MICAH (A California Dreamy Novel Book 3) Read online

  She shook her head. “Tweezers and I are not good friends. Take a look at these.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “One time in ninth grade and never again. Tweezers are devices of torture. That’s their sole purpose.”

  “Not when they’re in the right hands.”

  “What? You’re an expert?”

  “The best,” he assured her.

  She folded her arms over her chest and tucked her hands into her armpits. “By whose standards?”

  “Two squirmy, never-sit-still six year olds.”

  “Who?”

  “My nephews. Twin imps always into some kind of adventure. I’m really good with a Band-Aid and Neosporin, too.”

  “You spend a lot of time with your nephews?”

  “I try to. Now open up.”

  “You don’t have children of your own?”

  He looked directly into her eyes. They were a shade of blue-green that reminded Micah of tropical oceans. They were also filled with apprehension and not a little cunning.

  “You’re stalling.”

  “Definitely.”

  “You know something has to be done.”

  She nodded.

  “How do you plan to write if you can’t use your hands?”

  He watched her resistance begin to loosen. The skin around her eyes eased and her hands slipped from her armpits.

  “Or feed yourself? Bathe? Use the toilet—”

  “All right already.” Her breath came out in a rush. She opened her hands and held them up. “But you better be really good.”

  “I’ve never had a complaint.”

  She pursed her lips and Micah seriously thought about kissing her. “I bet.”

  “I was still talking about six year olds, but since you introduced the subject of sex, I haven’t had any complaints in that area either.”

  “The subject of sex?”

  “That snort held a definite double meaning. So did the tone of your voice just then. And, by the way, you shouldn’t wager anything you can’t bear to lose.”

  Denial trembled on her lips but she had the sense or the honesty not to let the words drop.

  “I’d rather go back to six year olds and your police work or lack of it.”

  “Good idea. My nephews are in that daredevil, super hero phase still. They run around the house with towels tied around their necks and save my sister from multiple household disasters daily.”

  Emme laughed. “I don’t have any nieces or nephews yet.”

  “But you’re looking forward to it.” He applied the tweezers with a light touch and plucked—one, two, three slivers from her skin and not so much as a gasp from Emme.

  Emme nodded. “My sister-in-law will be first. She really wants a baby and put that on hold when she met my brother.”

  “She was going to have one without a husband?” Micah heard the surprise in his voice and tried to keep his concern out of it.

  “Definitely.” Micah plucked and removed another sliver. “She’s older than me, established in her career. She wanted the whole package—marriage and then baby—but it didn’t happen for her, so she decided to take matters into her own hands. My brother teases her, says she was carrying around a catalogue of donors when he met her.”

  Micah shook his head. “Single parenthood is not easy.”

  Emme tilted her head back and regarded him. “Sounds like you’re talking from experience.”

  “My sister is a single mom. She’s got it down now, but at first—” He winced when he thought about the first few months following his brother-in–law’s death. Crista had woke up crying and fallen asleep the same way. But each new day, as the babies grew inside her, so had hope. “She was a mess.”

  “It wasn’t by choice then—single parenting?”

  “Definitely not. Sam—my brother-in-law—was killed in a car accident when Crista was four months pregnant.”

  He caught her gaze and watched her eyes soften.

  “You’re not going to cry are you?”

  She sniffed but denied such a reaction. “You’ve been helping her. That’s why you know all about splinters and other boo-boos.”

  “I’ve been being family. We all have. That’s what family is all about.”

  She nodded and when she spoke he could tell by the soft quality of her voice that she had tumbled back into her own memories. “Yes, you’re right about that.”

  “You have a tight family?” He already knew the answer to this but prodded anyway.

  “Yes, and I’m grateful for it. Really. But it was getting a little claustrophobic for me.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged but the movement was awkward and stiff. “I’ve been through a few disappointments.”

  “And they rallied around you?”

  “Yes. And it’s the best feeling in the world.” She sighed and her breath fanned his face and kicked his pulse up a notch. “Until I was ready to move on and they. . .”

  “Were afraid to let you?” He finished with one hand and moved onto the other.

  “Maybe. Or maybe they don’t trust my judgment.”

  “Why do you say that?” He’d conducted surveillance on Emme for nearly two weeks before heading to the Sierras. She hadn’t dated. There had been no late-night bootie calls. No deliveries of flowers or anything else. She hadn’t visited bars or even the local gym. Other than hitting Whole Foods a few times for fresh produce and delicacies from their bakery, she’d pretty much worked out her notice at Cyclical and packed up her condo.

  Her teeth sawed at her bottom lip. “I shouldn’t have said it. I mean, I’m probably being unfair. It’s just that, they wanted me to stay in my comfortable job, my cush condo, my monotonous routine. . .”

  “They’re worried about you giving it all up to write the great American novel?”

  She snorted. “They don’t know about that. Not yet. And that’s probably a good thing.”

  “Having trouble getting started?”

  “A little,” she confessed. “But I’m not giving up.”

  He nodded, recognizing the determination in her voice, and tried a different angel, “They didn’t want you to put your life on hold and head to the Sierras?”

