Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel Page 8

  She realized she was holding her breath and let it out in a rush. “Tonight,” she said. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  “MAN, YOU GOT balls,” Tomás said later that afternoon. “Telling the boss how to do his job.”

  Balls, but no brains, Gabe thought. First day on a new job, he had planned on keeping his head down, his nose clean, and his mouth shut.

  Yeah, because he was so good at that, he thought derisively.

  Gabe had the initiative and the experience to be a good Marine. What he didn’t have was the ability to sit back and take orders from some dickhead officer with more rank than sense throwing his weight around. The incompetent leading the unwilling to do the unnecessary, they used to quip in Afghanistan.

  Grady, despite his air of privilege, his expensive haircut and pricey watch, wasn’t a dick. He didn’t seem to give a shit how well Gabe played with others as long as he got the job done.

  Gabe was grateful to Grady for giving him a chance. But, shit, no door?

  When Gabe used to do remodels with his uncle, Uncle Chuck would go on and on about work flow and efficient use of space. Jane must spend all day on her feet already. What good was her fancy new deck addition if it forced her into taking a thousand unnecessary steps a day?

  Gabe hadn’t figured on challenging the boss on Day One. But Sam, surprisingly, had agreed.

  It felt good that Grady trusted his judgment.

  “He seems like an all right guy,” Gabe said.

  “Sam? He’s a prince,” Jay Webber said, trundling over with another wheelbarrow of wet cement. “If you pushed, he probably would have paid you that overtime.”

  Gabe drove his shovel into the thick cement. He already owed Grady for giving him a job. He didn’t want to owe him for helping Jane. He wanted to do this thing for her himself, his gift to her. Every time she looked at her shiny new doors, every time she saved her feet by walking from the counter to the tables instead of dashing around in the rain, he wanted her to think, Thank you, Gabe.

  God, he was such an asshole.

  “I got what I needed,” he said.

  “Right, right. You got the door.” Webber winked. “And a night with Sweet Jane.”

  Gabe thwacked the back of the shovel down, tamping the wet cement. Better than bouncing it off Webber’s head.

  Even with a drill, digging holes and mixing cement was hard, dirty, sweaty labor. The sun climbed as they worked, warming the air and threatening to dry out the concrete before they got the posts set properly. Webber and Tomás disappeared for a break around noon, taking the truck, leaving Gabe behind.

  “Sure you don’t want to come?” Tomás offered before they drove off. Nice kid.

  “Nope. Thanks.” Gabe had plans for lunch. “You could bring me back a burger, though. And another for the dog.”

  “That’s a pit bull, man. You sure one burger will be enough?”

  “It’ll have to be, until I get to the store to buy kibble.”

  In the meantime, the mutt was filling up on Jane’s cat food.

  “Okay.”

  Gabe handed a twenty to Tomás through the open window.

  “I thought Jane was paying you in sandwiches,” Webber said from the driver’s side.

  Gabe shook his head. “I don’t expect her to feed me all the time.”

  Webber grinned. “Maybe she’ll pay you back some other way.”

  Another woman, another time, Gabe would have laughed and agreed. Hell, he’d even teased her about it.

  With everybody listening in.

  His mistake.

  She had to live here, on this island where everybody knew everybody else. She deserved better than to have her name linked with his.

  Don’t react. Don’t overreact. Anything you say will only make the talk worse. He gritted his teeth, locking the words behind them.

  But his body language must have done some talking for him, because Webber lifted his hands from the steering wheel, palms out in the age-old gesture of appeasement. “No offense, man. She’s a nice girl.”

  She was nice. And kind and soft and sweet and sexy as hell. According to Kate, she’d already been married to some scumball in prison, yet she’d managed to get out of that relationship and make something of this place. Make something of herself.

  He unlocked his jaw. “Too nice for me,” he said lightly.

  Too good for me.

  The truck drove away.

  Gabe turned on the outside hose to wash his hands. The dog lapped water from his cupped hands before it lunged, swiping its wet tongue over Gabe’s face.

  He sputtered, pushing it aside. “Hey.”

