The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance) Page 9

  “Straightforward talk is a breath of fresh air in this politically correct society. How can we discuss weighty matters if we’re afraid to be frank?” Olivia hesitated, as if considering, then set down her cup with a decisive click. “I’d like to invite you to join me and some friends of mine in our book group.” When a few drops of coffee splashed from Priss’s cup, Olivia raised a hand. “Now, it’s nothing formal, or special. We just get together once a month to discuss the book we’re reading. We usually choose books with a philosophical bent, which is why I thought you’d be interested.”

  A shower of glittery sparks went off in Priss’s brain. What an opportunity! Then an M-80 exploded in her stomach. An opportunity to make an ass of yourself. She shuffled her meager repertoire of polite phrases to convey no while still sounding grateful.

  Olivia said, “We read The Handmaid’s Tale last month. This month, we’re reading Lord of the Flies.”

  Regret and temptation warred in her chest. “Ooh, I loved that book.”

  “We’ve all read it before, of course, but I thought that it would be interesting to read it again and discuss what was new for us.”

  She couldn’t possibly do it. In a roomful of cultured ladies, she’d stand out like a homeless person on a Paris runway.

  But Lord of the Flies had always been one of her favorite classics. How could she resist? She squinted across the table. Maybe there wouldn’t be time to reread it, and that would be that. “When is the meeting?”

  “In three weeks.”

  Priss knew it would seem rude, but she had to know. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  Olivia laughed a tinkling sound of amusement, soothing as wind chimes. “Oh, my dear, I have to admit to being fascinated by you. You’re such a dichotomous conundrum.”

  Priss rolled the pretty words around the palette of her mind, enjoying them. What the hell. She’d already made a poor impression on the male Preston. At worst, in three weeks, his mother would share it.

  It was worth taking a chance, even if imagining doing it made her hands shake. Priss smiled across the table. “I’d love to.”

  Oh, I’m so going down in flames.

  * * *

  “ALL THE TESTS show that Ignacio is a bright child,” the principal said. “The subjects he likes, he does well in. Math and science mostly, although Mrs. Devlin tells me he shows artistic talent, as well.”

  Priss sat in the elementary-school office, trying to get her head around the fact that she was there as a parent. When she’d stepped into the one-story redbrick building, her past had overtaken the present. The smell of kids, paper and the wax they polished the floor with opened a portal to the underworld of her past. She shook her head to clear it.

  “What subjects isn’t he doing well in?”

  The careworn brunette glanced at the open folder before her. “Social studies and all language arts— spelling, handwriting and, most especially, reading. I think all these problems stem from his lack of reading skills. Ms. Hart, he’s reading more than a grade below his peers.” She took off her glasses and laid them on the desk. “Also, this year Ignacio has been acting out quite a bit. He’s been disciplined for talking in class, fighting during recess and throwing food in the cafeteria. This is not unusual for a child who has gone through what he has recently—his mother being sick and then passing.” A shadow of pink rose in her cheeks. “I’m sorry for your loss, as well.”

  “Um. Thanks. I’ll see that he calms down now that he’s settled with me. We’ll work on reading together, too.” She stood. The sooner she got away from schoolhouse memories the better. “Thank you for your time.”

  The principal stood. “Let me know if we can do anything to help. We have special programs—”

  “No, I’ve got it covered. Thanks.” More government help, they didn’t need. Priss shook the woman’s proffered hand, spun on her heel and scuttled out.

  Closing the door behind her, she checked the time. School would let out in a few minutes. She passed a hallway on her way to the front doors. Under the squeak of chairs and teachers’ voices, she heard in her mind a wisp of laughter. Ugly, taunting laughter. The ghost of a pig-nosed blonde girl stalked out of the past and advanced down the hallway, lips tight and hate in her eyes.

  I’ll wait outside. Hunching her shoulders and turning away, Priss headed for the carefree sunshine splashing the world outside the heavy glass doors.

  Minutes later, safely ensconced in Mona, she heard the bell announcing the end of the school day. Kids poured out of the doors, chattering and laughing. They walked to the chugging buses or to the line of cars pulled up in front of the school.

  Priss saw Nacho between the two boys she’d seen that first day. His “gang.” Heads together in deep discussion, they walked toward the schoolyard. She stood on Mona’s seat to be seen above the trolling cars and yelled over the din, “Hey, Nacho!”

  His head jerked up and he looked around. When he saw her waving madly, he spoke to his friends, bumped fists, then walked to the car. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I had a meeting with your principal.”

  He opened the door and slouched into the seat, apparently incurious about the results of the meeting.

  “Seat belt,” she reminded, checking the rearview mirror for a break in the parking-lot traffic. “Where were you going? Home is the opposite way.”

  “We were just hanging out. No big deal.” His face was closed, hard. “Why are you checking up on me all the time? I don’t need a babysitter.”

  She saw a space and gunned the car in Reverse. “Good thing, because I don’t do babysitting.” The lady in a Lexus SUV blatted her horn. If she’d have been alone, Priss would have flipped the woman the bird. But she was now a role model.

