Talking After Midnight

While his teeth stuck to his cold lips from smiling so hard, she finally rolled her hand toward the thermostat, keeping the hat pulled down over her eyes. “Fine.” She turned on her fuzzy foot without another word, leaving him to wipe his feet on the small mat outside her door and enter the enemy’s castle.

Oddly, as she made her way back to the couch, clinging firmly to her hat, he couldn’t help admiring her petite frame, even in a rumpled bathrobe. Compact and curvy.

Then guilt stung his gut. Jesus, Hawthorne. She’s full up with snot, and her nose, what you can see of it, anyway, is redder than a poker fresh from the fire, sick as a dog and still, you gawk.

Jackass.

* * *

Like before when the girls sneak-attacked you, remain calm. Walk to the couch. Sit your backside down. Hang on to your hat and say as little as possible.

When Tag sauntered past the couch, he stooped at her feet, making her freeze and stiffen. “Dropped this,” he offered casually, picking her throw blanket up and placing it on her lap before scanning the room and locating her thermostat.

As Tag popped the face of the digital thermostat off, Marybell let her fingers drift to the arm of her couch and gripped it hard. Every cell in her body ordered her to run and hide. Yet her aching muscles refused to unclench.

Watching him from beneath the brim of the ridiculous hat Dixie had given her as a gift when they’d all watched the Kentucky Derby together was like watching the numbers grow smaller on a ticking bomb.

They were sexy numbers, no doubt. Tight, muscled, encased in a pair of jeans that set her heart to fluttering and skipping as if she were jumpin’ double Dutch. He wasn’t classically handsome like his brother, Jax.

On the contrary, he was rough, unkempt, his large hands spotted with a dark-wood stain that had set into the rough calluses on his fingers. His skin was ruddy, hard-weather worn and kissed by the sun. His eyes were an odd combination of brown and gold, as rich and deep as his voice, making her wonder what lay behind them.

As Tag tinkered with the dial, emitting a sound from deep within the strong column of his throat, Marybell fought a sigh of girlish admiration. He was strong and rock-solid, all hard edges and craggy surfaces.

If she wasn’t already flush with fever, she’d swear she was on fire while watching him bend over and scoop up his tool belt.

When he lifted his head, Marybell tugged the brim of the hat down again, leaving only his lower torso for her eyes to feast upon.

If she didn’t stop gawking, at any moment he’d realize who she was and her whole life in Plum Orchard, so carefully crafted these past months, would explode. She’d lose everything. Admiration turned to panic, clawing her gut, making her blood run cold in her veins.

Tag turned to her, not as smiley as he was a few moments ago. “Where’s your water heater?”

Instead of being gracious, or even just a little grateful Em had insisted out of the goodness of her heart that Tag come fix her heat, she pointed to the back of her small kitchen where a door led to the garage.

In fact, she all but grunted the directions like some cave dweller.

As Tag strode past her, his muscled thighs working beneath his jeans like well-oiled machines, he looked as though he was going to stop and say something, then thought better of it because he liked his head attached to his neck, and wandered out to her kitchen.

When Marybell heard the door leading to the garage shut, she attempted a sigh of relief, only to end up thwarted by the crackle of her chest. Hopping up off the couch and grabbing her phone from the end table, she ignored the unbelievable ache of her muscles and the wheeze in her lungs and headed straight for the bathroom, where she took one look at her image and almost fainted dead.

Closing the door, she gripped the edge of the sink until her knuckles were white. She was in no condition to apply her “people shield” tonight, so the ridiculous hat stayed. Pulling it from her head, she wet a cloth and pressed it to her flaming cheeks, bright with fever, her body still warring with chills and the sweats.

You’re being incredibly rude, Marybell Lyman.

Mercy, she was indeed. Yet better rude than revealed.

A brisk rap of knuckles on the door made her jump, almost tripping on her work boots, carelessly discarded beside the bathtub when she’d come home last night.

“Marybell?”

Yes, Prince Gruff And Hot? She shivered, at war with his affect on her as much as her wish to remain hidden behind the door until he went away. “Yes?” she managed to croak. Think, think, think, Marybell!

“I just need to grab a few things from my truck. I’ll be right back.”

Her lips trembled, but she managed to force the words out. “Okay...and thank you,” she remembered to add.

Tag’s footsteps rang in her ears just as she sank to the edge of her tub. What to do, what to do? Clearly, she had to leave the bathroom. She couldn’t hide in here the entire time he was fixing her heat. How ungrateful and rude would that appear?

Lost in misery, she jumped when her phone rang, screeching out a Marilyn Manson tune. With shaky fingers, she rode her finger across the surface without even bothering to look and see the identity of the caller. “Hello?”

“Oh, my poor, sweet angel! You sound just dreadful. If this keeps up, I’m calling Doc Johnson,” Em crooned into her ear. “Are you okay? Is Tag there with you?”

She nodded as though Em could see her. Oh, yes. He was here. So very here.

“MB, honey?”

Marybell gnawed on the inside of her lip, perusing the shelves above her toilet, looking... “Yes! Yes, he’s here. Thank you, Em. I told y’all I’d be fine. You didn’t have to bother.”

“Oh, hush. Friends are never a bother. So, has he figured out the problem?”

Not yet, but when he does... She frowned. “Problem?”

“Yes, dumplin’. The problem with your heat,” Em insisted.

Oh, he has no problem with my heat. He’s got me plenty heated. Marybell cringed. Finding this man attractive was absolutely a no-no. “Um, not yet. He’s in...”

“Are you all right, MB? What’s goin’ on over there?”

Realizing she was distracted, Marybell pressed the heel of her hand to her head, massaging the incessant throb. “Everything’s fine, Em. I’m sorry. The cold meds are making me fuzzy, is all.”

Em giggled into the phone, light and sweet. “Or is it Tag makin’ you fuzzy? He’s pretty cute, you know, respectin’ the fact that he’s the love of my life’s relative, of course.”

Of course. Boundaries and such. “I didn’t really notice,” she muttered just as her eyes landed on a way to solve her problem, hoping to hide the fact that her pants would be on fire right now if her denial wasn’t for such a good cause.

“Oh, you did, too. Why, surely you’re not blind from the ragin’ flu, are you, MB?” Em teased her, sliding into a thinly disguised, nosy inquiry. She was forever trying to set Marybell up with someone, declaring she just wanted everyone to be as happy as she and Jax were.

“He’s been very nice.” There. No more discussion. She reached up, pushing her endless bottles of conditioner out of the way. The Lord was good. Eureka!

“Nice? Is that how one describes men like the Hawthorne boys? Nice?” she prodded.

Marybell fished out the large container, filled with green goo. “Em?”

“Marybell?”

Her sigh was ragged as she tucked the phone under her chin and tried to screw the lid off the jar, putting it between her knees and giving it what little she had left. “I look horrible. I smell like I’ve been swimmin’ in a mentholated pool, my eyes are swollen and goopy and my nose is red as your mama’s roses. What difference does it make how I describe this man? I can promise you this, as crazy bag lady as I look right now, he’ll just be glad to get out of here visually unscarred. He won’t give a hoot how I describe him.”

Em sighed into the phone, the happy noises of her household full of children and assorted pets in the background. “Sorry. I was doin’ your dreamin’ for you, wasn’t I?”

Because every girl dreamed of falling for a man who, if he knew her true identity, would rather spit on her than acknowledge her existence. End of dream. “I have to go now, Em. I don’t want to be rude to the very nice Tag Hawthorne while he fixes my heat.” Or heats my fix. Or something along those lines.