Not in Her Wildest Dreams(2)

"Sweetie, I thought you were sleeping? How did you get here?" Paige asked her.

"Drove," Rosie slurred.

No, no, no. Rosie was smashed, swaying in her heels, blond curls crushed  by the pillow where Paige had left her. Her make-up was smudged and she  looked even more tired than Paige felt. Yet younger, wearing skinny  jeans and a crop top. Paige felt about a million years old next to her,  despite the fact they were both thirty-two.

"You drove Dad's car? Rosie, you can't drive like this." Paige said it  firmly, but without anger. She didn't shame, didn't let herself engage  too deeply at all. Years of dealing with alcoholics had taught her there  was no point in taking this personally, although she would check in  with the police, make sure there hadn't been any hit and runs in the  last fifteen minutes.

This was awful.

"Let's sit down," Sterling suggested, starting to steer Rosie toward the lounge.

"Actually, can you help me get her to my car? I have to take her home."  No way could she leave Rosie here to get herself back to the house. The  car, however, would stay here at the hospital. The keys might even come  to Seattle with her.

"Sterling." Walter's bushy brows lowered with disapproval.

"Dad," Sterling shot back, impatient at being scolded. "Go ahead. I'll meet you at home."

"I want to see Grady. Is he okay? I need to see he's okay," Rosie  whimpered. "Every time I close my eyes..." Her voice trailed off into an  anguished moan.

She had already treated Paige to the play-by-play of exactly how and  when her father's heart attack had happened. Super awful. Paige felt for  her, she really did, but seriously, way too much information.

Why did you move all the way to Seattle, Paige?

Because she couldn't afford airfare to Australia.

"Let's get you home," Paige said, pointing Sterling toward the elevator. "You have to work tomorrow, remember?"

"They fired me!"

When had that happened? Fan-freaking-tastic.

"I'll call them. See if we can work something out," Paige said, even as  she silently wailed that she so didn't need this. "It will be okay."

"Thank you, Paige." Rosie let out a big sob and lurched out of  Sterling's grip to fling herself at Paige for a hug, but her feet  weren't moving as fast as the rest of her. As she pitched forward, her  brow cracked into Paige's cheekbone.

Jolting pain cut through the dull headache Paige was already nursing.

Shit. Really?

She tangled arms with Rosie, trying to push her away, but Rosie yelped  and hung on, completely off balance. They both staggered and tilted. She  was going down and taking Paige with her.

A strong arm scooped behind Paige's back, firm and a little too  proprietary, leveling her onto her feet. Sterling. Of course it was him,  freaking white knight, clasping her into his muscled frame like some  bare-chested hero from a romance novel cover, smelling like a high-end  magazine sample.

He released Paige so he could pry Rosie off her and support her himself.  Walter was making choking noises, but Sterling only wore an expression  of pained patience.

Rosie touched her eyebrow and said, "That hurt."         

     



 

No kidding. Paige blinked back tears and covered her hot cheek, wondering if she was going to have a shiner.

Walter grumbled at them to get into the elevator and touched the button for the ground floor.

A moment later, Rosie went completely lax as Sterling buckled her into the passenger seat of Paige's hatchback.

"Thanks," Paige said begrudgingly from the driver's side, twisting to put her purse on the floor in the back seat.

"You're taking her to Grady's? I'll follow you, help you get her into the house."

"It's fine. Don't worry about it," Paige dismissed, mentally rearranging her day and desperately wanting it to be over.

"She outweighs you. Is your brother there to help?"

She sighed. Who knew where Lyle was these days.

"Even if he's not, I'll manage," she insisted.

He slid his gaze to where Rosie's head lolled. It looked like Paige was tampering with a body.

"She said she can manage," Walter said, jangling his keys.

"I'll meet you at home, Dad," Sterling insisted and closed the door on  Rosie's side, not giving Paige another opportunity to argue.

Please let Lyle be home, she prayed as she shifted into reverse and  backed out of her spot, even though Lyle hated Sterling enough there  might actually be a dead body at the end of any run-in those two men  might have.

