Susan Andersen - That Thing Called Love

“Yours and no one else’s,” she supplied with an understanding nod when he stalled. She had experience with the phenomenon. She’d only been a few years older than he was now when her own world had fallen apart.

“’Zactly,” he mumbled.

Realizing she’d stepped back to give her neck some relief from looking up at Austin, Jenny dug at the bunched muscles in her nape and gave him a rueful smile. “I’m still not used to you being bigger than me—let alone so much bigger. The last time I checked you had maybe three, four inches on me. But I’m wearing four-inch heels today and you’re still way taller!”

For the first time since Emmett’s passing last week, Austin flashed her the wholehearted smile that until recently had been his default expression—the endearing grin that crinkled his pale green eyes and carved little crescents around the corners of his lips. “I hate to break this to you, Jenny, but crickets are way taller than you are.”

“Why, you little smart-ass.” She smacked his arm, but refused to be sidetracked. “When did you get to be, though? I swear you weren’t this tall yesterday.” She had begun to fear he might, in fact, turn out as height challenged as she. Heaven knew she wasn’t thrilled to have ended up a scant five-two in a default thirty-two-inch-inseam world—and that only if she practiced really excellent posture. She couldn’t help but think the same outcome for a boy would be even harder.

But considering the kid had apparently grown three or more inches overnight, her worry would probably be better directed at something that actually required it.

Austin’s momentary good humor visibly fading, he merely shrugged at her question. “What’s gonna happen to me now, Jenny?”

“Well, for starters, since Emmett’s will assigned me temporary custody, you’ll continue living with me at the resort. Or, if you’d rather...” She faltered a moment, hit with her first uncertainty. “I suppose I could move in here with you.”

“God, no!” He shook his head emphatically. “It was hard enough staying here when Grandma died—and we’d at least been kinda prepared for that.”

True. The elderly woman had been failing for the past couple of years.

“But with Gramps...” Austin surreptitiously knuckled away a tear, then scowled at her when he saw she’d noticed. “I keep expecting him to show up every time I turn around, ya know? I’d rather be at your place.”

“Then my place it is.” Jenny wouldn’t mind a good bawl herself. She missed Kathy and Emmett like crazy. They’d been so good to her, and losing them almost back-to-back had been a one-two punch to the heart.

She needed, however, to be strong for Austin.

“I went to the estate lawyer to talk about permanent custody, but he wanted to wait a bit.” She hesitated, then admitted, “He’s doing his best to contact your father.” Much as she’d prefer to keep that information to herself for the time being, Austin had a right to know.

His mouth flattened and his eyes went hard. “Like he’ll give a shit.”

She didn’t have the heart to chastise him for his language, because in all the years she had known him, she had not known his father to show a speck of interest in him.

Still. “Apparently he’s on a National Explorer shoot somewhere. No one seems to know quite where at the moment, but Mr. Verilla said he hopes to track him down soon.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to hold my breath waiting for him to show up.” Austin’s voice resonated with knife-sharp teenage sarcasm. But his angry eyes had taken on that stricken cast they adopted whenever the topic of his father came up.

And for one red-hot minute Jenny wished she could get her hands on the man who had disappointed this boy so many times over the years. It just sucked so bad that she couldn’t.

What she could do, however, was run interference as Kate Ziegler stuck her graying head out the kitchen door, focused faded blue eyes gone watery with sorrow on Austin and said, “Oh, you poor, poor b—”

Jenny strode right up to Kate with such authority she cut herself off midword and took a startled step back.

“Mrs. Ziegler!” Jenny exclaimed warmly, grasping the older woman’s arm to firmly guide her to the crowded dining room across the hall. “I’ve been meaning to compliment you on that wonderful ambrosia salad you brought. Why, if I’m not mistaken, it was the very first thing to go.”

As the woman bustled over to check out the table, Jenny shot Austin a half smile over her shoulder.

It broke her heart that, although he tried to smile back, he couldn’t quite manage it.

CHAPTER ONE

JAKE BRADSHAW BLEW INTO TOWN almost two months later, at a quarter to three on a blustery, sunny April afternoon.

Not that Jenny was keeping track or anything.

Hell, who kept track of those things? She was busy minding her own business, washing the window over her kitchen sink and thinking the shutters on the Sand Dollar—the luxury cottage across the shared parking lot from her small bungalow—would benefit from a new coat of paint, when the doorbell rang. She just happened to check her watch. Then, looking down at her seen-better-days cropped T-shirt and raggedy jeans, she sighed. Why didn’t anyone ever drop by unexpectedly when she was dressed to kill?

Murphy’s Law, she supposed. Shrugging, she set aside the old tea towel she’d been using, paused her iPod, pulled out the earbuds and went to answer the summons. School had let out for the day; it was likely a friend of Austin’s, although Austin himself wasn’t home yet.

When she pulled the door open and saw the man on the other side, her mind went blank. Holy Krakow, how wrong could one woman be—this was no teenage kid. This was a total stranger, something you didn’t see very often this time of year—unlike during the summer tourist season.

And the guy was a god.

Okay, not really. But he was definitely the next best thing. His hair, which she’d mistaken at first glance for blond, was actually a medium brown that had either been burnished by the sun or was the product of some world-class stylist.

She’d vote for the former, given that every man she’d ever known would choose castration before they’d be caught dead over at Wacka Do’s wearing a headful of little tinfoil strips. And although she could honestly say she’d never met an actual honest-to-gawd big-city metrosexual, she was pretty sure this guy wasn’t to be her first.

His tanned hands were too beat-up looking, his skin a little too weathered. He had muscular shoulders beneath a nice gray suit jacket, worn over an olive-drab hoodie and a silky, silver-gray T-shirt. And solid thighs that were molded by a pair of button-fly Levi’s that had seen hard wear.

She couldn’t see his eyes behind the shaded lenses of his sunglasses, but he had the most gorgeous lips she’d ever seen on a man, full yet precisely cut. If she were a different type of woman, in fact, she might almost be able to imagine lips like those kissing h—

“Is your mother home?”

“Seriously?” All right, not the politest response. But, please. She hadn’t almost imagined what his lips could do—Marvin Gaye had started crooning “Let’s Get It On” in her head. And having him talk to her as if she were a child was like ripping the needle across a vinyl record, bursting her pretty, if where-the-hell-did-that-come-from, fantasy.

After a startled look, he studied her more closely. Those lips curved up in a faint smile. “Oh. Sorry. Your size fooled me for a minute. But you’re not a kid.”

“Ya think?”

His smile deepened slightly. “I’m not the first to make that mistake, I’m guessing.”

Okay, get a grip, sister. What was her problem, anyway? She didn’t lust after strange men. And she’d been in the hospitality business since she was sixteen, for pity’s sake, so rarely, either, was her first inclination to unleash snide sarcasm on people.