  The dumb mutt barked, like this was some game he’d invented for its amusement. Lunge. Lick. Bark.

  “Knock it off.”

  They wrestled. The hose dropped. The dog danced, splashing water everywhere.

  “Stupid bastard,” Gabe said, straightening with a final pat. “I suppose you’ll want a water bowl and chew toys next.”

  The dog lolled its tongue, grinning.

  Gabe looked at the sky. Time to get to work.

  He strode up the bakery steps, doing his best to wipe his boots, leaving chunks of mud on the front doormat. Shit. Dirt streaked the thighs of his jeans. His shirt was wet, too.

  Jane, behind the counter, looked fresh and sweet. He wanted to get his hands on her white apron and mess her up.

  She glanced over as the bells above the door jangled. Her eyes skated over his torso before she jerked her gaze back to his face. A blush stormed her cheeks.

  Well, well. He fought a grin. Maybe the wet T-shirt wasn’t so bad, after all.

  “Gabe. What can I do for you?” she asked.

  The bakery breathed around them, releasing the warm scent of vanilla, rich chocolate, and pungent coffee. The hunger stirring his gut became a throb. He wanted to take a bite of something. Someone. Jane.

  Jerking his head toward the window, he said, “I’m here to look at your space.”

  “Thank you, but . . . Can’t it wait? It’s lunchtime.”

  He looked around. Sure enough, about a third of the pretty painted tables were occupied, mostly by women, most of them staring.

  He liked women, but he was clearly outnumbered. He stuck his thumbs in his jeans, stubbornly standing his ground. “That’s why I’m here. I want to take some measurements while the guys are at lunch. I won’t get in your way.”

  She frowned. Hell. She was going to throw him out. “What about your lunch?”

  Not throwing him out. Nope. Not at all. She was concerned about him.

  Or concerned about having to feed him. Let’s not lose our heads here.

  He grinned at her. “Tomás is bringing me something. I’m good.”

  He was great. He was in. He pulled the tape measure from his pocket, aware of her watching him as he crossed to the far wall, as he stretched to measure the height of the ceiling, as he crouched to run the tape along the floor. He turned, angling his body for her. Possibly he even flexed a little. Look all you want, cupcake.

  He felt her come up behind him, a subtle rise in temperature, a whiff of cinnamon and sugar floating on the air. He took a deep breath, his muscles swelling for her attention.

  “Why are you measuring the whole wall? You said the door wouldn’t take up more than two tables.”

  He exhaled. That’s right, dickhead, she’s watching to make sure you don’t screw up. “When it’s installed, yeah. But I need to build a frame first to brace the weight of the roof when I take out those windows.”

  Her brows pleated. “But you’ll take it down tonight, won’t you? After the door is in?”

  She wasn’t busy enough that the loss of a few tables would make a damn bit of difference. But . . . Okay. He could see how it might bother her, having some stranger messing up her space, knocking a hole in her wall. He knew how it felt to have everything you’d worked for wrested away. Maybe she needed reassurance. Maybe she wanted to reassert control.

 
; “I can. Or I can leave it up until the inside wall is finished. If I tack up some plastic, it would keep most of the mess out of your shop.”

  Those big gray eyes regarded him gravely. “That’s very thoughtful.”

  “Hey, I’m a thoughtful guy.”

  Her gaze stayed steady on his. The corners of her mouth curved in a tiny smile. “You know, I think you might be.”

  She retreated behind the counter, leaving him stunned and staring after her.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME Webber and Tomás were packing to go, the side yard of Jane’s Sweet Tea House resembled the bombed-out rubble of an Iraqi town. Swathes of plastic and rocks covered the ground where the new deck would go. Piles of lumber, dirt, and sand edged the perimeter.

  Progress, Gabe thought with satisfaction, stretching his tired muscles.

  He wondered if Jane would see it that way.

  Webber emerged from the construction trailer. “We’re outta here.”

  Tomás waved, pitching an empty water bottle to the ground with the construction debris before heading to the truck.

