Bucking the Rules(49)

Emma shook her head. “Don’t remind me. I’ve gotta keep an eye on that one already, and he’s just crawling. Once he gets his feet under him, I’m done for.”

Trace watched Emma over his son’s head while Seth used his father as a prop to practice standing. She was unmatchable for strength, in his mind. Emma had been his mother-figure growing up. His soft place to land, his hard line for consequences, and everything in between. In the years between leaving home and coming back, he’d painted her as a conquering hero.

But she was a woman, same as any other. And she was getting older. Keeping up with both the housekeeping duties and chasing after a soon-to-be toddler couldn’t be easy for her.

“Maybe it’s time to look into an assistant for you,” Trace said, testing the waters. “Someone to run errands, to look after Seth while you cook dinner or whatever.”

Of course, by “assistant” he meant babysitter. And the job would come out of his own paycheck, just as Emma’s raise had when she’d taken on the added task of nanny.

Emma’s steely gray stare pinned him like a nail in a still-fluttering moth. “I’m not dead yet. I can handle him.”

“I didn’t mean you couldn’t.”Retreat, retreat. Sound the alarm.“Just that, as more people come into this house, it might be more work than any one person could handle. Even a superhero like you.”

Emma looked disappointed in him and his lack of faith. She bent down and scooped up a wobbly Seth. “Come on, boy. We have some vacuuming to do. Yes, you like the sound. I know you do.”

That went well. Trace let his head fall back to the porch rail with a crack. He deserved it, probably.

Why were none of the women in his life cooperating?





Chapter Twelve


Jo watched the bar, surveying for signs of struggle, signs of impending trouble. Anything she could use to delay going out. Something to keep her tied to the bar.

An excuse. Yeah, it was an excuse. But damn, she wasn’t ready for this. They could play with semantics, just calling it a nice dinner between lovers or whatever. But she knew what it was to Trace.

A date.

The words sent a chill down into her belly the way the words “serial killer” might another human. She didn’t date. She’d tried that, and didn’t care for it. She didn’t do permanency. Her bar was the most permanent thing in her life. Even her friends—Stu and Amanda and the others—would eventually leave. Restaurant staffers were a fluid group. And so, she was resigned to the fact that she would be mostly alone, unless she invited someone into her life for a period of time.

But the way she’d arranged her life, she reminded herself, nobody would leave her. Nobody would kick her out with a teenage daughter and force her to find yet another sugar daddy to pick up the slack. Move her ass across the country to find the next meal ticket.

She would do this on her own, all the way. She was now a big fish in a small pond, not the other way around. And she liked it. So she would maintain the status quo.

“Hey.”

Jo jumped a mile in the air. “Jesus.” Turning, she looked up—and up—into the eyes of Bea Muldoon. “Are you on a stepladder or something?”

“Just tall. And you’re short.” Her answer was given so easily, it didn’t carry the sting of insult.

“Why are you behind the bar? Go. Go over there and sit down. Or go find a table. Is Peyton with you?”

“Nope.” Bea took her sweet time walking back around the counter to lean on the edge. The pose would have looked practiced, if it weren’t so easy and fluid. She looked like a Vargas girl from the forties. At least a dozen male eyes took advantage of her position, ass out, to visually devour her.

“Do you do that on purpose?” Jo asked before she could think better of it.

Bea didn’t bother pretending ignorance. “I used to. Now it’s just habit.” She winked. “Casting directors love a femme fatale, don’t you know?”

“No, I don’t know, said the short girl,” Jo responded.

“Oh, men love a tiny woman, too.” Bea waved that off.

“Tiny, I am not.” Jo put a hand on her hips. “These are not tiny.”

“You’ve got curves in your small package. It’s the best of all worlds. Stop comparing yourself to me. The female race is like a buffet.”

“Come again?”

Bea nodded. “To a man, females are a buffet. See, you have all sorts of different women. But there are men with different tastes. The broccoli should never feel bad sitting next to the French fries on the table, because there’s always going to be a man who wants broccoli. Man after man might come for French fries. But eventually, a guy who has been dying for the perfect plate of broccoli is going to come by.”