His Temporary Live-in Wife

He watched Dylan eat. Eric had seen what could happen to teenagers on the streets of New York. Things might not be as dire in the university town of Davis, but everyone deserved better than being reduced to scrounge for food and shelter. And everyone he knew who’d gotten involved with a homeless person had gotten bitten in some way.

He wanted to trust his instincts about the kid, but he knew he should keep his guard up. “Want another sandwich?” he asked.

“She made chocolate-chip cookies today, but I’m guessing they’re for you,” Dylan said, pointing to a plastic container on the counter.

Eric leaned back in his chair, grabbed it and set it in front of the boy. Dylan didn’t hesitate. He yanked the top off and pulled out a handful. Eric went to the refrigerator to get the milk again, deciding to give up asking questions. The kid would talk when he was ready.

After a few minutes Marcy materialized in the doorway. “I made up a bed for Dylan on the sofa,” she said, then disappeared as quickly and quietly as she’d come.

They rinsed their plates in the kitchen sink then walked into the living room. The sofa looked welcoming. Because it was a normal hot August night, she hadn’t added a blanket, only sheets, but she’d turned down the top sheet invitingly and put a chocolate mint on his pillow.

Eric smiled at that. She may not trust Dylan being there, and she may even harbor resentment for his sneaking into the house under her watch, but she still recognized he could use a little comfort.

“Are you gonna call the cops?” Dylan asked, scuffing his toe against the hardwood floor.

He was too tired to deal with it. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He dragged his hands down his face.

Dylan sprang into action, making a quick side step around Eric, running to the door. He was already to the front sidewalk by the time Eric made it to the porch.

He should’ve anticipated that, but he’d figured Dylan would be grateful for the food and the offer of a place to sleep, although Eric had fully expected him to leave before sunrise.

Eric locked the door, then climbed the stairs. He could probably find something to wedge into the window jam, making it impossible to open, but he didn’t bother. If Dylan changed his mind, he would have a way in.

When Eric reached the second floor, he didn’t see a light on under either guest-room door, so he didn’t know which room she’d taken. His bedroom door was open, however, and a lamp on. He stepped over the threshold. His quilt was folded at the foot of the bed, leaving only sheets for him, too. The house was warm even with the air conditioner on.

And there was a mint on his pillow.

Even though she was wary of having Dylan in the house, and had borne the brunt of his own anger for the window lock not being fixed, she’d turned his room into a retreat for him.

He dug out shorts and a T-shirt from his suitcase and climbed into bed. The sheets felt crisp and smelled fresh, as did his room. He’d had housecleaners all his adult life, but that’s all they did—clean house.

Marcy had already made him a home.

Chapter Three

Marcy jolted straight up in bed when the doorbell rang, followed by someone pounding on the door. She flung back the covers, grabbed her cell phone to check the time—3:30 a.m.—then rushed out of the bedroom, pulling on a summer-weight robe.

From the top of the staircase Marcy saw Eric open the front door. Two uniformed officers stood there, Dylan in front of them, looking hostile.

“We caught him as he dropped out a window out back,” one officer said. “Neighbor phoned it in that she’d seen someone climb inside. He was carrying this.” He held up the plastic container of cookies Marcy had baked. “Says he knows you.”

“We’ve met,” Eric said, his arms crossed, his eyes drilling the boy.

“You want to press charges?” the cop asked.

“I don’t know. Do I want to press charges, Dylan?”

Marcy saw the boy’s hostility transform into fear. Scared, he looked even younger.

“It’s just cookies,” he muttered.

“And breaking and entering,” Eric pointed out.

“The window wasn’t locked,” Dylan said, cockiness not just in his voice but his stance.

The look Eric gave him would’ve reduced Marcy to a quivering mass, but Dylan challenged him right back with his eyes.

The look might not have backed Dylan down but he did respond to it. His hostile expression smoothed out, and he stood a little taller, waiting for a verdict.

“Charges, sir?” the now-impatient officer asked.

“No. Let him go.” Eric started to shut the door.

“Wait! Give him the cookies,” Dylan ordered the cop. “I’m sorry.”

Marcy watched Eric close his eyes for a few seconds and then assume the stern-parent look before he reopened the door. The officer passed Eric the container. He and his partner strode off.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” Eric said to Dylan as he stood on the porch, then Eric caught up with the police officers, entering into a discussion for a couple of minutes before returning. He walked past Dylan, went inside, then turned at the threshold. “Do you have anything to say?”

“I know I was stupid to do that,” Dylan said right away.

“You think?”

“I’ve been on my own awhile. I’m not used to someone being nice to me.”

“Cut the crap,” Eric said, shocking Marcy. Dylan had seemed genuinely sorry.

“Maybe that works on some people, but not me. There’s no reason for someone your age to be homeless, not with all the public options available. You’ve chosen to be. I don’t know if you’re running or hiding, but I expect other people have been nice to you.” Eric leaned close to him. “You’ve heard of the three-strikes law?”

Dylan nodded.

“You’ve got two in my book. Good night.” He shut the door in the boy’s face.

Marcy’s heart caught in her throat. He was just a kid, a scared kid. “You’re sending him out there again? In the middle of the night?”

His face looked cold, so very cold. “Coddling is not going to help this boy, even though he could use a whole lot of that, too. If he wants help, he’ll knock. He needs to be a man. Someone hasn’t taught him that.”

“But you will?”

“I don’t see anyone else stepping up, do you? But he has to want it. Look, those cops already knew him. I told them we were thinking about letting him stay with us, so they were straight with me. He had some trouble at one of the shelters and got booted out, but the cops think it wasn’t his fault. He hasn’t gotten into any trouble that they know of. Keeps his head down and his nose clean. That’s high praise in my mind. They gave me a couple of people to check with. That and my own gut feeling says we can let him stay here for now.”

A quiet knock came on the door.

Eric didn’t make him wait long before he pulled open the door.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Eric asked.