A Maverick for the Holidays Page 8

  “Okay, the truth is, I miss them sometimes. They’ve found the loves of their lives, and sometimes I feel stuck in Neutral,” she said.

  “Just because you’re not racing forward doesn’t mean you’re stuck in Neutral,” he said as he pulled into the parking lot of the college library. “Look at how much you’re helping the kids at ROOTS. You’re making a difference in people’s lives. Hell, you’ve made a difference in my life,” he admitted.

  Her face brightened.

  “But don’t read anything into that,” he warned her.

  She bit her lip, but her eyes didn’t dim one bit. “Of course not,” she said. “Thanks for picking me up this morning.”

  “No problem. When do you need your next transfer?” he asked.

  “I’m good,” she said. “I’m hoping the garage will be able to fix my truck this morning.”

  He felt an irrational flash of disappointment. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “You coming to get me last night and picking me up this morning was a big deal. Your hero work is done, at least for now,” she said with a smile and leaned toward him. She pursed her lips and pulled back as if she remembered to stop behind the hard line he’d drawn.

  “Hope the caffeine doesn’t put you on the ceiling during your meeting with the veterans,” she said.

  He shook his head and grinned. “Nah, I’ve got time to crash and burn before then.”

  “You didn’t sleep well last night?” she asked, concern deepening her brown eyes.

  He shrugged. “It’s not that unusual.”

  “Is it because I dragged you out so late to help me?”

  “Nah,” he said. “I overdid my workout at the gym and was paying for it.”

  She frowned. “Don’t you have pain meds for that?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t use them. I don’t want to depend on them. Most of the time a hot shower does the job. I’ll slack off the next couple days.”

  She smiled. “You don’t know the meaning of slacking off, but if you hang around with me a little more, maybe you can learn how to be more of a slacker.” She opened the door and stepped outside.

  “Faker. You’re no slacker,” he said.

  “Have a nice day, Major,” she said and skipped through the snow to the library door.

  He rubbed his jaw then took a sip of the hazelnut coffee, staring at Angie until she disappeared from his view. He was starting to wonder if she was part fairy, and even he knew that was nuts.

  Chapter Six

  Two days later when Forrest hadn’t shown up at ROOTS or called her, Angie gave in and called him.

  “Forrest Traub,” he said in a croaky voice.

  “Oh, no, you’re sick,” she said. “That’s what I was afraid of. A bunch of the ROOTS kids have come down with something nasty. I’ll bring you some soup,” she said.

  “Not necessary. I’m getting better,” he said.

  “You sound horrible,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m bringing soup,” she told him.

  “Angie, don’t. I don’t want you to get this,” he said. “It sucks.”

  “I know, but I’ve already been exposed ten times over. I don’t get sick these days, thank goodness. When I was young, I came down with everything. I swear if it was anywhere in the state of Montana, it seemed to find me. I guess I built up immunity from that. So, I’ll be over in two hours. Go take a nap. Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

  “Nah, I’m fine,” he said and coughed.

  “Liar,” she said. “How about some throat lozenges and that stuff that numbs the back of your throat?”

  “Well, if you really don’t mind,” he said.

  “Not at all. Favorite juice?”

  “Orange,” he said.

  “Crackers?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Does your brother know you’re sick?” she asked, unsettled that it appeared that no one had checked in on him.

  “He and Antonia went to visit my parents. They’ll be back the day after tomorrow,” he said. “I’m helping with the horses and the ranch until then.”

  Horrified, she couldn’t hold back a sound of frustration. “You’ve been working the ranch while you’ve been sick?”

  “It’s not that big of a deal,” he croaked.

  “What is it with you? Are you one of those people who isn’t happy unless you’re chewing glass?” she asked.

  He gave a hoarse laugh. “Funny you should say that. That’s exactly how my throat feels.”

  “Two hours,” she said. “Take a nap.”

  Angie hustled to make a pot of regular chicken soup and chicken enchilada soup. She thought he might be ready for the latter when his condition improved. While baking a pan of brownies, she called a couple of the ROOTS teen guys and asked them to help out at the ranch while Forrest recovered.

  With the teens and soup in tow, she drove up to Forrest’s rooming house. She turned to Chad and Max. “I gotta warn you. He’s not going to want your help, but he needs it.”

  Chad, a fourteen-year-old, who had become deeply impressed with Forrest when he’d talked with the group, looked worried. “Should he be in the hospital?”

  “I hope not, but we’ll find out,” she said and got out of the truck. The boys helped her carry the soup and other necessities. She knocked on the front door.

  A couple seconds later, Forrest opened the door and she winced at the sight of him. His eyes were bloodshot with circles beneath and he was pale. “Oh my, you need to lie down. You look terrible.”

  He gave a grim half grin. “Thanks. You look great, too.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend,” she said and rushed inside with the boys. “Are you sure we shouldn’t take you to the doctor?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s viral,” he said. “Came on fast and hard and that’s what they do. Nice of all of you to bring the soup.”

  “And a few other things,” she said, guiding everyone to the small kitchen. “The boys are here to help with the horses.”