  Me, a role model. This kid is in trouble. When they’d inched their way to the exit, she turned left.

  “Home is the opposite way,” he mocked.

  “We’re not going home.” She sped up as the traffic cleared.

  Nacho sat up. “Where are we going?”

  “To the library.”

  He groaned. “Oh, no, not you, too?”

  Raising her voice over the wind, she said, “Me, too, what?”

  “Mom took me there all the time. Boooring.”

  Good to know Mom at least made the effort to improve his reading.

  “She was always looking up stuff on the computer. We spent hours and hours there.”

  “Looking up what?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Like I noticed.”

  Mom wasn’t a reader. As far as Priss knew, her mother had never stepped foot in a library. What would she have been looking up?

  “Can I just wait in the car?”

  She smiled at her brother’s long-suffering look. “You’d better get used to the place, dude. Libraries are one of my favorite places.”

  His theatrical sigh was so big it almost fogged the windshield.

  “How can a brother of mine not like to read?”

  “Half brother.”

  “Oh, then that explains it.” Smiling, she took a left into the parking lot.

  They walked to the tall front doors of the building, through its columned portico. “We won’t be long. I already know the book I want. Then we’ll pick out a couple for you.”

  “Uh-uh. I’m good.”

  “Not according to the principal, you’re not.” She opened the door, and held it, inhaling the heady scent of books and freedom. Libraries had been her sanctuary growing up, a safe haven and a portal to worlds that were far more exotic than the poor side of Las Vegas. Programmed from an early age, her nerves settled.

  She’d worked her way through the stacks, traveling everywhere: medieval castles, ranches, even other planets. And all for free. She inhaled. “You just haven’t found someth
ing to catch your interest yet. You will. Some of the best times I’ve ever had were reading books.”

  He sighed again. “Just because you have no life, why do you have to take me down with you?”

  When he rolled his eyes, she put a hand on the back of his neck and steered him inside. “You don’t know what you’re missing, but luckily you have me to show you the way.”

  * * *

  FIFTEEN MINUTES BEFORE opening, Adam scanned the store’s soda fountain. Priss sat at a table, nose in the Widow’s Grove Telegraph. He’d decided while shaving this morning that if he wanted to mitigate surprises in his life, he was going to have to stay close to Priss. At least that’s what he told himself in front of his bathroom mirror.

  But standing here, feeling a tugging in his gut like the low-level pull of a magnet, he had to admit that his decision to stay close to Priss, to get to know her, was about more than self-preservation. He may not approve of her brother, her attitude or her rough edges, but he couldn’t deny his attraction. And it wasn’t just her trim dancer’s body, made even sexier by the fact that she seemed totally unaware of it. Lately his mind kept returning to her like an unchecked item on a to-do list. She was absolute chaos to his orderly life. So what was it about Priss that drew him to her?

  Now that he finally quit avoiding and just asked the question, his mind spit out the answer. It was her differentness. Yeah, but you can’t get much more “different” than Sin, and the reaction there is not the same at all.

  Instead of carefully considering that revelation, he gave in to the tractor-beam pull. Crossing the floor, he slid into the chair opposite Priss.

  The paper rattled when she turned the page. He cleared his throat. “It looks like they haven’t caught the guy yet.”

  She peeked over the top of the paper. “What guy?”

  Pointing to the front-page story, he said, “The guy who’s been breaking into houses around town the past three months.”

  She closed the paper and glanced at the article. “Yeah, I read that. It’s weird that nothing is damaged or stolen, unless you count the food taken from the fridge.”

  He crossed his legs and tried to look nonchalant. “I heard you took my mother for coffee.”

  A wall fell, shuttering her expression. “I drove carefully, had her home in an hour and I didn’t corrupt her mind.”

  She must really think him an ass. “Mom has lots of friends, but they’re older so they aren’t up to more than stopping by her apartment for a bit. I know she doesn’t get out as much as she’d like. Thank you.”

  “Oh. I didn’t do it for you.” She flushed. “I mean, I was happy to do it. She’s a great lady and I enjoy her company.”

  She looked like an innocent little girl when she blushed. He knew not to be deceived, but he appreciated it, regardless. “So, how’s your brother doing?”

  “He hasn’t been in the store since that first day and he’s not bothering your mother.”

  He spread his hands and shrugged. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

  “Yeah, I see that.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m trying to figure out why.”

  He should have known she’d be suspicious. “Look, I came across a little...militant that day. I was pissed.”

  “Well, I was a little over the top, too.” She shifted in her seat. “I swear I didn’t know he had that magazine—never imagined he’d do something like that.” Her lips twisted in a wince, as if the words hurt. “But I’m on it now. He won’t be a problem.”

  He searched her intent green eyes. She meant it. “Has he always been a...challenge?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I met him for the first time at my mother’s funeral.”

  He uncrossed his legs and straightened. “How could you never have met your broth—”

  “But we have an understanding, now.” She reached for her purse, put the strap over her shoulder, and lifted her chin. “We’ll make this work.”

