The Prodigal Valentine

“Yeah, I almost went with orange, but thought it would be a bit much with the sofa.”

“Good point.” Another pause. “Never saw a sofa the color of antifreeze before.”

“Do I detect a hint of derision in that comment?”

Ben’s mouth twitched again. “Not at all. But the walls…your father must’ve nearly had a coronary.”

“To put it mildly. Until I pointed out that since I’ll have to be blasted out of here, painting over the walls is moot.”

He chuckled, then asked, “How are your folks?”

“Fine,” she said, even though what she really wanted to do was scream Stop looking at me like that! “Dad’s finally retired, driving Ma nuts. Her arthritis has been acting up more these past couple of years, which is why I have to help her take down her decorations.”

“She still turn the place into the North Pole?”

“You have no idea. And every year she buys more stuff. For the grandbabies, she says.”

“How many are there?”

“Twelve. Although Rosie’s pregnant with her fourth. A fact my mother never tires of shoving down my throat. That I’m the only one without kids. Oh, and a husband.”

His expression softened. “Guess there’s no accounting for some men’s stupidity.”

Uh…

Mercy spun back to the gurgling coffeemaker. “No matter. What can I say, that ship has sailed.”

After a silence thick enough to slice and serve with butter and jam, Ben said, “So what are you up to these days?”

The coffeemaker finally spit out its last drop; Mercy pulled a pair of mugs down from a cabinet, filled them both with the steaming brew. She handed him his coffee, then retreated to lean against the far counter, huddling her own mug to her chest. “Actually, I finally got my business degree, opened a children’s gently used clothing store with two of my classmates, about six or seven years ago. Except it grew, so now we carry some furniture and educational toys, too.”

He held aloft his mug in a silent toast. “And you’re doing well?”

“Fingers crossed, so far, so good. We were even able to hire an assistant last summer. A damn good thing since both of my partners have babies now. Had to find a larger place, too. One of those old Victorians near Old Town? Your father’s company did the remodel, actually.”

“No kidding? I’ll have to drop by, check it out.”

“You, in a kid’s store?”

“Why not? Hey, I’ve got a niece and nephew to spoil. Especially…” His eyes lowered, he thumbed the rim of his cup, then looked back up at her. “Especially since I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“You know, you could at least pretend to be diplomatic.”

“I could. But why? And since we’re on the subject…so what exactly have you been doing for the past ten years?”

His eyes narrowed, a move that instantly provoked a tiny Hmm in the dimly lit recesses of her mind. “This and that,” he finally said. “Going where the work was.”

“Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

He looked at her steadily for a long moment, then said quietly, “I didn’t vanish without a trace, Merce. My family’s always known where I was, that I was okay. And I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“But why, is the question? And don’t give me some song-and-dance about your father needing you. Because I’m not buying it.”

Ben leaned back on the bar stool, gently drumming his fingers on the counter, as he seemed to be contemplating how much to tell her. “Let’s just say events provided a much needed kick in the butt and let it go at that.”

“A kick in the butt to do what?”

One side of his mouth kicked up. “Thought I said to let it go?”

“Not gonna happen. So?”

He slid off the stool, moseying out into the living room and picking up a family photo of her youngest sister Olivia and her family, including four little boys under the age of nine. “I needed some time to…reassess a few things, that’s all.” He set the photo back down and turned to her, his hand in his back pocket, and something in his eyes made her stomach drop.

“Ben…? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“You always could see through me, Merce,” he said softly, a rueful grin tugging at that wonderful, wonderful mouth. “Even when we were kids. But this isn’t about something happening nearly as much as…well, I find myself wondering a lot these days how I got to be thirty-five with still no idea how I fit in the grand scheme of things.”

Yep, she knew that feeling. All too well. Only, up until a few minutes ago, she could have sworn she’d left that “Who the hell am I?” phase of her life far behind her. Apparently, she’d been wrong.

Not only because the grinning, cocky, nobody-can-tell-me-nuthin’ dude of yore had morphed into this man with the haunted eyes who’d clearly been knocked around a time or two and, she was guessing, had come out all the stronger, and perhaps wiser, for it. But because, in the time it took to drink a single cup of coffee, whoever this was had turned everything she’d thought she’d known about herself on its head.

On a soft but heartfelt, “Dammit,” Mercy sidestepped the breakfast bar and crossed the small room, where she grabbed Ben’s shoulders and yanked him into a liplock neither of them would ever forget.

Chapter Three

He’d been as powerless to stop their mouths’ colliding as he would have been a meteor falling on his head.

But nothing said he’d had to wrap his arms tight around her and kiss her back, with a good deal of enthusiasm and no small amount of tongue. Or lower her onto that hideous green sofa—except his back, which wouldn’t have taken kindly to bending over like that for longer than a second or so. Damn, she was short. Even so, he could still stop, no sweat, any time he wanted to, still pull away from that warm, wicked mouth and the warm, wicked woman that came with it.

Which eventually he did, if for no other reason than they both needed air, bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders and searching her eyes before once again lowering his mouth to hers, this time going slow, so slow, so mind-druggingly slow, pulling back whenever she tried to cozy up to his tongue, gently nipping her lower lip, her chin, her neck…remembering how it had been between them.

How good.

She made a sound that was both growl and whimper as her long, pale fingernails dug into his arms, as one leg snaked around his waist, trapping him, claiming him, even as his body completely ignored his brain’s strident protests, that this was stupid and wrong and what the hell was he thinking?

Breathing hard, she pushed him slightly away, even as she clutched his shirt. “So, how long are you here again?”

Right.

His heart pounding, Ben waited, silently swearing, for the testosterone haze to clear. Then he pushed himself up, and away, walking back into the kitchen to get his coat.

“Four weeks,” he said, flatly. Because damned if he was going to hold out the same bone to Mercy he never should have to his family. Because he had no idea what his plans were. What came next. “Maybe six.”

She sat up, her hair as knotted as her forehead, and need and regret and a whole mess of pointless, inappropriate feelings got all tangled up in his head. He’d missed that bizarre mixture of vulnerability and toughness that was Mercedes Zamora. Missed it way too much to risk screwing things up now.

“What are you doing?” she asked.