  Forrest shook his head. “I’m not sending them out there to shovel stalls. I can take care of that tomorrow.”

  “You must be counting on a miraculous recovery,” she said, not even trying to hide her doubt.

  “I don’t stay down long,” he told her. “I never have.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, but—”

  “Chad and I don’t mind shoveling stalls,” Max said. “We both have experience with it, so it’s not like it will take us long. Angie can give you some soup and maybe we can steal a couple brownies after we finish.”

  The two boys didn’t give Forrest much of a chance to argue as they raced out of the house. He frowned at Angie. “That wasn’t necessary,” he said.

  “Go sit down while I heat up some soup for you. What do you want to drink?” she asked as she warmed the soup in the microwave.

  “I’ve got some water,” he said, but didn’t follow her instructions to leave the room. “You did too much. It’s not like I’m on death’s door,” he said, his voice raw.

  “Maybe not, but you sure sound like it,” she said. “Do you want to eat in here at the table or in the den?”

  “Den,” he said and walked into the next room.

  She handed him the bowl of soup along with a few crackers. He took a spoonful and closed his eyes. When he sat that way for several seconds, she wondered if something was wrong. “Are you okay?”

  He opened his eyes and met her gaze. “This is the best soup in the world.”

  She smiled, feeling a rush of pleasure. “Well, that’s good to hear. It’s my mom’s recipe.” She sat beside him with her bag of goodies. “I’ve already put orange juice in the fridge. And some ginger ale, because ginger ale always tastes good when you’re sick. I put honey on your table, because a friend of mine told me that a spoonful coats your throat. Here’s something you spray to numb it and two different kinds of lozenges. Oh, and ibuprofin, which reduces swelling and fever,” she
said as she shook the box.

  “Are you sure you didn’t forget anything?”

  She frowned. “I hope not, but—”

  He waved his hand, interrupting her. “I was joking.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, go ahead and finish that soup. It seems to be making you feel better and that’s what’s important.” She got up and went to the kitchen, rummaging in his refrigerator to make sure he was adequately stocked. She poured a glass of ginger ale for him with ice and returned to the den to find he had demolished the soup.

  “More?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” he said, his voice sounding slightly less croaky. “I’ll wait a few minutes first.”

  She set the ginger ale on a coaster on the coffee table. “You know you need to keep drinking. I would have fixed you tea, but you don’t seem the type.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “Don’t get too close. I don’t want you to get sick.”

  “Oh, I don’t get sick,” she said.

  He shot her a doubtful glance. “You said that before. What?”

  “I really don’t. I got sick all the time as a child. I told you this on the phone. I don’t get sick anymore,” she said.

  “Must be nice,” he grumbled.

  “Clean living and positive thinking,” she said in a sly tone.

  “A saint,” he said.

  “I never said that,” she retorted. “My sister always told me to change my pillowcase every night when I was sick. I’ll change yours,” she said, rising.

  “I can do that,” he said.

  “But I’m here,” she said. “When you’re really starting to improve, that’s when you change your sheets.”

  “Sounds like a system,” he said.

  “You would have one too if you had a kid that got sick every time someone said boo,” she said as she left the den. She wandered down the hall to his bedroom and tried not to feel as if she were intruding. Opening the closet, she found a neatly folded stack of linens. She took a couple pillowcases and changed them with the current ones then returned to the den.

  “I don’t need you to make such a fuss over me,” he told her.

  “I’m not. I’m just acting like someone who cares for you, although I’m tempted to put my hand on your tummy to see if you have a fever,” she said.

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You can put your hand on someone’s forehead to check for fever, but the tummy is a better measurement if you’re not using a thermometer.”

  “You don’t really think you’re going to take my temperature,” he said.

  “Well, no,” she said, and her gaze dipped to what she knew was his flat abdomen. “But I thought about it.”

  Despite the fact that he was clearly sick and feverish, she saw a flicker of desire in his eyes. Unless she was hallucinating, and she didn’t think she was.

  Forrest picked up the glass of ginger ale and took a sip. He winced as he swallowed.

  “Honey,” she said, rushing to the kitchen. “You need honey.”

  He lifted his hand. “I’m okay.”

  “Just try it,” she said, digging a teaspoon from a drawer and grabbing the honey.

  When she returned he was standing, looking at her with a skeptical glance.

  “Just try it,” she urged.

  He shot her a long-suffering glance. “Okay.”

  She poured the honey into the spoon and lifted it to his mouth. He swallowed it down.

  She waited.

  He swallowed again. “Not bad.”

  She smiled. “Yay.”

  “But the soup is way better,” he said.

  The boys burst into the front door. “Horse poop’s all gone. Any brownies left?” Chad asked.

  “Are you sure you want brownies right now?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Max said. “We were talking about them the whole time.”

  Angie exchanged a glance with Forrest. He chuckled then coughed and winced.

  “Alrighty. Wash your hands and come get your brownies,” Angie said and turned toward the kitchen. She lifted foil from the pan and gave each teen two brownies. They wolfed them down. “Okay, one more each,” she said and gave them another.

  “Good. Mmm,” Chad said.

  “Yeah,” Max said, rubbing his stomach. “Mmm.”

