Right Back Where We Started Page 16

  “Are you asking for leniency?”

  She leaned her head back to see him better. “No. Bring your A-game, Mr. Carpenter.”

  “Just remember, you asked for it.” Holding her like that, their faces close, it was amazing to her how close two people could be to kissing without actually touching that square inch of their bodies together. Because as long as she didn't kiss him, she was still following the rules, she was still being faithful to . . . to Greg, that was his name. She was still keeping her contract intact. For a moment, staring into Carter’s baby blues, she’d almost forgotten. He released her, and Martina could’ve sworn she felt the brush of his lips against her hair, but it happened so quickly, she thought she must have imagined it.

  “Does that work, by the way?”

  “What?”

  “Tipping your head back so the tears don’t get out.”

  “It does,” he nodded, mockingly serious. “You know gravity? It sucks ’em right back in if you put the back of your head parallel to the ground.”

  “Fascinating. I had no idea.”

  “You could learn a lot from me,” he said, tossing the doll to himself as he backed out of the bathroom with a grin.

  “I bet that’s true,” she whispered, wiping her face once more for good measure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “IS THERE ANYTHING I can do for you today?” Carter asked. He’d managed to catch her in the morning today. Their dinner last night had been fun, apart from his mother imagining that they were married. Don’t worry, Mom. I’m on it.

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “When you say 'anything,' do you mean . . . anything?”

  He nodded ardently. “Yes. Anything. Anything that would make your life easier.”

  She twisted her lips to the side in a thinking posture. Then she held out her keys. “I need my tires swapped; I need my snow tires put on. Charlie Miller said they could do it at lunchtime. I was going to go myself, but it leaves the bulk of your mom's care on Mrs. Sánchez, so I felt bad . . .”

  “I'll do it.” He took the keys.

  “And here, let me give you some cash . . .”

  His refusal was a reflex; the words just popped out. “No need. Mastercard's everywhere I want to be.”

  She snatched the keys back. “Never mind.”

  “Wait. No. I'll do it.” Martina pressed the keys to her chest between her breasts, as if she knew he couldn't grab them there, and he held his hands up to assure her that he wasn't going to try. “I'm sorry. I should have . . . I shouldn't have offered to pay. Please?”

  “You're begging me to let you do my crappy errand?”

  Unashamed, he held his hand out, holding her gaze. “Please?”

  Martina looked around, like she wasn't sure this wasn't a set-up somehow.

  “I just want to make your life easier. No agenda.” Except making you see that you can trust me again. Still wary, she tossed him the keys from where she stood, leaving no opportunity to touch her again. But he brushed her fingers a little when he accepted the $100 bill she held out. “Let me know if that's not enough, and I'll pay you back.” He would get it washed and detailed, too. And he'd pay for that himself.

  “Why are you grinning like that? Is this a trick?”

  “No trick. Doing things for you makes me happy.”

  “Your social life must be really dull,” she quipped, turning back to the stairs.

  He put his voice in a low register. “Not really.” He contained a chuckle, but not a smile when she froze on the bottom step. That was one of the advantages of wooing your ex; you knew her turn-ons. Carter strolled over to her, drawing her hair behind her shoulder to speak quietly into her ear. “Doing things for you makes me happy, Martina. I can't help it.” He wanted to do so much more; wanted to kiss her neck, put his hands on her hips, make her do that breathy sigh. He clasped his hands behind his back to ensure they behaved. “I'll have it back for you when I come home for dinner. Is that okay?”

  “That's fine.”

  He stepped away from her, and it was an exercise of pure will; there wasn't a bone in his body that wanted the distance.

  “Hey, Carter?”

  “Yes?” He was back by her side in an instant, and apparently, it was amusing, because he got a full-dimple smile, bright as a daffodil.

  “Just . . . thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “You're welcome.” He backed up now because that smile was damaging his self-control, and he couldn't have that. Not when the scales were starting to shift. “I have to get to work.”

  “Me too,” she teased. She headed up the stairs, but she was still looking at him over her shoulder. Steady, Carpenter, he told himself. It's one thing for her to trust you with her errands and her car; it's another for her to trust you with her heart. But he couldn't help but grin as he wedged himself into her Corolla on his way to Salem.

  CHARLIE MILLER WAS on the phone when Carter walked in, and he waved, as if to say, ‘I’ll be right with you.’ Carter waved back. There were several other people in the waiting room; good thing he’d brought his computer with him.

  “No,” Charlie snapped into the phone. “No, Starla. You can’t—” He turned away from the reception area, prowling into his office. He slammed the door behind him, but it wasn’t hard to hear the conversation through the glass door as he continued. “I told you, she’s just a friend! There was never any . . . What do you mean, leaving me? What about the kids? Where do you think you’re going to live?” A long pause. “Of course she did. That Buchanan bitch never did know how to mind her own business,” he snarled, then stopped. “You can’t talk to me like that, Starla, I’m your husband. No, don’t—you can’t—” Based on the way the baffled man stared at the phone, Carter was fairly sure Starla had hung up. Good for her. He didn’t know her well, but her struggles with her husband were well-known, and she seemed like a sweet person and good at her job. Starla had suggested audiobooks for his commute, and it was such a nice way to give his eyes a break from screens and still enjoy a good story. A very economical use of his time.