  Gabe thought of Jane’s neat-as-a-pin bakery, the planters bright with flowers on the front porch. Imagined her reaction to trash practically on her doorstep. “Pick it up,” he said quietly.

  “What?” Tomás asked.

  Gabe sighed. The boy wasn’t much older than Gabe had been when he reported to Parris Island. He jerked his chin, indicating the discarded plastic bottle.

  Tomás grinned and scooped it up, shooting it overhead in the direction of the trash can like a basketball player at the buzzer. It rattled to the ground. Close enough.

  “Boss says he’ll be by later with the door.” Webber winked. “Have fun tonight.”

  The truck rumbled away, giving a wide berth to some kids walking three abreast along the side of the road. On their way home from school, Gabe guessed. They were messing around the way boys do, with large gestures and piping voices that wouldn’t change for at least a few more years.

  As Gabe watched, the big boy in the Charlotte Panthers cap said something to the small, skinny one.

  The little kid’s hands curled into fists. The third boy bumped his arm, nudging between them. Normal kid stuff, Gabe told himself. Nothing to do with him, nothing he had to get involved in.

  Panthers Hat said something else, and the smaller boy dropped his book bag on the grass and lunged, knocking his pal in the middle to the ground. The big kid fended him off, laughing.

  Gabe laid his two-by-four on the ground. “Hey, guys.”

  The three boys looked over, startled.

  “We got a problem here?” Gabe asked.

  The kid on the ground scrambled to his feet.

  “This little twerp shoved me,” the Panthers fan said.

  The little twerp was red-faced and breathing hard, clearly close to tears.

  “He hurt you?” Gabe asked.

  “Hell, no,” the bigger kid said, affronted.

  “Then stop whining. And you . . .” Gabe turned to the skinny boy. This wasn’t his first fight, Gabe observed. He had a fat lip, still scabbing over, and a bruise on his cheek. “What are you, stupid? This kid’s twice your size. He’ll kick your ass.”

  “Yeah, twerp,” the big kid said.

  Gabe shot him a look.

  The kid turned pale. Any second now he’d start bawling for his mother.

  Gabe shook his head in self-disgust. Big tough Marine terrifies nine-year-old boy. Wouldn’t Officer Clark love to hear that one?

  This was why he should never get involved.

  The bakery door banged open.

  Jane stood on the porch. “Aidan! What happened? Are you all right?”

  The skinny boy hung his head, his brown fringe of hair falling in his eyes, his shoulders rising around his ears.

  Busted. All of them.

  “He started it,” Panthers Hat muttered.

  Yeah, it’s the little kid’s fault, Gabe wanted to say, but as the only other adult present, he figured that probably wasn’t appropriate. “You know these kids?”

  “Ryan Nelson, Christopher Poole, and Aidan.” Jane met his gaze, her soft chin lifting slightly. “Aidan’s my son.”

  Her son. Hell.

  Gabe looked at the skinny kid with the bangs. “Nice to meet you, Aidan.”

  Aidan scowled.

  “Does somebody want to tell me what’s going on?” Jane asked.

  Aidan cast Gabe a wild look.

  Gabe could relate. He remembered—God, did he remember—what it was like when the adults around you didn’t understand, when you were always getting into fights, when your own mother was disappointed in you.

  Aidan held his gaze, his expression caught between furious and pleading.

  Yeah, Gabe remembered.

  “Oh, you know,” Gabe said, although he was pretty sure Jane didn’t have a clue. “Just guy stuff.”

  Eight

  JANE LOVED HER customers.

  But at the end of the day, she wanted them all to go home.

  At the table she reserved for the island’s seniors, old Leroy Butler was working his way slowly through a slice of carrot cake and the daily Sudoku. A group of teenagers sprawled around the two four-tops in the corner, pretending to study.

  Jane knew they were only here because they didn’t have anything better to do. Nowhere else to go.

  Like poor Aidan, settled in the corner, smearing cookie crumbs over his spelling homework.

