’ll probably just rustle up something to eat from the pantry.”

At least, he hoped so. He’d come in late last night, and Greg hadn’t left him much to choose from by way of food in the fridge. And with his bike out of commission for a while…

“What does rustle up mean?” Emily asked.

“It means find something.”

“Greg never buys food, ’cept for Fred. That’s why he goes to Burger Bob’s all the time…’cept when he eats with us.” The little girl offered him a sweet, expectant smile. “Spusghetti is better than those crunchy little brown fishies that Fred eats. I know, ’cause I tasted one once, and it was yucky.”

Caitlin looked up from her work on his hand. “I still feel the accident was my fault, Brett. Please join us for dinner. It’s the least I can do.”

He ought to turn tail and run, get the heck out of Dodge. But for some reason, sharing spusghetti with his pretty neighbor and her little girl sounded kind of appealing.

“Are you sure it’s no trouble?” he asked the mother.

“I’m sure. But Emily will probably expect you to play cards or a board game with her. That’s the usual after-dinner routine when Greg comes over to eat.”

“It’s hard to believe a gruff guy like Greg plays kid games.” Brett shook his head and grinned. His buddy stood about six-two and weighed more than two hundred pounds. And he was about as tough a man as the Navy had to offer.

Caitlin chuckled. “He plays a killer game of Candyland and Go Fish.”

Greg? That mountain of a man who smoked cigars and could cuss a blue streak?

“Amazing.” Brett realized he had something on his buddy now.

“Okay,” Caitlin said. “Sit on the commode so I can look at your knee.”

He wondered if she’d ask him to remove his pants. A part of him—that rebellious side he’d allowed to run amok during his youth—hoped she would.

“Do you mind if I cut your jeans?” she asked.

Score one for the lady. “Nah. Go ahead. They’re going in the trash anyway.”

She pulled scissors from the first-aid kit, then knelt at his feet and began to snip at the denim fabric. Her hair had white-gold highlights that probably lit up on a sunny day or in the candlelight.

He could imagine her walking hand in hand with a guy in the summer sun, sitting across a linen-draped table at a high-class restaurant.

What he couldn’t imagine was her not having a man in her life.

What was the deal with her and Greg? Were they friends? Lovers?

And what about Emily’s father? Where was he? And why had he let a woman like Caitlin slip away?

Brett wasn’t sure why he was so curious about the men in her life. It’s not as though he wanted a shot at dating her himself. He made it a point to steer clear of women with kids.

But for now, he couldn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t join them for spusghetti and a game of Go Fish.

It beat the heck out of munching on dried cat food in front of the TV.

Brett stood before the woven, heart-shaped welcome mat on his pretty neighbor’s front porch and glanced at his watch—five-fifty. Ten minutes early.

He paused before knocking.

What had he been thinking when he’d agreed to dinner? Should he try and figure out a way to back out graciously?

Unlike his buddy Greg, Brett wasn’t into cats, board games or neighborly get-togethers.