Loving Lucas Read online

  “Hmmm.” She taps her chin.

  “What?”

  “I’ve never seen you react this way to a man.”

  I shake my head, trying to figure out what she’s talking about. “Skeptical?”

  “No.” She laughs. “Frantic.”

  “Talk about gross exaggeration,” I say. “I think those compounds you play with in environmental chemistry have burned up a few brain cells.”

  “Look at you…” She joins me on the couch. “Those political science classes have paid off in spades. You can lie and keep a straight face.”

  We both laugh, knowing somewhere in between is the truth. Yes, I’m way too attracted to Lucas Lafontaine already, and yes, his profession appeals to me. I feel safe. Why shouldn’t I? After years of never really fitting in anywhere, and practically being ignored by my foster parents, I met Marie. She was the first person to really pay attention to me. Now Lucas—he asked questions and listened to my answers. Yes, there’s definitely chemistry between us, but what if he turns out to be a true friend? I can’t afford to ignore that potential. “No men.”

  “The right one.”

  Thank God the front door opens. “Ladies.” Brandon struts in.

  “Hey, Brandon,” I say.

  “Morning.” He walks to the side of the couch and kisses Marie. “You two haven’t even showered yet.”

  “We’ve been arguing,” Marie says.

  “About what?”

  “Karlie still won’t admit she likes Lucas.”

  “Well.” Brandon smirks at me, then hands me a piece of paper. “He’s an excellent cop, Karlie—received two lifesaving commendations and one for bravery in six years. He holds a bachelor’s degree in forensic science and an associate’s degree in general science. Shall I keep going?”

  I take a deep breath and scan the page, all the positive proof I need in black and white. But I’m still not convinced. “Everyone has a past.”

  “Yes,” he agrees. “There’s an ex-wife and son.”

  I instantly deflate; that’s not the kind of past I meant or wanted to hear. “Where?”

  “Minnesota.”

  If I don’t start planning my escape now, I’ll end up at his house. “Reason enough to stay away.”

  “That’s crazy,” Marie comments. “One minute you’re saying how much you don’t like him, now you want to run away?” She studies me. “He didn’t ask you to live with him, Karlie. He presented you with a viable option so you could continue attending school without having to work full time. Whatever decision you make, don’t let your fears get in the way. As long as you’re here with us or living under Lucas’s roof, Connor can’t hurt you. I promise.”

  I fidget nervously with my hair, knowing how right she is. I’m acting neurotic and unfairly judging a man who helped me. “B-but…” Why can’t I express myself without sounding like an idiot? “Let’s just say I’m hypothetically attracted to this guy. Sharing living quarters with him won’t help my situation any. I need to stay focused. Can’t you understand that?” None of the feelings I’m experiencing make sense. “Maybe I haven’t resolved everything with Connor yet.”

  “What?” Now Brandon joins us on the couch. He sits next to me, staring at me like I have two heads. “This is a no-brainer. We’ll do anything to help you, Karlie. But if you’re thinking about getting back with Connor, so help me, I don’t think I’ll be able to talk to you anymore.”

  Marie clears her throat. “I’m afraid I have to agree. Do you know how many nights we stayed up worrying about you? Wondering if that psycho would beat you unconscious or kill you? You asked us to stay out of it and we did. That was a big mistake, one we won’t make again.”

  The walls are closing in. Tears slip down my cheeks and I hug myself. “What is this, a fucking intervention?” I squeeze my eyes shut, imagining a safe place, the beach or a snowy mountain peak where I can tower over the messed-up world I grew up in. I use the heel of my hand to wipe my tears away.

  “I love you, Karlie.” Marie opens up her arms. “But I really think you need to talk to someone about this.”

  I recoil halfway into her hug. “What? Like a psychiatrist?” She really thinks I’m crazy.

  “How about a grief counselor,” she offers. Then she grabs and squeezes my hands. “Seville screwed with your head, girl. You may not see it yet, but in time, once you’ve recovered, I promise, you’ll understand better. Don’t reconcile with that asshole.”

