The Trouble with Josh. Marilyn Pappano
the door behind him.
Candace stood there a long time, until her chills were gone, until the cold fresh scent of the rain gave way to the RV’s usual citrus-and-vanilla potpourri. She rinsed the two mugs, then turned on the tape deck, sending the relaxing sounds of the ocean through the motor home. Grabbing her legal pad and an ink pen, as well as her quilt, she stretched out on the couch, plumped pillows behind her back and breathed deeply of potpourri and the faint hint of Josh.
She settled in for another Friday night alone.
Learn a useful skill.
Indulge in a lustful fantasy.
Josh followed the dirt road back to the highway, then sat there, engine idling for a moment. If he turned right, he could still make it to Tulsa in plenty of time to hook up with his buddies and do some much-needed relaxing. If he turned left, he could be home in ten or fifteen minutes and…and what? Spend the night alone watching TV? That was pathetic. Invite Theresa over? Maybe even sweet-talk her into cooking dinner for them, and then…
Something that felt a lot like guilt made him move uncomfortably on the seat. Theresa liked cooking, and she especially liked cooking for him. But, hell, there was just something wrong about calling her when he felt so damn…he-didn’t-even-know-what about Candace. Not interested. Not turned on.
Unsettled. That was as good a word as any. He wasn’t used to a beautiful woman being off-limits for any reason other than marriage—and Candace Thompson was definitely beautiful. If not for her history with Natalie, he would have already done things with her that would make a grown man blush. Instead, he wasn’t supposed to see her…talk to her…even think about wanting her.
He damn sure wasn’t supposed to go home with her or bandage her scrapes or touch her in a way that brought that soft, erotic whimper from her.
Clutching the steering wheel tighter, he turned right onto the highway, toward Tulsa, away from Candace. A night on the town, too much fun, too much to drink—all sounded pretty good at the moment.
And if he did it right, come tomorrow morning, he wouldn’t remember a damn thing about tonight.
“Your mother needs a book of stamps from the post office, and your brother wants this stuff.” Natalie slid a list bearing Tate’s writing across the kitchen table. “And here’s the grocery list. And can you drop off Jordan’s sports coat at the cleaners? He wants to take it back to school with him this weekend. Let’s see, is there anything else?”
It was a sunny, cool Monday morning, and given a choice, Josh would spend it on horseback. Not that his sister-in-law had given him a choice. Bossing him around came as naturally to her as it did to Tate and their mother. It was a good thing for the family that being bossed around came naturally to him.
“I can’t think of anything,” she said as the phone rang. Being closest, she rose to answer, said hello, then frowned and hung up.
“Nobody there?”
“No,” she said flatly. “Oh, can you tell Martha to go ahead with the ice cream cake we talked about? I’ll need it Saturday morning.”
Couldn’t that be done by phone? he wanted to ask. Better yet, couldn’t they skip the ice cream cake altogether and order a regular cake at the grocery store bakery? Of course, if he asked, Natalie would want to know why, and then he’d have to tell her that Candace was working at U-Want-It. Somehow that hadn’t been made quite clear in their shouting match—er, conversation—last week, and no doubt that would somehow be his fault.
“Anything else?” he asked as he stood up.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then I’ll be back in a couple hours.” He folded the lists and slid them into his hip pocket, grabbed his nephew’s coat from the back of a chair and picked up his own jacket. He was passing the wall-mounted phone when it rang again, and though Natalie moved as if to answer, he picked it up. “Hello.”
There wasn’t silence on the line—he could hear voices in the background, the sound of a bell—but whoever had called apparently didn’t want to talk. After a few seconds the line went dead. “Nobody again,” he said as he hung up, then headed for the door. “See you, Nat.”
He’d made the drive into town so many thousands of time that he swore he could do it blindfolded. He didn’t have to think about traffic, his speed or where to turn—it was as if his truck was on autopilot—which meant he had all that time to let his mind wander.
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