He gave her a dashing, almost apologetic grin and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “I’ll be good. I swear it.”
Isabelle never had a doubt that he’d be good. She had fantasized about just how good more nights than she cared to remember over the years. Maybe it was because he’d been her first real crush. Maybe it was simply chemistry. Whatever it was, a piece of him had lived inside her for fourteen years, sparking thoughts and memories of him when she least expected it. “You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?”
“Not a chance. At least not until I know you and Dale are safe. Sorry. You’re the one who put the worry in my head, so you’re just going to have to deal.”
“Fine.” The only thing she could do now was put him as far out of reach as possible. “You can sleep upstairs. Next to Dale’s room.”
The smile of victory curving his mouth was only going to add fuel to her fiery fantasies of him. The ones that left her sweating and aching for relief that never came no matter how hard she reached for it.
Isabelle let out a heavy sigh of defeat. “Go get your stuff and I’ll show you your room.”
Grant sauntered off in a long-legged stride that made her mouth water. Everything about him was appealing to her—his graceful stride, the way his jeans clung to his tight butt, his carelessly tousled hair, and that confident glint in his eyes that said he knew just how to please a woman. Over and over.
But all of that by itself wouldn’t have affected her. As handsome as he was, she could resist him if it weren’t for that noble streak a mile wide—the one she’d witnessed firsthand.
He hadn’t just hopped in his car and driven away with a thanks for the warning. Not Grant Kent. He was staying to help. Staying in her house, right within reach, after fourteen years of being nothing more than a long-distance fantasy.
Isabelle sat down and laid her head on the cool desk. She was doomed. A bad case of childish infatuation was one thing. Add to it the instinctive knowledge of just how good she knew she and Grant would be together, mixed in with a case of it’s-been-way-too-long-since-I-got-laid, and she was simply doomed. In way over her head, fated to suffer, doomed.
“Isabelle?” came Dale’s worried voice from down the hall. “There’s some guy outside.”
Isabelle took a deep breath and forced her head off the desk. By the time Dale came into the office, she was pretty sure her face was still flushed with thoughts of Grant and the kind of lover he’d be.
So much for being a good mom dedicated only to what was best for her son.
Dale’s dark hair was ruffled from the wind, and his letterman’s jacket made his shoulders look as wide as a grown man’s. Of course, that’s what he nearly was at seventeen, and it still shocked her sometimes. Right now, his bright blue eyes were filled with worry and a hint of fear. Dale wasn’t the most trusting of boys—it had taken him six months after he’d moved in to learn to trust her—and he wouldn’t enjoy having a stranger in the house. Especially not a man.
“It’s okay, Dale. That’s Grant. He’s an old friend of mine who’s going to stay for a day or two. Are you okay with that?”
Dale shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”
Isabelle stood and looped her arm over Dale’s shoulders as they walked to the kitchen. He was taller than her now, though she wasn’t sure exactly when during the past seven months that had happened. “Come on, I’ll introduce you. Are you hungry?”
“Starved,” answered Dale, as she knew he would.
“You’re going to like Grant.”
Dale stiffened. “You got something going with him?”
“No. We’re just friends,” she said, though her body was clamoring for more. She was going to have to keep it under control.
“Uh-huh.”
“Really,” she insisted.
“You know, you haven’t dated since I came to live here. I don’t want to cramp your style or anything. I like it here too much.”
As if she’d send him away because he got in the way of her dating. Dale had no idea how much she loved him, but she knew better than to go all mushy. He hated that, so she settled for giving him a one-armed hug and said, “You’re not cramping my style.”
“You’re allowed to have sex if you want.”
He sounded like the thought grossed him out, which made her grin. “Thanks for your permission.”
“I mean, don’t go doing the nun thing on my account.”
Isabelle laughed. “Is that what you think is going on?”
“Must be. You never even date, and I know you’ve been asked out.”
“Not by anyone I was interested in.”
“But this Grant guy? He interest you?”
Way too much. Maybe Dale sensed it somehow. Through the window, Isabelle could see Grant heft a duffel bag onto his wide shoulder and head toward the house, muscles bulging in a mouth-watering display. Even with the heavy load, his stride was smooth and effortless.
She still couldn’t believe he was staying here, still wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t a huge mistake for her to let him.
“He’s only passing through,” she told Dale, forcing herself to recognize the truth.
Dale’s eyes brightened as if he was relieved Grant wouldn’t stay. “Oh. Well. If you want to hit that while he’s here, or whatever, I’ll go study at the library.”
Isabelle’s cheeks heated with embarrassment. “ ‘Hit that?’ How charming. Can we please discuss something other than my love life? Like how your practice test went today?”
