Ain’t Misbehaving

just show up in her life again…

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

There were a lot of problems with answering that question. The first of which was admitting that she hadn’t driven. The second of which was implying that she needed his help.

“Was that too hard a question?” he asked mildly. “We could start out with easier ones. Have you ever considered buying stock in a bookstore? And in the meantime, I take it we’re walking this library home? Or do you just want to stand there and glower at me?”

She did want to stand there and glower at him. He was carrying the books as if they were cotton balls. There was nothing more annoying than a male male.

And that was the disgusting problem about Mitch. The way his collar stood up against his cheeks, for instance; the way his skin was windburned, his dark hair careless… Primitive instincts announced themselves in her bloodstream. She felt swamped by his virility. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t even touched her.

“I can carry them myself,” she informed him.

“I have no doubt you can do anything you want to. And if you’re in an independent sort of mood, I’ll give you back your books and just trail behind you, separate but equal.”

Now when did he sneak in that boyish grin? Separate but equal, indeed! She had no desire whatsoever to smile at him, and to hide the twist of her lips she glanced down, finding herself suddenly staring at the odd-shaped package he’d shoved into her arms. “What is this, anyway?”

“A football. For Robert.”

When she peered up, only for a second, Mitch’s dark eyes were sliding over her features as if claiming private property. Most irritating. “For Robert? You weren’t even at the hospital this morning.”

“Yes, I was. Before seven. I left early, so that later in the morning I could pay a visit to Peter at his house.” He started walking while she was trying to figure out why she wasn’t still furious with him for not calling.

Furthermore, he was walking fast. When you were going uphill against the crowd, you either walked slow or died from hyperventilation. Apparently, no one had ever mentioned that to him. “Was Peter okay?”

“Terrific. He said to give you a hug. He doesn’t really miss us, though. With his mom getting around again and all his friends calling, he’s doing fine.”

“Mitch.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you some kind of physical fitness maniac?”

He stopped instantly, his thick eyebrows shooting up in alarm. “I was going too fast?”

“I don’t know. Are you training for the Olympics?”

Actually, he was only trying to make sure she didn’t take back her books and disappear. He didn’t blame her for being a bit touchy, after the vanishing act he’d pulled two weeks ago.

Every instinct told him he was risking acting like a fool. Every instinct but one, and that one told his heart not to let her out of his sight, that to let her go again would be like losing part of himself.

Nothing could go wrong if he simply pursued a friendship. A platonic relationship.

“Are you?” she repeated.

“Am I what?”

“Obsessive about physical fitness.”

He hesitated, looking down at her. A wisp of hair had escaped her hat and curled sensually around her throat, inviting the touch of his hand. Platonic, his head echoed morosely. “No,” he replied absently, trying to remember her question. “I run a little, play a little racquetball. Not for any fitness medal, but for the sheer pleasure of it. You see, there was a time when I-” He clammed up abruptly.

Kay slid him an exasperated glance when he stopped talking. She halted in the middle of the sidewalk. “Don’t do that,” she ordered him.

“Do what?”

“Start to say something about yourself and then back off. Heck, I’ve seen you in action prying out other people’s secrets. Now talk to me,” she demanded.

Startled, he felt a slow grin forming on his lips. “Of course I’ll talk to you,” he said dryly. “What do you want to know?”

“Your last name.”

“Cochran.”

“What do you do for a living?”

He hesitated. “Collect stones. Kay?” He shook his head ruefully. “You have the most beautiful eyes.”

She dropped his football.

***

Since the man had come into her sphere again, Kay had every intention of teaching him a few things about relationships. Lesson one: A man didn’t kiss a woman with the impact of Vesuvius, disappear from her life and expect to show up again without retribution.

Retribution began when she opened her front door and watched Mitch’s jaw sag slightly. If he expected privacy, he certainly wasn’t going to get it.

Stix was sprawled on the sofa, the two teenagers from across the street were flat on the floor and Mrs. O’Brien from next door, in her favorite polka-dot apron, was curled up in the Morris chair. The African Queen was playing on the DVD player, and the group was munching on doughnuts. Hepburn was removing the leeches from Bogart’s back, and no one gave Kay more than a cursory look.

“You’re late,” Stix mentioned, unnecessarily.

“I knew you’d start without me.” Most efficiently, she introduced Mitch, stole his coat, piled the books in the dining room and headed for the kitchen.

A few moments later, Mitch leaned in the doorway, a look of wry amusement on his face. “You often have people just…occupy your house like that?”

“Yup. About four weekends each winter, everyone pitches in to rent a DVD. A neighborhood thing. I don’t know who decided my house was central, but somehow they always end up here. It’s my mother’s fault, really.” Flicking back her hair, she peered into the refrigerator.

“Your mother’s fault,” Mitch echoed.

“Not for renting the movies, but she always had an open-door policy around here. All ages, anytime.” Her head twisted around the refrigerator door with a quick, studying glance at him. “You look like the lasagna type. Are you staying for dinner?”

“I…yes.”

She beamed approval at him. That yes was a straightforward answer. That was lesson number two. Straightforwardness and honesty were critical to a relationship. Mitch was about to get a good solid dose of her lifestyle, and she was about to take the mystery out of the man.

“The lasagna just needs to be heated up, but it’ll still take a while. In the meantime…” She tossed a head of lettuce to him and started humming, whipping around the kitchen with practiced ease. “Shred,” she ordered him.

He shredded. She grilled…him.

He was twenty-eight, a passionate football fan; he’d lived most of his life around Coeur d’Alene but had recently bought a house in Moscow; his politics were dead wrong; he knew wonderfully crazy stories about outlaws in Idaho…and that lazy half smile was becoming a fixture.

She thought he’d be thrown by the continual hustle and bustle around the place, but she was obviously wrong. He listened soberly to Mrs. O’Brien’s arthritis woes, gave a tactful opinion on Sandra’s and Bern’s newly purchased jeans, answered the phone three times and managed to slaughter Kay in an impromptu trivia quiz while they were eating. No one else ever remembered that Babe Ruth had been a coach for the Dodgers after he retired from play.

By the time they were doing the dishes, Kay had totally forgiven Mitch for not calling; she had the feeling she would forgive him just about anything when she heard his uninhibited laughter for the first time. Stix was the only one still hanging around by then. Standing in the doorway, he was absently tossing his car keys up and down,