  “I’m sure you will.” He watched her fold the paper. Even her hands were different—long, elegant fingers with blunt-clipped nails. “Well, if he’s interested in softball, a new league will be starting up in the summer. I can get you the information, if you want.”

  She flashed a smile. “Thanks. I’ll ask him.” She stood and walked away.

  Adam sat, watching her go, surprised by his interest and dazzled by her smile.

  But there was wild in that smile, too. And he didn’t do wild. He slid his chair back, stood, walked to the drug counter and back to his to-do list.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT PRISS sat on the couch, bare feet tucked under her, reading. She glanced up every so often to the kitchen table, where Nacho was supposed to be reading, but was mostly just sighing and fidgeting. “Dude. Read.”

  She’d just gotten back to the castaways’ island when tap-tap-tapping intruded—Nacho’s heel against the rung of the chair. She put the book down. “Maybe it’ll help you get into the story if you read it out loud to me.”

  “No.” He ruffled the pages with one hand.

  “Yes.”

  He put his fists to his temples and stared down at the book.

  “Nacho—”

  He slammed the book shut. “This is so freaking lame. Who gives a crap about some Baggins dude? This guy writes like in another language.”

  Maybe The Hobbit wasn’t a good place to start. She’d fallen into the Middle Earth at Nacho’s age, but it might be too advanced for his reading level. She stood and walked to the small pile of library books on the counter. “Oh, here’s one I know you’ll like.”

  “I don’t want to read. I don’t like to read.”

  Now he was getting whiny. But if she could find one book to spark his interest it could change his whole opinion of reading. She ran her hand along the spine of the hardcover she held and bit back a retort. “Did you ever see Harry Potter?”

  He glared at her. “How many movies did you go to when you were growing up?”

  Of course he hadn’t. There was never money for extras in Cora’s house. “But it’s been on TV.”

  He sat, a perfect poster child of sullen. “Yeah, like we had cable.” He pulled his hand away from his face, palm up. “Hellllooo—rabbit ears?”

  “Oh, right.” She forced cheeriness in her voice. “That’s good, then, you’re in for a treat.” God, I sound like a detergent commercial.

  When she tried to put the book in his hands, he sat on them.

  She struggled to tamp down the irritation rising up cords in her neck, setting her teeth on edge. Instead of grinding them, she used them to bite her tongue. You vowed to be understanding and attentive, remember? All the things her mother hadn’t been.

  She took a deep breath. Then another. When she was calm enough that her voice wouldn’t break glass, she said, “Okay, then I’ll read to you.”

  He sat up. “What, do you think I’m a baby?”

  She managed to keep from saying the obvious. Making him madder wouldn’t help. “Of course you’re not. But I loved being read to. When you don’t have to worry about the words, you can make up a story picture in your head. And as you get better at reading on your own, you’ll eventually be able to do both at the same time.” She stepped to the couch, and patted the arm. “Come, sit. Get comfortable. You’re going to love this book. I just know it.”

  “If I haveta.” He walked over and plopped down on the couch, leaning his back against the cushioned arm. “But if you ever tell my homies you’re reading me bedtime stories...”

  “Hey, no one will hear it from me.” Holding a smile in, she sat on the other end of the couch, pulled down the throw from the back, and spread it over Nacho’s feet where they lay next to hers in the middle.

  He wasn’t as badass as he tried to appear. In fact, he was pretty adorable, with those dark eyes, long
lashes and widow’s peak. All he needed was some understanding and a little patience. Hopefully this gang-thing was only a phase.

  “Okay, be ready to meet a guy who’s got it pretty tough. His name is Harry, and he’s way cool.” She opened the book. “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much...”

  * * *

  NACHO REACHED DOWN to undo the clip on his backpack. “A guy I know stole these from a paint shop.” He upended the pack, spilling colorful spray cans into the weeds.

  “Aw, sweet!” Diego said.

  “Shut up, fool.” Joe scanned the abandoned field behind the warehouse. “You want to get caught?”

  When the shoplifting initiation failed, they’d chosen to tag this warehouse. It wasn’t far from school, and it sat off by itself at the end of a quiet street. Nacho picked up the orange, yellow and black cans. “You guys do your thing. I’ll be around the side.”

  Joe’s eyes widened. “If someone comes down the road or looks from the parking lot, they’re gonna see you.”

  Nacho took a deep breath, happy to see it made his chest pump up. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen. I’m fast. You guys hurry up. I’ll see you in a few.”

  He left his friends fighting over the remaining colors and walked around to the side of the warehouse. They’d decided what each would tag, and even practiced drawing the designs so they’d be faster today. Diego was painting a Beretta, with smoke coming out of the barrel. Joe was printing their gang name, Widow Makers, as if the gun was firing it.

  This is gonna be legendary. No one could know it was them, of course, but Nacho couldn’t wait to hear kids talk about this at school.

  He set down the other colors and came up holding only the black can. When Priss’s angry death-ray glare floated through his head, something uneasy squirmed in his chest. She’d be flaming pissed if she knew. He rubbed his breastbone with his fist.

  “She’ll never know.” He shook the can, scanning his canvas.

  CHAPTER SEVEN