Dale pulled away from her and shoved his head into the refrigerator. He mumbled something grumpy and incoherent as Grant came back in the house, keeping Isabelle from asking him what he’d said. If the practice SAT hadn’t gone well, she didn’t want to embarrass him by making him talk about it in front of a total stranger.
The files Grant had taken from her office were nowhere in sight, thank goodness. Then again, in his line of work, she figured he knew a thing or two about keeping information to himself.
Dale backed out of the refrigerator with an armload of sandwich fixings and a gallon of milk.
Isabelle pulled a plate out of the cabinet to encourage Dale to actually use it, instead of eating over the sink.
“Dale, this is my friend Grant Kent.”
Rather than stick out his hand, Grant took the milk that was dangling precariously from one of Dale’s fingers. “Good to meet you. Is there enough there for two?”
Dale laid the huge quantity of food on the counter. “Guess so.”
Isabelle pulled out another plate and watched as a pile of sandwiches started to disappear.
She hoped they figured out this mess soon, because at this rate, she wasn’t going to be able to afford to feed both Grant and Dale for very long.
Wyatt Townsend watched Dale go into the big brick house of the goody-two-shoes bitch who was nothing more than a glorified babysitter. Dale was his son, and no one was going to keep them apart. No one. The boy had some serious learning to do, and Wyatt was going to see that he did it before it was too late.
The first thing he was going to do was make the boy burn that f**king jacket. No son of his was going to proudly display the fact that he’d lettered in debate. Wyatt wasn’t going to have his only son acting like some kind of nerd. The boy needed some backbone—a little toughening up. He’d turned into a p**sy since Wyatt had been in prison, and he couldn’t stand by and let that happen.
Wyatt was ready to be a father now, though it had taken him a while to realize that. He didn’t have much time left with the boy before he grew up, and if social services didn’t hurry the hell up and pull their heads out of their bureaucratic asses, Wyatt was going to have to take matters into his own hands.
He put his piece-of-shit car into gear and eased away from the curb. Mr. Pruitt, his caseworker, said he’d have to find a decent job if he was going to have any hope of getting custody of Dale again.
Yeah, right. It wasn’t like good jobs for ex-cons were as common as dog turds. It was easy for Mr. Pruitt to say. He got to boss around parents for a living and tell them all the ways they weren’t good enough to raise their own children.
What a prick.
Maybe it would be better if he just took Dale and left town. He’d be violating parole, but he didn’t care. Life might be better on the run, anyway. At least then it would just be him and Dale, without anyone sticking their nose into family business.
He’d go to the job interview for the bouncer position he’d applied for and see how it went. If he got it, maybe he’d stick around and play by the rules for once.
If not, he knew exactly how to play outside of the rules. And he was damn good at it. He’d been watching the goody-two-shoes bitch long enough to know her patterns, her friends, and her vulnerabilities. Taking back what was his was going to be easy.
CHAPTER THREE
Grant forced down another bite of his sandwich, stifling a groan. He couldn’t eat like a kid anymore, and there was no way he was keeping up with Dale’s appetite. Still, he remembered how much he’d hated it when people watched him eat when he was Dale’s age—how self-conscious it had made him feel, like he was some sort of freak show. The Amazing Bottomless Boy. Watch him eat more than he’s worth in a single sitting.
If they were both eating, then at least Dale wasn’t the only spectacle.
There was so much about Isabelle’s foster son that reminded him of himself. Not the physical stuff, like hair and eyes and build, but the attitude was there—the constant worry that tonight might be your last night in a warm, clean bed. He’d been through more foster homes than most because of his bad attitude, and although Dale didn’t seem to have the same consuming anger that Grant had had, there was still that wild animal skittishness about him that told Grant there was more to him than what showed on the surface.
Dale wasn’t going to like having Grant here, because it threatened the status quo—and when things were going well, anything that did that was dangerous.
Grant pretended to be consumed with interest in his food as he listened to Dale and Isabelle chat. Technically, Isabelle chatted and Dale would occasionally grunt in response, but it was as close to a conversation as she was going to get with a teenage boy in the middle of a feeding.
“Do you have any homework tonight?” she asked him.
Dale gave an affirmative grunt.
“A lot?”
He shook his head and washed a mouthful down with a swig of milk.
“Need any help?”
“Nope. Got it covered.”
If Isabelle was disappointed that he didn’t need her help, she did a good job of covering it. “You always do. You’re a good kid, Dale.”
The boy blushed, shoved the last quarter of his third sandwich into his mouth, and got up from the table in a clumsy rush.
“I’ll clean this stuff up,” offered Grant, giving him an easy escape route. “Thanks for sharing.”
Dale gave a quick nod, grabbed his bulging backpack, and fled the kitchen. The heavy tread of his footsteps running upstairs nearly rattled the dishes.