  The office door flew open. “Jason!” Charlie bellowed. “Get in here!” He turned to Carter, straightening his tie. “Sorry about that. What can I do for you, Mr. Carpenter?”

  “I’ve got Martina Lopez’s car here for you, she needs her snow tires on.”

  The redness draining from his face slowly, Charlie scanned the computer screen. “Toyota Corolla?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “$115.” Carter whipped out his credit card. He’d tell her later about the discrepancy. He would, he promised himself. After he paid, he sat down in the waiting area; it was full of people he didn’t know. Jason Miller, Charlie’s brother, came in from the garage, wiping his hands on his coveralls, and Charlie motioned him into the office and closed the door. Their conversation was much quieter than his conversation with his wife, but Charlie still looked just as mad.

  He knew someone who’d like to know what had just happened here.

  Carter: Guess who just left her husband?

  Martina: Starla Miller.

  Carter: What? How did you know? I literally just heard him on the phone with her.

  Martina: She’s been planning for months. Half the town knows. Interesting that no one bothered to warn Charlie, though...

  Carter: I hope she secured her finances first.

  Martina: Always the pragmatist.

  Carter: Fine. See if I share juicy gossip with you again.

  Martina: You will. You can’t help yourself.

  Carter: And you owe me fifteen bucks.

  Martina: Sorry. Price went up.

  Carter: I don’t mind covering you.

  She went quiet then. He pulled out a tuna sandwich, wishing he’d known he was going to be eating it in an enclosed space, regretting it almost enough to break his personal rule against fast food in order to eat alone. Almost.

  Martina: Thanks.

  Carter: Anything for you.

  That’s when
it happened: she sent back an emoji with hearts circling the tiny yellow face, the one that means, “I feel loved.”

  “Yes!” He jumped to his feet, his lunch sack thumping to the floor, completing the move with a fist pump. The other people in the waiting room stared. “Um . . .” He adjusted his tie. “My team’s winning.”

  “What’s the score?” a middle-aged man with a bad goatee asked.

  “Love all.”

  “Is that golf?”

  “No, tennis.”

  “I didn’t think it was tennis season . . .”

  “Doesn’t that mean they’re tied?” an elderly woman queried, and Carter blushed.

  “Great save, on the part of my team.” He sat back down and tried to finish his lunch without embarrassing himself further.

  “Must be a doubles team,” the woman muttered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  IT WAS A COLD DAY AT her father’s Christmas tree farm, but it was dry, so business was booming. Weekends were always busier anyway, and it was only two weeks until Christmas now. The air smelled like the goats in the petting zoo near the live nativity, the scented cinnamon candles in the arts and crafts section, and of course, complimentary candy canes. When Greg texted her that morning, she was knee-deep in twine and dull saws, trying to keep everyone moving through the baling line.

  Greg: Got time to talk?

  Martina: Not unless you want to come down to the farm.

  Greg: What farm?

  Martina: My dad’s Christmas tree farm. Tannenbaum.

  Greg: Oh, I’ve seen signs for that. That’s yours?

  Martina: Yeah. Come get a tree, I’ll give you a discount.

  Greg: Yeah, okay. I’ll be there soon.

  She put her phone away and forgot about him immediately in the face of a family trying to get a twenty-foot blue spruce on their minivan. “Sir? Hang on, sir, you’re gonna scratch the heck out of the paint on your roof . . .”

  When she saw Greg, he’d already picked a pre-cut tree, so she took a cocoa break for the sake of her cold hands, as well as privacy.

  “What’s up?”

  His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets again, and he was rocking on his heels. “So I have kind of a confession to make.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I was kind of . . . using you.” He held up his hands. “It's not that I don't find you attractive, I definitely do. And I think you're a really great nurse and really funny and smart and cool . . . but my heart sort of already belongs to someone else.”

  “I see,” she said, blowing on her drink. She wasn’t sure what her face was doing. It probably wasn’t what her heart was doing, which was freaking out. Not because she liked him, but because she’d just lost her insurance. And without her insurance, she wasn’t sure how she was going to get through the holidays with Carter.

  “I was trying to make her jealous,” Greg went on, oblivious, “but I don't think she's the jealous type, because it didn't work. Now she's just mad.”

  “We're talking about Tharushi, right?”

  He blushed. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Definitely.” Martina grinned. “But it's cool. I was using you, too. So don't feel bad. And you're a good kisser, so there's that.”

  Greg laughed, his blush deepening again, his hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets. “Okay. Well, that was a lot easier than I thought it would be.”

  “Were you tossing and turning last night, trying to figure out how to let me down gently?”

  “Kind of. I mean, there was a rumor that you're into Crash Carpenter, and we were just a casual thing, so I wasn't too worried . . .”

  Martina raised an eyebrow at him, and he laughed again.

  “Okay, fine, yes! I was worried. I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't think you'd find me interesting enough to go out more than once or twice.”

  “Oh, I wouldn't have. You read that situation right. You're not my type. Like, at all.”