  I’m no good at this. I feel like I’m partitioning my heart. Connor is the first man I ever opened up to. And once he got inside my head, he wreaked havoc on everything I believed in. I let out a sigh.

  Marie frowns. “Aren’t you going to answer?”

  Outnumbered and feeling rather defeated, I shrug. “I’m not as strong as you. No matter how many times he mistreated me, I can’t just stop caring. I invested so much in our relationship—hoped we could get married one day. I know I’m wrong. But there’s a big hole in my heart and if you really want me to be honest—it hurts, a lot.”

  “Pain is part of recovery,” Brandon says.

  I wipe the tears away. “Don’t give me your textbook explanations. Haven’t you ever been with someone you probably should have run away from?”

  “No,” he answers flatly.

  Marie shakes her head.

  “So I’m really a pathetic loser.”

  Marie taps my lips twice. “Don’t ever call yourself a loser again. You’re vulnerable right now—that’s to be expected. I’ve never met a stronger woman in my life. You’re one of my heroes, Karlie. I know I don’t say it enough, but I admire everything you do.”

  My bottom lip quivers as we embrace. She’s one of the only reasons I’ve ever opened my heart, and I love her so much. “Thank you.”

  She pulls back slightly. “That’s what sisters are for.”

  “I’ll never go back to Connor—promise.”

  “I knew you were just talking out of your ass.” She’s trying to make me smile.

  “If I could do that, we’d all be rich.”

  “I’d buy tickets,” Brandon adds.

  I chuckle, peace seeping back into my mind. “Can we get my truck?”

  “Sure thing,” Marie says. “Let’s get dressed.”

  —

  I’m at Whataburger, having a late breakfast with my cousin Craig Hanson. I briefly explained everything that happened last night and the offer I made to Karlie.

  “A maid?” he asks, looking skeptical.

  “Why not?”

  “Is she hot?”

  I rub my chin. “Scorching.”

  “So this is about your dick, not your sense of compassion.”

  My cousin never holds back. “I think I’m man enough to control it, Craig. She’s beautiful, but that’s secondary, trust me. The girl needs help and I happen to be in a position to provide it. Besides, you have a wife to come home to every night, a hot meal on the table, and a spotless house. I deserve that, don’t I?”

  His eyebrows arch. “Minus the sex.”

  “I’m not making any promises.”

  “Shit.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Let’s review that long list of names where you just wanted to help and all those women who turned out to be douche bags.”

  “Not the same.”

  “Remember how many cast-off dogs and cats you dragged home when we were boys?”

  “Proof of my sense of compassion.” I laugh.

  “Maybe,” he admits. “Or evidence you’re insane.”

  “I’m not changing my mind.”

  “All right, bro.” He reaches in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. “Just remember I warned you.”

  Craig pays for breakfast and we head outside. “I’m taking next week off to get settled in,” I say.

  That elicits a sigh. “Glad I think with my big head now.”

  That’s why his wife is already pregnant a second time. “Later.” We fist-bump, and I watch him get in his Mustang and drive away.
>
  Craig is right about a couple of things. I have a history of getting involved with disturbed women. But that’s not how Karlie comes off; she’s obviously a victim. That doesn’t make her crazy; it makes her damaged. And I’m chipped and torn in places, too. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to her—we have something in common. After enduring two years of emotional hell after my divorce and nearly drinking myself into a coma, I woke up one day and realized the only person I was hurting was myself.

  So I buried myself in work and excelled. When the position opened up on the Corpus Christi Police Department I put in for a transfer, and I don’t regret it. I enjoy the beach and living near my cousin. And now I’ve met someone I believe I can help. That’s what I do best: recover shattered pieces and glue them back together.

  Karlie is worth the effort. She reminds me of the kids I mentored. If she’s willing, I’ll teach her how to convert that pain into positive energy.