She really didn't need Sterling coming to the house and being all  judgey. She had done what she always did when she was there: vacuumed,  dusted, cleaned out the fridge and brought in fresh groceries, but that  didn't change reality. The house was neglected and dated and worn. Lyle  treated the bottom floor like something between a speak-easy and a metal  shop.

She really didn't need Sterling, with his Italian leather shoes-yes, she  had noticed those and recognized the brand because her ex wore them-and  his silk tie and his manor-born manners getting an eyeful of where she  came from.

She was too ashamed.





Chapter Two

Rosie, as Paige called her, was still out cold when Sterling pulled up  behind Paige's silver Mazda outside the house where she'd grown up.

He took in the most salient fact, that her brother's truck was not here,  and moved to carry the unconscious woman into the house. She was leggy  but tall and gave him the workout he had feared he would miss because he  was traveling.

He was breaking a sweat by the time he was walking down the hall. "Which room?"

"Mine. On the left. We had to throw out Dad's mattress and the new one  isn't here yet. This is where I put her an hour ago." The bed was  already mussed.

Paige came in behind him and quickly pushed the edge of the nubby yellow bedspread further out of the way.

Sterling didn't ask why the other mattress was ruined. Stuff happened  during medical distress that was best not dwelt upon. He had heard  through his parents about Grady's latest heart attack and knew a woman  had been in bed with him when it had happened. Not sleeping.

No wonder the woman in question was drinking herself into a blackout.

As Sterling settled Rosie, Paige said, "I can handle it from here," and began removing Rosie's shoes.

He was sure she could, but now that they were alone, he would steal a word.

He straightened away from Rosie's musky perfume and gin breath. Then,  because he'd spent his adolescence longing to penetrate these walls,  among other things, took in Paige's bare yellow room.

It didn't look like he had always imagined it. No stuffed animals or  rock posters, no lacy bras and flowery undies dangling from drawer  pulls. The closet doors were cheap, hollow panels with chipped paint,  the blue curtains were discolored to pale green at the edges. The gold  carpet was worn thin in front of the dresser.

Nothing suggested a girl had grown up here-except that crooked heart  carved into the footboard of the Canopied Princess Twin. Little vandal.  In his house, defacing a Roy Collectible had been a hanging offense. He  tried and failed to make out the initials gouged away beneath Paige's.

Paige covered Rosie and started texting someone. Her husband maybe.

A gust of rain hit the window, drawing his glance to it and through to  his grandmother's old house in the yard that backed onto this one. At  one time, a picket fence had separated the two yards, but it had  disintegrated into a line of pick-up-sticks that was now just another  contributor to the greater eyesore. The tiny bungalow was pushing  seventy years old and showing it. The plugged gutters had caused water  stains down the siding and the lawn hadn't been mowed this year. The  house looked worse than this one, which was saying something.
         

     



 
"I said you can go," Paige prodded, unzipping the hoodie she wore and shrugging out of it.

"I heard you." He reluctantly gave Paige his attention. He'd been  putting off looking at her because, well, he might not stop. She was  fifteen years older but still sleek as a mink in yoga pants and a  clingy, long sleeved black shirt under a fitted purple T. It was a  practical outfit on an intensely female woman who possessed thick  lashes, elegant cheekbones, and a carnality-inspiring mouth. He didn't  like the bruise coming up under her pale cheek, or the fatigued slant to  her shoulders though. It made her look like she needed someone to worry  about her.

"I need to talk to you about something. You should ice that."

She winced and touched her cheek. "Yeah, it hurts." She moved to the  dresser and tucked her straight, chin length hair behind her ear as she  leaned into the mirror.

He had wondered, all the way from the Carolinas, what had made him lust  from afar all those years ago, then make such a fool of himself.  Whatever it was, he had convinced himself it wouldn't happen again, but  as he watched her bend just enough to push her round ass out, accenting  her supple thighs and the shallow dip of her lower back, he felt a kick  of desire right in his groin. It was a purely physical, animalistic want  that emptied his mind so all he could think about was petting that  ruthlessly feminine line.