Beth Andrews - What Happens Between Friends

For the past twenty years, he’d been wishing like hell that she wasn’t.

Sadie pressed her nose against the glass-encased, walk-in shower.

“Did you just whimper?” he asked.

“It has three showerheads,” she said, turning her head to the side, her arms wide as if giving the shower a hug. “Three. It deserves a good whimper. Maybe even a moan or two. And this...” She stepped to the side, sat on the edge of the tub. “It’s huge. Big enough for a small family. Or a large dog.”

“Not going to happen.”

“What’s not?”

“You giving that dog a bath in my mother’s tub.”

After drying him off, they’d left Elvis in the garage with blankets and a bowl of water and a plate of roast beef Rose had given them.

“What is this world coming to?” Sadie asked, setting her bag on the floor. She bent to dig through it, her long hair falling forward, her top gaping, giving him a glimpse of her lacy, white bra, the curve of her breast. “It’s so a person can’t even think about something without getting shot down.”

Straightening, James jerked his gaze up. “Trust me,” he muttered. “Some thoughts are better nipped in the bud before they can fully form. Besides, you can give the dog a bath when we get to my place.” He pretended great interest in rearranging the hand towel on the pewter ring next to the sink. “You have any idea how long you’ll be in town?”

She set a pile of clothes at the end of the counter. “I’m not sure. A couple of weeks? Maybe a month. But no longer than that,” she added firmly.

A chill swept through him. A month?

Aw, hell.

As they’d gotten Elvis set up in the garage, Sadie had asked if she could bunk with James. She often stayed at his place, preferring it over going home to her parents’ house—she and her mother got along better if they weren’t in constant contact with each other. But usually, Sadie’s trips home were a few days, a week at the most. Now he was stuck with her for only God knew how long.

Stuck with having her underfoot. With her warm smiles and nonstop chatter and the way she hummed all the freaking time. With her floral scent following him from room to room, with her barefoot in his kitchen, using every clean dish he had just to make scrambled eggs and toast, her lithe body in nothing but a tank top and shorts.

He’d be insane in two days. Three, tops.

Something major must have happened to have her staying in Shady Grove for so long. He’d suspected that out in the driveway when she’d clung to him. Sadie wasn’t the clinging type. She didn’t let mistakes or failures slow her down, let alone get her down.

He wanted to ask again what was going on with her, but he’d wait. He had a party to get back to and she was wet and probably cold, though she hadn’t complained. There would be plenty of time for her to tell him what was wrong. Why she’d come back.

If she meant what she’d said about staying for a month, there would be plenty of time for him, too. Time for him to get used to having her around again. And to prepare himself for when she left.

He stepped to the door, held on to the handle. “I’ll let you get cleaned up. Towels are in there,” he said, nodding toward the narrow linen closet to his left. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

She stopped him with a hand to his forearm, her long fingers cold, her short nails painted a sparkly dark blue. “Thanks, James. For everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said, her voice soft and unsteady, her gaze sincere. “You’re a good guy and a really good friend.”

Unable to speak, he nodded, forcing his lips into the semblance of a grin. It wasn’t until he’d slipped into the bedroom and shut the bathroom door behind him that he let his mouth flatten. He tipped his head back and exhaled heavily.

A good friend. That was all he’d ever been to her. All he ever would be.

It was his own damn fault he wanted so much more.

CHAPTER THREE

CHARLOTTE ELLISON HAD a life plan.

She’d thought this through in its entirety, had weighed the pros and cons, dissected each aspect, considered all the consequences and any and every possible outcome. This wasn’t some flighty whim of fancy or a childish fantasy. This was real. Important. Possibly the most important thing she’d ever done.

She applied soft brown eyeliner in the small bathroom off the Montesanos’ kitchen, capped the liner and tossed it into her small makeup bag. Leaning over the sink, she swiped on mascara. She was nothing if not pragmatic. Realistic. Centered and grounded. From the time she was sixteen she’d known exactly what she’d wanted out of life. She’d written it down, then had broken those goals into smaller, manageable steps—just like all the gurus preached. Over the years she’d changed or adjusted those steps accordingly.

She’d already achieved so much. Valedictorian of her high school class? Check. Admitted to the University of Pittsburgh’s school of nursing, graduate at the top of that class and gain employment at Shady Grove Memorial? Check, check and check. Buy her dream home by the time she was twenty-five? She had her eye on an adorable 1920s cottage that had an awesome kitchen, a view of the river and plenty of potential for the extra bedrooms and playroom she’d need once she had her three kids.

A boy and two girls—God willing—all twenty to twenty-four months apart, the first coming along sometime between Char’s thirtieth and thirty-second birthday.

She slicked on a pale peach gloss, rubbed her lips together. Straightened to study her reflection. Sighed. There wasn’t much she could do about the sprinkling of freckles on her nose and across her upper cheeks, the ones that went with hair that was as bright red as her father’s.

The ones that had doomed her to a life of being cute and adorable when all she’d ever wanted was to be sexy and beautiful.

And her hair—dear, sweet Lord, her hair—could have used some serious time with a heavy-duty conditioner, blow dryer and flat iron. That was what she got for coming here straight from work. After a ten-hour shift and that summer storm, the smooth waves it’d taken her an hour to achieve that morning were now back to their original form. Wild, springy, frizzy curls.

She would pull the whole mess into a ponytail except, call her crazy, she didn’t think passing for a sixteen-year-old would help her cause.

At least the rest was acceptable.

Her favorite dark jeans made her legs seem endless, and the emerald-green top she’d splurged on last summer, but had never worn until now, brought out her eyes and clung in all the right places, making it seem as if she actually had a curve here and there. Not an easy feat.

Twisting, she rose onto her toes and checked out her butt. Pursed her lips. Not bad. Not bad at all. Possibly even better than top-notch.

Resolutely turning away from the mirror, she dropped her lipstick into her purse before opening the door and stepping into the short hallway. Voices, laughter and music drifted to her from the living and dining rooms. She turned right, away from the party and majority of people, her back straight, head held high, steps determined.

She was on a mission here. Because while she fully realized some things were out of her control, there was still plenty she could do to make her dreams come true. And if she wanted to be married by the time she turned twenty-seven—after a year of dating and a two-year engagement, thereby enabling her plenty of time to plan the perfect wedding—she needed to get a move on.

And let the man of her dreams know she was interested, available and, most important, ready to be in a serious, long-term relationship.

The first thing Char had done when she’d arrived was to seek out Rose Montesano—best to get on her future mother-in-law’s good side right from the start. When Char had heard that her prey was in the kitchen with his brother, she’d quickly excused herself to freshen up.