  “Glad you liked them,” she said and noticed that Forrest had followed them into the kitchen. “What else can we do for you?”

  “Nothing,” Forrest said. “I’ve got the best soup in the world and a bunch of meds I don’t need. Plus I don’t have to muck the stalls tomorrow.”

  “We refilled the water and feed, too,” Max said.

  “Thanks,” Forrest said.

  “If you’re sure,” Angie said.

  “I’m sure,” he said, his voice breaking up.

  “You need more honey.”

  “Soup,” he corrected.

  She felt the oddest longing in the world to stay and nurse him back to health. As if he would let her.

  “I’ll call you later,” she said and waved her finger at him. “And you better answer.”

  “I will,” he said. “Thanks for everything. You guys did too much.” He paused. “But I’m not sharing one drop of that soup.”

  She wanted to embrace him, hold him tight, but she knew he wouldn’t want that. Angie took a deep breath. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m better than I was before you came. And tomorrow I don’t have to do anything due to Chad and Max,” Forrest said.

  Chad and Max puffed up their chests. “It was nothing,” Max said.

  “But those brownies were awesome.”

  Angie laughed. “Okay, let’s get out of here so Forrest can rest. Get well,” she said.

  He nodded. “I’ll do that,” he murmured and escorted them to the door.

  Three hours later, after Angie had forced herself to wait out the time, she dialed Forrest’s cell phone. Four rings later, he finally picked up.

  “Forrest Traub,” he muttered.

  “This is Angie. How are you doing?”

  “I don’t know. I was asleep,” he mumbled.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, wincing. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Okay,” he said, but paused a moment. “I’m better,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

  “You’re welcome. Good night,” she said and disconnected the call. She still wanted to go over to his house and help him, but she knew he didn’t want her there. Angie longed for the day when he would want her around day and night. She couldn’t help feeling they’d taken another step closer, but they had a long way to go.

  * * *

  Forrest sank back against his pillow with the fresh pillowcase. Then he rose again and took a sip of water from the cup on his nightstand. He felt like someone was sticking a thousand needles in his throat. Maybe he should try some of the stuff Angie had left for him.

  Rising from the bed, he went to the kitchen where he’d left all the meds Angie had brought him. One of them was a spray that supposedly numbed the throat. He was game. He sprayed several times. Lord, that stuff tasted foul. He grabbed a couple lozenges and resolved not to swallow. Maybe that would save him a little pain.

  As he slid back into bed, he remembered what she’d said about putting her hand to his forehead. Then he imagined her hand over his abdomen. His gut tightened at the thought. He tightened in other ways, too.

  Angie was an odd mix of innocence, earnestness and sexy, he thought as he drifted off to sleep. His fevered mind traveled to the image of her sliding her hands over his body. Soon enough, her clothes would disappear and she rubbed her naked body against his.

  Her breasts were taut, her skin silky soft, her lips moist and welcoming. He slid his thigh between hers and she was wet and welcoming there, too. She wriggled against him, making needy, sexy sounds. The sensation of her nude body against his took his breath away. His heart skipped once, twice, three times.

  He slipped the fingers of one hand through her hair and pressed his oth
er hand against her bottom so that she was as close to him as she could get. He rubbed against her intimately, feeling himself grow harder and harder.

  She clung to him, thrusting her wet femininity against him.

  He couldn’t resist one moment longer and pushed inside her. She was like a velvet glove around him.

  “Give me you,” she whispered. “Give me all of you.”

  Forrest thrust inside her, filling her. She felt so good.

  Forrest awakened hot, hard and bothered. He swore in frustration. Angie again. He hadn’t touched her since that kiss they’d shared, yet his body seemed determined to torment him. If dreaming about her got him this worked up, he wondered what having sex with her would do. He was finding it more and more difficult to keep his hands off of her.

  Telling himself not to think about Angie and her effect on him, he settled back down and took several deep breaths. When he closed his eyes, he forced himself to think about blueprints. He fell back to sleep within seconds.

  Hours later, Forrest’s throat awakened him. He swallowed and winced, automatically reaching for the glass of water on his nightstand. Sitting up, he gulped it down. After several swallows, the pain in his throat slightly abated.

  He took a breath then drank some more water and almost felt normal.

  Almost.

  Rising from the bed, Forrest took a hot shower and dressed in sweat pants and a T-shirt. Despite all his protests the day before, he was damn glad he didn’t have to shovel the stalls today. Afterward, he collapsed on the sofa and turned on the television. He didn’t care what was on. He just wanted something to numb his mind. Cartoons were the perfect choice.

  Five minutes into the show, a knock sounded at the door. Forrest pulled his aching body from the couch to answer the door. After a quick glance through the peephole, he saw Angie and opened the door.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I thought you might like some breakfast. Bacon, tomato and cheese omelet work for you?”

  “I won’t eat that much. I’m not hungry,” he said.

  “I’ll fix it and you can decide,” she said, scooting past him to the kitchen.

  “I really don’t want a big breakfast,” he said.

  “This won’t be big,” she countered and brought him a glass of orange juice and two ibuprofin.