  And, yes, okay, there was that pang. She had built this bakery from—well, from scratch, taking on a terrifying amount of debt to start, working all hours while Aidan napped in his crib or played behind a makeshift barrier of flour sacks. No matter how exhausted she was, or how much Aidan’s presence sometimes interrupted her work, she took a bone-deep satisfaction in knowing that she could keep her baby with her, she could be the mother her own mother had chosen not to be. Jane’s Sweet Tea House was her dream, made in the image of the home she had yearned for as a child, full of warmth and acceptance and the smell of baking cookies.

  She wanted desperately to re-create that mother-child bond, to get it right at last, from the other side. But the older Aidan got, the less confident she was. Jane had no model for how to be a mother to a growing boy now that hanging out at the bakery with Mom wasn’t cool anymore.

  Other children had parents who worked, of course. Christopher’s mom was a teacher, his dad, Jimmy, a park ranger. Cynthie Lodge, another single mom on the island, had two kids, held down two jobs, and was going to school for an associate’s degree in dental hygiene. So, yes, Wonder Woman. But then, Cynthie could count on her boyfriend’s support and her mother’s help.

  Travis hadn’t liked it when Jane started working. Your job is taking care of me, he had said, his eyes glittering. All of a sudden that’s not good enough for you?

  At the time, with bills stacking up and the eyes of the town on her, she had really believed she didn’t have a choice. They needed the money.

  But there was no escaping the fact that Jane’s job had contributed to their marital problems.

  Maybe her dreams were selfish. Maybe Travis had sensed even then that there was a small part of Jane that wanted to escape what her life had become, that was relieved to slip out of their apartment every day to wash dishes and scrub vegetables in the Brunswick’s kitchen. Maybe he realized that her job gave her a measure of freedom, a sense of worth. She knew he resented it when she started to bring home more money than he did.

  And maybe Lauren was right, and the nights when Travis drank too much and exploded had nothing to do with Jane, with what she did or didn’t do.

  Jane topped off Leroy’s coffee and straightened, her free hand rubbing the small of her back.

  Thank goodness for her dad. Maybe Hank wasn’t very good at hugging or talking or doing laundry or braiding hair. But he took Jane in when Travis left them, right after Aidan was born. When she got up at four in the morning to go to the bakery, when she worked late
at night, when she drove to the mainland to deliver someone’s wedding cake, he never complained about watching his grandson.

  Today, though, Hank’s shift didn’t end until five, and Jane was closing alone.

  Or not closing.

  Not exactly alone, either.

  The bells over the door jangled, and Gabe strode in, bringing the smells of the outside with him.

  She shivered in awareness.

  He cocked his head, his long hair free around his lean face. “You ready for me?”

  Her mouth dried. The rest of her flooded with heat. So ready. Not ready. What was the question again?

  “I can get started anytime.” Gabe smiled. “Sam dropped off your door.”

  Of course. The door. Her construction project. Jane pulled herself together. “I still have customers.”

  Gabe spared a glance toward the tables of teens, Leroy with his newspaper, Aidan with his homework. “Looks to me like you’re subsidizing study hall.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said honestly. “It doesn’t cost me anything to have them here. As long as there aren’t paying customers waiting for a table.”

  He stuck his thumbs into his belt loops. “You still have to pay rent.”

  He’d surprised her. Again. Most people assumed that buying a cookie or a cup of coffee entitled them to sit in the shop all day.

  “There’s not much for teenagers to do on the island in the off-season. No malls. No multiplexes.”

  “They’ve got a whole beach right on their doorstep.”

  “It’s still too cold to swim without a wetsuit. At least here they’re warm and with their friends. Hey, Leroy.” She turned to smile at the older man. “Can I box up that leftover cake for you?”

  Leroy Butler shook his head. “Didn’t leave anything but crumbs today.”

  “Then how about a cookie to take home? On me.”

  “That would be real nice. Thanks.” Leroy glanced at Gabe. “Everything all right?”

  The old sweetheart. He was looking out for her. She patted his arm. “Everything’s fine. Gabe here is doing a little work for me.” She handed Leroy the bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

  “So do you babysit the whole island?” Gabe asked when Leroy had left. “Or just everybody who comes in?”