What a Man's Gotta Do

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Mala whipped around so fast she nearly knocked Carrie over. Oblivious to her daughter’s affronted “Mama!” she stared at the man, hard, as her heart free-fell straight to her pelvis and her brain warped back twenty years to a time when she could still get into jeans that didn’t have elastic at the waist, a time when nobody knew that Spruce Lake High’s Senior Class President had a secret crush on a bad-ass kid whose ice-chip blue eyes regularly sent chills of forbidden promises down her spine, even though he never—not once—returned her smile.

A boy with sinfully thick, caramel-brown hair and the sharply defined, beard-shadowed face of a man; a boy whose lean, muscled body had filled out his worn, fitted jeans and T-shirts like nobody’s business, whose direct, disquieting gaze spoke of innocence lost but not regretted. He showed up at school every day, yet never spoke to anyone, never carried around any books, neither got involved in any activities nor caused any trouble. Not that Mala knew of, at least. He had appeared out of nowhere, a month into their senior year, only to vanish six weeks before graduation. Mala hadn’t seen him since.

Until today.

She stood there, hugging herself against the cold, barely aware of Lucas’s entreaties to get inside as she let Eddie King once again ensnare her gaze in his.

Then it dropped, unerringly and unapologetically, to her breasts, and she thought, Hold the phone—somebody noticed. Damn, she’d just about forgotten what it felt like to have a man look at her with a little Hmmm in his expression. God knew, Scott sure hadn’t. Not once she’d gotten pregnant with Lucas, at least. Yeah, yeah, so she was a feminist turncoat. Tough. Rushes of sexual awareness didn’t often happen to single mothers with two kids and too many pounds plastered to their butts. It was kinda nice, having her nipples tighten for some other reason than being cold.

Even if it was just a passing thing.

At seventeen, she’d been the quintessential good girl, while Eddie King had been the quintessential good girl’s fantasy. At thirty-seven, not a whole lot had changed on that score.

But she had. At seventeen, she’d still believed in “one day…” At thirty-seven, that day had come and gone. But not before taking a healthy chunk out of her ample butt on its way out the door.

Eddie had no use for memories. The bad ones—and there were plenty of those—he’d ditched years ago. And the few good ones…well, that’d be like refusing to throw away a pair of shoes you’d outgrown, wouldn’t it? No matter how cool they were, if they didn’t fit, no sense hanging on to ’em.

Mala Koleski had been a pair of shoes that’d been the wrong size from the get-go. A pair of shoes he’d never even bothered trying on.

Not that he hadn’t been tempted.

In any case, he hadn’t thought about her in years. Yet all it took was one chance meeting, a split second’s worth of a connection that was startlingly and unmistakably sexual, to haul those memories of her front and center, boy, all shined up and ready for inspection.

Whether he liked it or not.

The kids annihilated the moment, as kids tended to do, and they’d all stumbled back inside, where he and Mala did this dumb so-wow-how-are-you-doing-fine-and-you? number until she’d shepherded her babies into Galen’s office and Eddie’d gone back to the stove.

Where the sizzling sausage and peppers now taunted him. Galen had more or less left him to his own devices, and instructed her staff to do the same, even though they’d been helpful enough about showing him where everything was. Still, he could feel them all watching him as they went about their chores, like they were wondering how he was gonna pull this one off. Not from meanness, nothing like that. Just…curious. Probably as much about why he didn’t join in their jawin’ as about his cooking skills.

Well, if he got the job, they’d figure out that one soon enough. He was into doing his job, period, not getting overly chummy with his co-workers. It wasn’t that he had anything against being friendly. And that chip he used to cart around had pretty much disintegrated years ago. He’d tell the occasional joke, put up his two bucks for the football pool or pitch in for somebody’s wedding present, stuff like that. He just had no use for getting involved in people’s personal lives.

Just like he had no use for anyone getting involved in his.

Eddie grabbed the bottle of wine set to one side, dashed some into the pan, reveling in the fruity steam that billowed up. From the office, he heard Mala’s laugh.

Soft. That had been the only word to come to mind the first time he saw her, dashing between classes, surrounded by a half-dozen giggling girlfriends. Everything about her—her full figure, her velvet-smooth voice, even her perfume, which hadn’t been overpowering like most of the other girls’—had made him think of being someplace warm and comfortable and…soft. She’d glanced at him, just for a heartbeat, as she whizzed past on her high-heeled sandals, and all the air just whooshed from his lungs at the sight of those vaguely curious green-gold cat’s eyes. A smile, genuine and just this side of devilish, erupted between round, dimpled cheeks, but he wasn’t completely sure it’d been for him. He remembered standing stock-still in her wake, watching the ends of her dark, gleaming hair twitching across the top of a generous bottom unabashedly displayed in snug designer jeans. An achy sense of longing that he never, ever allowed himself—not then, not now—had damn near knocked him over.

Eddie chuckled to himself as he turned down the heat under the pan. Oh, he’d ached, all right. Hell, his physical reaction at the time had embarrassed the life out of him. While it had been hardly the first time the sight of some girl had gotten him hot, it had definitely been the first time he’d feared for the buttons on his 501’s. And while he was way beyond getting embarrassed about things like that these days, he wasn’t beyond being startled. Because damned if those buttons weren’t being put to the test again.

Her hair might be shorter, and that pretty face attested to the fact that she was a woman in her late thirties. But the eyes still held that note of devilment, and the dimples were still there, and her voice had ripened into a huskiness that both soothed and excited. And she was still soft as a hundred down pillows all piled on top of each other.