  Chapter 6

  After picking up my Toyota Tacoma from Connor’s house, I follow Brandon and Marie to Padre Island. Apparently they know the neighborhood where Lucas lives. When we pull into the massive driveway, I shut off the ignition and stare at the house. It’s fortress-like, a three-story gray poured-concrete/stucco design with an observation deck off the roof. There are no windows on the ground level, just the front door and garage. I slowly climb out of my vehicle, wondering if I’ve made the right choice.

  “Nice place,” Marie comments as I approach her. “You’re only a half mile from the beach.”

  I feign a smile. “I’m nervous.”

  She wraps her arm around my shoulders. “Perfectly normal,” she says. “It’s not every day you move in with a hottie.”

  “Stop it.” I wiggle out of her grasp, knowing very well she’s trying to make me laugh. But I can’t; a thousand thoughts are racing through my mind. And when the front door opens, I’m unprepared for what I see. Lucas is wearing swim trunks and nothing else. I can’t stop staring at his superbly muscled body and that perfect tan. I grit my teeth, mentally ripping myself for objectifying my new landlord. Naturally, my gaze stops on his lips.

  “Welcome home, Karlie.” Lucas smiles. “Come in, and look around.” He pulls the door wide, stepping aside to let us in.

  Brandon and Marie go first; I hesitate.

  “I don’t bite,” Lucas says.

  Our gazes meet. “I don’t believe that.”

  His eyes sparkle mischievously. “Come on,” he insists, waving me inside.

  The back wall is nothing but windows and sunlight floods the open space. The kitchen, dining room, and living room are huge, and black marble countertops and a matching wet bar complement the whitewashed cabinets and stainless-steel appliances in the kitchen. The honey-toned hardwood floors are beautiful, and three black ceiling fans suspended from the vaulted ceiling cool the space nicely. I spot two sets of stairs, one off the main entry and a spiral staircase off the living room that probably grants access to the observation room. A few boxes are stacked in the kitchen. Next, I admire the black leather sectional and two matching recliners and the wall-mounted curved projection screen on the far wall.

  “Personal movie theater?” I tease.

  “One of the few luxuries I enjoy. Want the full tour now?”

  “Sure.” I set my purse down on the wet bar and follow him down a hallway. Apparently Brandon and Marie are staying put.

  He opens the first door. “The laundry room.”

  I peek inside, and there’s a workstation and washer and dryer. The guest bedroom and bathroom are across the hall. We head back through the living room and stop at the door next to the TV. He opens it.

  “Your space.”

  Expecting an empty room, I’m shocked at what I see: furniture with the tags still attached. I face Lucas hovering in the doorway. “What’s all this? Aren’t you on a budget? How can you afford it on a police officer’s salary?” Probably a rude question, but under the circumstances…

  He shrugs. “I make more than you think and have a great investment portfolio, so don’t worry so much, okay? After what Connor said about keeping your things, I couldn’t very well expect you to sleep on the floor.”

  “No.” I admire the white queen-size bed, lifting the label. Ethan Allen Robyn Bed, planked design and wide fluting on the headboard and footboard…What was he thinking? There’s also a matching double dresser, vanity, and stool, and a full-length mirror. “Lucas? I can’t afford this. It’s beautiful…but please return it.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  I turn around and frown. “What about the mattress and sheets and comforter?”

  “We’ll compromise,” he offers, stepping into the room. “You can make payments.”

  I click my tongue. “Twenty dollars a week? Because that’s all I have in my budget for extras. I’ll be indebted to you for life.”

  He chuckles. “For life, huh?”

  “Ten years at least.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I needed to furnish the room anyway.”

  Regardless of how embarrassed I am about my financial hardship, I do feel safe here. Blame it on his Texas-boy manners and hospitality or that mouth I so desperately want to kiss. Whatever it is, I can’t regret meeting Lucas. He’s everything I yearned for Connor to be. I’m not the kind of woman who wants to change a man just to please herself, but if I can inspire someone to be better, the way I’d always prayed Connor would inspire me, then it only makes sense that the relationship would work. Maybe I’m crazy for thinking I have anything to offer—I grew up in a foster home, wishing I belonged to a real family.