  “That’s just it,” she began eagerly, her small hand curling around his wrist. Her eyes were equally earnest as they sought his. “My life isn’t on hold. I’m finally moving forward. Doing what I’ve always wanted to do but didn’t have the courage to until now.”

  “Why now?”

  Her cheeks colored but she held his gaze. “What could be worse than being left at the altar?” she posed. “I mean, even if I’m a flying failure and this novel flops, at least I’ve flown. I’ve felt the wind under my wings. I’ve soared.” Her eyes shone with excitement and it got Micah thinking about the sultry turn they would take if he kissed her. And he realized he very much wanted to do that, to taste her lips and watch her gaze heat with passion. “I didn’t get that chance with Alan.”

  “Alan?”

  “My fiancée.”

  “The coward who left you at the altar,” he corrected.

  “Yes, him,” she said. “I like your description of him a lot better.”

  “Were you devastated, Emme?”

  He could tell that emotion stuck in her throat and she swallowed once before answering. “Yes. I loved him. Or I thought I did.”

  “But he didn’t love you?”

  “No.”

  “And you found that out on your wedding day?”

  “No. I knew it before that. I just didn’t want to believe it.” She shrugged and admitted, “I was a wimp. I wanted him to love me. I wanted the happily ever after. And I definitely didn’t want to call it off after the invitations had been sent.”

  He nodded. Micah understood public humiliation. He understood betrayal and he’d even played a role for a few years hoping he could become what he wasn’t—a follower. Leaving the military had been a necessity. He’d constantly butted heads with authority, struggled with protocol when it
endangered civilians and troops and did not maintain a belief system that if you were bigger you were better. If he had re-upped he probably would have been dishonorably discharged.

  “So you see,” she continued, “I’m as guilty as he was. I think I stopped loving him the moment I started questioning his motives.”

  “He wanted to marry you, but not for love?”

  Emme hopped off the tailgate and placed her hands on her hips.

  “You are looking at prime sugar-mama material,” Emme proclaimed and winced though Micah suspected she thought she was smiling. It hurt her too much, though, to blow it off.

  “He wanted your money?”

  “He wanted the lifestyle my money would give him.”

  “Bastard.”

  “He thinks so too.”

  Micah took a step closer. “And what do you think, Emme?”

  “Yeah, bastard about covers it. He knew from the beginning that he didn’t love me and never would.” She took a step backwards and shrugged her shoulders but there was a wealth of vulnerability in the gesture and not the casual dismissal she’d probably thought she affected. “But it released me and I came here to become the woman I was always meant to be. Strong and fearless.”

  Chapter Three

  Emme stared at Micah, hands clasped behind her back and shifting from one foot to the

  other.

  She was nervous. Micah was pretty good at gauging a person’s feelings and right about now he suspected Emme was cursing herself for speaking so freely.

  “I talk too much,” she told him. “I bet you do that for your sister—listen to her troubles, commiserate. You’re good at it.”

  “Too good?” he teased.

  “Yes.”

  His smile deepened. “Crista is the only girl in a family of seven boys.”

  “Eight kids?” Emme’s tone said WOW.

  “Yep. A big Mexican family. Well, Mexican-American. My mom is Irish.”

  “Seven boys and one girl.” Her expression was all sympathy.

  “We try,” Micah said. “My brothers and I are each good at one girly thing a piece,” he revealed with pride.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Girly thing?” She sounded dubious. “What is that?”

  Micah laughed softly so that it rumbled in his chest. He liked talking to Emme. She was smart and funny and charming. And, he reminded himself again, as off limits as radioactive material.

  “You know, I’m the listener. My brother Thomas—” Micah raised his hand in promise, “honest to God he had a manicure and pedicure just to get Crista out of the house. She was in a deep funk then and too big with the babies to reach her toenails. He took her to the salon. I think he still goes with her every once in a while but he’d die before he’d admit it. Lucas cooks and when he does it’s a celebration. He kept Crista eating and he still stops by every week or so and gives her a break in the kitchen. Last night he and the boys made chicken aliens and homemade potato saucers. Cedric dances. Flamingo, tango, salsa and that means Crista gets out of the house. Esau does arts and crafts—the manly kind, but still it requires fabric and stitches and embroidery floss.” His smile grew into a grin. “He and Crista made pillows for the boys’ beds. They’re in the shape of airplanes. Teague learned to love karaoke. Mateo taught her to raise orchids—not grow, you know. Orchids are a rare genus of flower and have to be nurtured. We’ve been doing this since we were kids.”

  Emme leaned against the tailgate of his truck, staring up at him with wide eyes and an open mouth, and Micah was hit with the deep desire to slip his tongue between her lips. To taste her, duel with her, claim her.

  Damn, he did not need this attraction.

  “You’re shocked.” Need made his voice deeper and he cleared it from his throat.

  “Stunned,” she mumbled. “But I shouldn’t be. Ethan listened to my tales of woe in high school and he was really good at giving advice.”

  “Ethan’s your brother?”

  “Yes. And a. . .guy. You know, played football, served in the Marines, man of steel type of stuff, but he cared, even back then when a lot of the boys in school were counting up their Xs and Ys.”