And still out of his reach.

Behind him, he heard a minor commotion as Mala apparently ushered the boy through the kitchen to the bathroom in order to change his pants. Mama-mode suited her well, he decided, although he also decided not to think too hard about the man responsible for those kids. The man who got to snuggle up to all that softness every night.

Dimly, he heard the boy start crying again.

He dragged over a bowl of already cooked rigatoni, dumped out the sausage-pepper mixture. Damn, those kids were something else, weren’t they? The girl, especially—whoo-ee. She’d put the fear of God in King Kong. And the boy—what was up with the crybaby routine? Kid had to be, what? Five, six? And still bawling from a tumble in the snow? Shew, Eddie couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Being the new kid on the playground every year or two kinda knocks that right out of you—

“What’s that?”

He looked down into a pair of challenging blue eyes underneath an explosion of red curls that didn’t look real. Long legs in white, lacy tights or whatever you called them peeked out from underneath a purple jumper with flowers all over it, incongruously ending in clunky pink-and-silver sneakers. Kid was skinny, but not fragile. Probably one of those girls who liked to beat up boys. And did, regularly. “Italian sausage and peppers. Wanna taste?”

That got a wrinkled nose. “No, thank you. Peppers don’t agree with me.”

Cocking one brow, Eddie opened one oven door to remove the baked ziti. Instantly, the temperature in the kitchen rose another ten degrees. It wasn’t that he didn’t like kids, even though the idea of having any of his own never even made the playoffs. He just never quite knew what to make of them, was all. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody told me,” came the indignant reply. “I get all burpy when I eat them. What’s your name?”

Eddie straightened, set the ziti on the prep table behind them, then grabbed a towel from the bar on the stove, wiped his hands. Where the hell was the kid’s mother? “Eddie King. And yours?”

“Caroline Sedgewick, but most people call me Carrie. My mama’s Galen’s accountant. That’s why we’re here, so she can get some papers or something so she can take them home and work on our computer. After she finishes our costumes for the play tonight. Galen’s gonna have a baby pretty soon. That’s why her belly’s so big. Are you the new cook?”

Figuring the question signaled a break in the onslaught, Eddie said, “That’s what I’m hopin’. You know, you sure got a lot to say for such a little thing.”

“I know.” Unaffected, the child hiked herself up onto a nearby stool, making something sparkle on the sneakers. “I’m in first grade, but I can read better’n anybody in my class. Better’n some second graders, too. Lucas can’t even write his name right yet, and he’s only a year younger’n me. But he’s a boy. And everybody knows boys are slower’n girls.”

“Oh?”

“Uh-huh. Well, ’cept for my uncle Steve, who lives out on a farm. He just got married last summer and we all got to go to the wedding, which was all the way over in Europe because Aunt Sophie’s a princess. But I heard Grandma Bev tell Pop-Pop one day when they didn’t know I could hear ’em talking that my daddy was dumber than…well, it’s a word that rhymes with ‘spit’ but I’m not supposed to say it.” Then she pointed. “What’s that around your neck?”

Feeling slightly dizzy—what was that about somebody marrying a princess?—Eddie felt for the chain that was always there, then slipped it out from underneath his sweater. Had to admit, the kid was kinda entertaining. If you were into bossy little girls with egos the size of Canada. And one thing he’d say for someone who talked that much: it made his part in the conversation much eaiser. “It’s a cross. Used to belong to my mama.”

Carrie leaned over to inspect it. He half expected her to whip out a jeweler’s loop. “It’s pretty. How come you have it?”

“My mama gave it to me right before she died, when I was real little. About your age, in fact.”

She looked up, her expression melting into what Eddie could only surmise was genuine sympathy, tugging something in his chest he didn’t want tugged. “Are you sad? That your mama died?”

“It was a long time ago. Like I said.”

“Oh. Where’s your daddy?”

With a shrug, he slipped the cross back inside his sweater, his emotions back inside their little box. “I have no idea.”

Eddie realized the child was scrutinizing him like she was trying to decide whether or not to admit him to the club. “My daddy left us when I was four,” she said at last, showing a sudden interest in the way the flowers were arranged on her jumper. “We don’t know where he is, either—”

“Carrie—for heaven’s sake! Stop pestering the poor man!”

Eddie turned around to see Mala, Lucas in tow, jerkily shrugging back into her long tweedy sweater. The two spots of color sitting high on her cheeks kinda clued him in that she’d overheard.

“It’s okay,” he said, surprised to discover he meant it. At least, for the moment. Not that he wanted to make it a habit, mind, of having heart-to-hearts with little girls.

“Yeah, well…” Downright humming with nervous energy, Mala tugged a strand of electrified hair out of one gold loop earring as she dangled a red-and-black car coat in front of her son. Although she looked good—damn good—she’d put on a few pounds since high school, which she’d done her best to cover up with a baggy ivory sweater over a straight, beige skirt that came nearly to the insteps of her flat-heeled boots. Too bad, ’cause he’d bet she’d look real fine in a pair of those tight jeans like she used to wear. “She can talk your ear off, if you let her. C’mon, Luc…get this on—”

The strain in her voice tore another memory loose, of him and his mother walking down some street, somewhere, his hand tightly clamped in hers as she hurried along, as if trying to outrun her tears. He’d been four, maybe five, afraid to ask his mother why she was crying in case he was somehow at fault.