  Focus. Cooking and cleaning are second nature to me, so Lucas will get everything he expects. Sometimes I felt like an indentured servant in my foster home. My chores took nearly as long to complete as my homework, but I learned how to work hard as a result. I hear him sigh and look up.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He takes another exaggerated breath and offers his hand. “Upstairs?”

  I slip my hand into his and let him drag me back through the living room, where Brandon and Marie have made themselves quite comfortable on the couch.

  “Is that your room?” Marie queries.

  “Go and see while we’re upstairs,” I suggest.

  She winks at me as I’m tugged toward the entryway. The master bedroom, en suite bath, and office are the only rooms on the second floor. Of course the office has been converted into his personal armory, complete with a gun safe, what appears to be tactical gear, several compound bows and arrows, and boxes of bullets strewn everywhere. Then I notice the wall of built-ins. Trophies? I move closer to inspect them: dozens of AMA trophies, including a championship title. I didn’t know.

  The next shelf is dedicated to his career. His commendations and several newspaper clippings, a couple with accompanying photographs, are framed. The headlines grab my attention: Local hero…Above and beyond the call of duty…Decorated Lake Jackson officer shot on routine traffic stop…Volunteer of the year…Maybe Marie wasn’t that far off when she magnified his best qualities; the guy is undeniably a hero.

  “I don’t know if I deserve to breathe the same air as you,” I say.

  He snorts. “Old news.”

  “Let’s see,” I say. “This article is dated May twenty-third of this year.” As arrogant as this man is, I’m not surprised he’s modest when it comes to his professional accomplishments. Somehow it makes sense. “You can’t deny that.” I twirl around. Of course all I can think about is the clipping that stated he was shot. Where? I didn’t notice a scar. And believe me, I haven’t overlooked an inch of his golden skin. “Sorry if I’m being too nosy.”

  “Not at all.” He sits on a stool. “If we’re going to share living space, Karlie, you deserve to know about me.”

  “Does that go both ways?” The thought scares me.

  “If we’re going to have an equitable relationship.”

  His large hands are braced on his thighs—beauti
ful, long legs hewed from stone. Heat rushes into my cheeks.

  “Why are you blushing?” He sounds intrigued and I get the boyish grin. Gone is the modest cop, replaced by the nerves-of-steel man I met at the track.

  “Please don’t expect me to answer.”

  “Honesty is the best policy.”

  “So is keeping my mouth shut.”

  He’s watching me closely. “I can’t argue with that, Ms. Augustine.”

  No one has ever called me that, but I like the way it sounds rolling off what I’m sure is the sexiest tongue on the planet because it’s in his mouth. “Good,” I say. “What about the observation deck and backyard?”

  “In a hurry?”

  Yes. If we spend too much time near his bedroom, I’ll never want to leave. “Not at all.” I just lied to a peace officer; I cross myself.

  “Catholic?”

  “That’s how the state raised me.”

  Laughing, he stands. “Why’d you cross yourself, Karlie? Superstitious?”

  I refuse to make the same mistake as last night. No more confessions—no more spontaneous answers. Everything I do, everything I say from now on, will be perfectly measured and censored around him. “Blessing the house.”

  “Remember what I said about you making a shitty poker player?”

  I nod.

  “This qualifies as one of those moments.”

  —

  I’m nearly addicted to staring at her and haven’t tried to hide my attraction. The first time our hands touched, something sparked between us, and I won’t let that go unless she asks me to. She’s wearing a short white sundress with sandals, and the neckline of the dress scoops low enough to catch a hint of her cleavage, a place my face would fit nicely. I should have demanded her bra size last night; I’m thinking 36DD. And her thighs are so slim and toned; I bite my fist. Another place I’d like to explore. As my gaze slides up her body, she retreats a few steps, her eyes never leaving mine.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  My core temperature is swiftly rising. Her eyes are hypnotic, and with her soft auburn hair cascading over her shoulders, she’s making it hard for me to keep my thoughts and hands to myself. “Because you’re beautiful.” Why does she look like I just insulted her?