  He crossed his arms playfully. “I see you had no qualms about letting me down easy.”

  Martina laughed. “Not really. Your residency will be over soon, and I didn't think you were planning to live here in Timber Falls any longer than necessary.”

  Greg paled a little. “I wasn't. I mean, I'm probably not.”

  “They offered you a job at Santiam, didn't they?”

  “Yeah,” he sighed. “I don't know what to do. I know Tharushi won't stay; she can't wait to get out of here. She's said so more times than I can count.”

  “Maybe she just needs a reason to stay.”

  He stared at her, then shook his head. “That's a lot to ask.”

  “No, it's a lot to offer. You offering to share your life with her, that's what's big. And if she can't see that . . . then she should go, because she doesn't deserve you.”

  Greg stared at her again, then motioned her forward and enveloped her in a big hug. “Thanks, Martina.” He paused. “Also, this is the easiest break-up I've ever had.”

  “Well, it's easier when you're in love with someone else.”

  He laughed. “I suppose so. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Are you and Crash . . . ?”

  She shook her head, then stopped. “I don't know. Time will tell, I guess.” She pulled a wrapped candy cane out of her pocket. “Merry Christmas, Greg. I didn’t get you a present yet.”

  He smiled as he accepted the candy. “Merry Christmas, Martina. I hope you get a happy ending under your tree this year.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  WHEN CARTER CAME HOME on Monday night, Martina was ready for him. She’d hidden the troll in the gym, and since he always went running outside, she was confident it would be at least a week before he found it. He’d had to stay at work late for an important meeting, but since he’d let them know the night before, she’d been able to prepare Willow, more or less.

  “Is there anything I can do for you today?” he asked while he was still taking off his tie.

  Martina swallowed. “Yeah, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Shoot.” He stabbed at his salmon. “Your mom wants to go golfing.”

  “Okay. That's fine. You've still got my card, right?”

  She huffed. “It's not a matter of money. I don't know how to play golf.”

  “She does. She'll show you.”

  “No, honey, she doesn't.”

  Carter’s gaze fell to his plate, and he pushed some of the fish around with his fork like he was looking for bones. “Right.”

  “I mean, she knows how to do it herself; that's the interesting thing about muscle memory. If we put a golf club in her hand, she'll know what to do. But she can't teach me how, she can't explain it. Does that make sense?”

  He nodded, still focused on his food.

  “I thought maybe you could come with us,” she hurried on, not wanting to watch him be sad anymore. “Nurse Dennard had a family event on Saturday, so I'm filling in for her. I thought the three of us could go together, maybe, or . . .”

  “Yes.” He looked up, the sadness fading. “That sounds fun. Let's do that.” He swallowed. “You want to bring Greg along?”

  “Oh. No, we’re not together anymore.” She traced the veins in the quartz countertop with her finger, pointedly avoiding his gaze. She did not want to know what he thought of that.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was light, too controlled. It was his fake, parent-appeasing voice. “But we’ll have fun, just the three of us.”

  “Well,” she hedged, “I don't know if it'll actually be fun. I'll probably end up chasing the balls a lot.”

  Unfortunately, Carter was taking a drink, and he laughed hard enough for water to come out his nose. Without thinking, Martina surged forward, concerned, as he coughed over the sink. She passed him a towel and patted his back until he could breathe again.

  “It wasn't that funny . . .” she chided.

  “Yeah, it was. I don't chase balls, Tini. I just buy more.” She pursed her l
ips in a grimace, and he laughed again. “You definitely need my help.”

  “You're a sucky teacher, though. You got so mad at me when you tried to teach me to drive stick.”

  “That's because you were burning out my clutch,” he said, his indignation loud enough to ring off the cabinets in the large kitchen. “I could smell it. I could smell smoke in my car!”

  “It wasn't that bad,” she said, but her grin was guilty.

  “Might have to touch you if I'm going to teach you golf,” he said, picking through his food again, pushing the lemon slice off to the side. “You gonna be okay with that?”

  “Sure, yes. Of course. That's friendly touching. We'll be in public. There's nothing sensual about it.”

  Carter nodded slowly, setting down his plate. “You sure about that?” He dusted off his hands as he strolled over to her. “I think you'd better show me what I can do.”

  “What do you mean?” She felt her cheeks heating. He wanted to touch her? Here? Now? In the kitchen, at night? The household staff was nowhere around, but the pots and pans were still dripping. Mrs. Sánchez would be back to put them away in a few minutes before she went home. And Harrison was probably in the study . . . if he caught them . . .

  “I mean, show me what I can do.”

  “Carter,” she glowered, “when I said I don't know how to play golf, I meant I don't know how to play golf. How the hell should I know what you can do? Aren't I just swinging a big metal club around? Why does that require touching at all?”

  “Well,” he said, his voice low. “You might need help adjusting your grip.”

  “My . . . grip?”

  “Yeah, you know, your grip—here,” he said, handing her a thin, modern rolling pin from the drying rack. “Here, this is about the right diameter. Now, hold it out in front of you like a club.”

  She held it in her fists, pointing down at the ground, glancing up at him anxiously. “Like this?”

  “No, you've kinda gotta . . . weave your fingers together.”