Harlequin - Jennifer Greene, Hot Touch [urban books to read txt] 📗

got another bad headache coming on, don’t you.”

Hell. He not only had a bad headache coming on; the buildup felt like the mother of all earthquakes warming up in his skull. But for an instant he’d almost forgotten. He’d almost forgotten his head, his injuries, his depression. That he was standing there naked except for a towel. That his brother was right behind her. That the life he’d once known seemed to have clicked its heels and taken off for Kansas, because he didn’t recognize himself or his life anymore.

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She’ddistracted him. Something about her seemed to reach in him like no one else had in a blue moon—and it shook him up good. He dropped the teasing tone and said quietly, “You’re right. I’ve got another headache coming on. But I don’t need anyone’s help to handle it.” And without skipping a beat he turned to his brother. “Bear, leave heralone. ”

He wasn’t exactly sure where that directive came from, except that both his brothers seemed unusually taken with Phoebe—not that he cared. But he just kept getting some instinct that she wasn’t as tough and full of pepper as she let on. On that first night she’d said something like, “Fox, I’m nobody. Nobody you need to worry about”—as if she thought of herself as no one consequential—and it had gnawed in his memory ever since. How ridiculous was that?

Hell, the thought that she needed protecting—that he could even consider himself a protector—boggled his mind. And his mind was already too damned shredded to need any more boggling.

Without another word he stalked down the hall to his bedroom, where he firmly closed the door. There was no lock, but there didn’t need to be.

No one called after him. No one tried to get in. He figured his rudeness got through…which was exactly what needed to happen. Fergus knew his brothers meant well. He knew his brothers were trying to help him—including their bringing in that little redhead.

He didn’t mean to—or like—taking his surliness out on her, but something about Phoebe really bugged him. Really, really got to him. The problem was weird and unsettling…but not complicated.

All he had to do was stay away from her. Piece of cake.

Phoebe barely glanced up at the rap on her door. Saturday mornings half the neighborhood popped over—a tradition she’d started when she first moved here, stemming from a trick her mom had taught her. She set a fresh-baked almond cinnamon coffee cake on the porch to cool.

That was it. The whole trick. Even the meanest neighbor or the shyest stranger couldn’t seem to resist the smell. Which was all well and good, but usually the group waited until eight before showing up. Her hair was still down, her feet still bare, her terry cloth shorts and tee on the ragged side of decent, when Gary stuck his head in.

“Hey, Phoebe.”

“Hey, you. Mary still sleeping in?”

“Yeah. It was the same when she was pregnant before. Sleeps like the dead.” He ambled over, plucked a fresh piece of coffee cake, no plate, no napkin, and then chose a place to sprawl. Her other neighbor, Fred, had already settled at the head of the table. Traditionally he galloped over with his walker at the first smell coming out of the oven.

“You’re going to burn your fingers,” she warned Gary.

“And this is news how?” The mutts immediately took root on laps—one on Fred’s, one on Gary’s.

Phoebe poured the boys coffee, but then went back to the counter where she was slicing a grapefruit.

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Her cooking specialty was the almond cinnamon coffee cake—and not that she was bragging, but it was even better than her mother’s, and her mom’s was the best in the universe. Unfortunately and ironically, she seemed to be a grapefruit addict herself—for which the neighbors teased her mercilessly.

The back door whooshed open again. “Hi, sweetie,” Barb greeted her. Within seconds she was battling with Gary for the coffee cake spatula. “Give it. My God, you guys already leveled a coffee cake on your own. How could you be so greedy?”

Phoebe ignored the fight and concentrated on her grapefruit. Her neighbors, thank God, could take anyone’s mind off their troubles. It was the first time in days she hadn’t thought about Fergus.

Barb seemed to relish the role of the neighborhood bawd. Even this early on a Saturday, she was wearing a low-dipping top, slick spandex pants, and a full arsenal of makeup. She’d been married to a plastic surgeon. It showed.

“So what’s new around here?” Barbara won the coffee cake piece she wanted, sashayed over to the coffee and then went prowling down the hall carrying her cup.

“Nothing,” Phoebe answered.

“Oh, yes, there is. I’ll find it. You’re always doing something new around here.” A moment later Barbara called back, “I’ll be damned. You cleaned.”

“I did not.” Phoebe was offended she’d been accused of such a thing.

“You did. There’s no dust.”

She’d only cleaned because she was worried about that damned man. That wasn’t the same as compulsive cleaning, now, was it? It was just something to do at two in the morning when she was pacing around, fretting whether that rock-headed jerk was in pain and alone. Before she could invent a respectable reason for the lack of mess and dust, though, Barbara let out a shriek from far down the hall.

“Oh, my God, what kind of gigantic construction project have you got going on in here?”

“What, what?” That got both Fred and Gary out of their chairs, Fred leading the charge with his walker through the house.

Phoebe sighed mightily and traipsed after them. It confounded her how such a private person—such as herself—could end up with such nosy neighbors. They seemed endlessly fascinated by everything she did to the house, partly because they thought she was unconventional and artistic.

That was hooey. Reality was that she’d only bought the house because she couldn’t find a rental that worked for her setup, and the