  Micah felt himself smiling from the inside-out. Damn, Emme had a way of touching him with sunshine.

  “I confess it wasn’t our idea,” Micah said. “When we were still too young to rebel, our mom started training us. In the kitchen—cooking, clearing, ironing. In the stores—we’re all accomplished shoppers. Not that we like it, but we know how to look like we do.” He assumed a mannequin posture that included a banal smile and an imaginary shopping bag hanging from his arm. The pose looked ridiculous on a man of his size and sheer masculinity and Emme laughed.

  “You were good sports.”

  “I guess we figured family was worth it.”

  “Yeah, us too.” Her smile faded a little. “But we’ve been through a lot.”

  “Human condition,” Micah agreed. “We’ve weathered some storms.”

  “Where are you in the line up?”

  “Fourth, closest in age to Crista.”

  “Which naturally made you the listener. How is she doing today?”

  “She’s resilient. And compassionate. And tenacious. We own a security firm together.”

  “Security like stock market?”

  “No. Like you have a breach in security at your firm or you received threats of harm.”

  He watched Emme closely for her reaction. Interest flared in her eyes which was about as far as you could get from a rabbit caught in the snare look.

  Her interest quickly morphed into excitement.

  “Is she like Lara Croft?”

  Micah puzzled over the name. He’d heard it before, it teased the neurons of his memory, but he couldn’t place it.

  She rolled her eyes. “You know, sort of a super hero, but without any unusual powers. She’s buff, has a body that would stop a bull dozer and a speeding bullet?”

  Micah threw his head back and laughed. In fact, it was so funny the muscles in his abdomen protested and he lifted his hands to cradle it. Emme was waiting for him when he was finished. And she wasn’t amused.

  “Women can be ripped you know.”

  “I know.”

  “We can be as strong as men.”

  “Some men,” he agreed. “You don’t have a Napoleon thing going on, do you?”

  “Napoleon?”

  “Yeah, small stature?”

  “I think he was more worried about his small. . .member.”

  “Member? What kind of club are we talking about?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Could you spell it out for me? You are the writer.”

  “P-E-N-I-S.”

  Micah choked.

  “What? You thought I wouldn’t do it?”

  “No, I hoped you would.”

  “Are we going to talk about historical porno again?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  Damned if he didn’t see a flicker of interest in her eyes, but the moment was quickly chased by renewed excitement.

  “I’d rather know if Crista is a real life super hero.”

  “She has the heart of a champion,” Micah said. “That’s more important than physical prowess. But yes, she has that, too.”

  Emme sighed. “Lucky.”

  “This is a real hang-up for you,” he said. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you’re perfect just the way you are?”

  “Sure. My family. But I want to feel perfect.”

  “And your idea of perfect right now is a toned body and the ability to chase the wind?”

  “And scale a mountain—preferably Everest—lift an iceberg, stop the earth on its axis and turn back time.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and eyed her with pure speculation. “Keeping this real,” he stressed. “I can help you with toning. I can teach you form and efficiency in your run. I can even help you build some noticeable muscle.”

  “Why would you want to do that?
”

  He took a long time considering her question so she prompted, “I mean, you’re done rescuing damsels in distress,” she reminded him. “Not that I am one.”

  “Of course not,” he agreed. “And I’m offering because I’m good at it and you’re desperate. Desperate people hurt themselves.” He lifted his eyes to the roof of her rental. “And sometimes others.”

  It would also give him a valid reason to stick close to her, which would make his job a lot easier. The thought of that—the closer part—caused him some concern but he pushed past it. He was a professional. He possessed self-control and determination. “I’ll be working out anyway,” he told her. “And I’m taking it slow for now. It’d be a perfect fit.”

  And before he caught himself, the words prompted his eyes to shift over her body and dwell on her curves. He didn’t doubt that they could come together in an explosive way. He was even beginning to suspect that the experience might be a top of the mountain moment. Too bad neither of them would ever know it.

  “OK,” she accepted. “When do we start?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want time to think about my offer?”

  “Are you kidding? From a man who claims his rescuing days are over, I’m worried you’ll change your mind if I don’t move now.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “What is it exactly we’ll be doing?”

  “Stretching, a short jog—maybe three miles—and we’ll break it up with boot camp-style moves.”

  “Boot camp?”

  “Crunches, lunges, push-ups. Every half-mile.”

  She wasn’t daunted. He could tell her mind was running through the possibilities but she didn’t quake. She nodded, accepting the challenge.

  “Okay. I think I can do that.”

  “Always up for a challenge, Emme?”

  “I am now,” she assured him. She turned and took a few steps toward her side of the property line. But she wasn’t done.

  “Micah, why did you stop saving damsels in distress?”

  “You can’t really save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. I learned that the hard way.”

  Micah had offered Felicity a life very different from the one she’d chosen. And in his darkest moments he’d reminded himself of that. Felicity had had a choice. She’d had a safe place, her needs and desires met. And still, she’d chosen family, the ways in which she was raised, a life of crime. And not robbery or forgery or even embezzlement, but offenses so much deeper, more personal, and because of that, the damage she’d caused others was something that could not be undone.