Can't Hardly Breathe

Her eyes widened. He’d noticed her? Before this?

Then he shocked her further, saying, “It looks good on you.”

What! It did?

“Thank you,” she replied, her tone soft, her cheeks burning. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“Not kind. Honest.” Now unwilling to meet her gaze, he cleared his throat and stacked a set of papers at the corner of his desk. “Anyway. We were talking about Holly.”

“Right.” Dorothea hooked a lock of hair behind her ear. How to explain she’d been back home for nearly a year, but her sister had yet to forgive her for leaving in the first place?

“I know your family owns the Strawberry Inn, and I wonder if Holly maybe...works too much?” His hesitation lessened the sting of his words. “She rarely turns in her assignments. I’ve offered her numerous extensions, but she always declines, stating she’s far too busy to pencil me into her schedule.”

Guilt pricked at Dorothea. Holly had zero free time, the way Dorothea had once had zero free time. The way she now had zero free time. And she had only perpetuated the problem.

When her sister asked for a day off, she should have given it to her. She remembered the teenage horror of being forced to turn down every after-school invitation. Not that she’d been invited anywhere by anyone other than Ryanne and Lyndie.

Making a split-second decision, she said, “Consider Holly fired, effective immediately.” The theme rooms could wait. Every penny she’d saved could be used to hire a new receptionist. “I want the best for her. Underneath her insults, she has a good heart.”

He nodded as she spoke. “I agree.”

Those two swords fertilized Dorothea’s hopes, helping them grow. If she and Mr. Hillcrest teamed up, surrounding her sister with love and acceptance, Holly would have nowhere to run.

Together, they brainstormed ways to help Holly engage with the class. At one point, he stopped Dorothea to ask for her number. “So I can keep you apprised of my progress.”

How kind. She rattled off the digits.

A harried knock echoed inside the room, and they jolted in unison. The door swung open, an irritated-looking woman stalking into the classroom. She tapped on the screen of her phone. “My meeting was scheduled to begin six minutes ago. I’ve been pacing the hall, waving at you through the glass partition, doing my best to be patient, but I have a job, too, and I can’t be late.”

“I’m so sorry.” Dorothea jumped to her feet. “I lost track of time. I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m leaving.” She extended her hand to Mr. Hillcrest. “Thank you again, Mr. Hillcrest. I—”

“Call me Jonathan. Please.”

She inclined her head before darting into the hall. As she left the building and made her way across the parking lot, her gaze lifted to the sky out of habit. Over the past few years, Oklahoma had been dubbed the home of the quakenado. Storms, tornadoes and earthquakes, oh my! She loved to predict what would come next.

The thunderstorm she’d predicted now brewed, a thick wall of cloud stretching as far as the eye could see; the heavy veil of humidity suggested there would, in fact, be tornadic activity, too.

A horn blasted.

She yelped and skidded to a stop. A minivan sped past her. Yikes! She’d been so wrapped up in weather-watching she’d lost track of her surroundings.

“Sorry,” she called.

Heart thudding, she settled behind the wheel of her car. The same car she’d had since she was sixteen years old. A granny mobile, kids had called it. Once, those same kids had used shoe polish to write the words oink oink on her windshield.

Ugh. No more thinking about the past.

Since she planned to fire Holly later today, she needed to stop at Copy Copy to create the perfect flyer for a new hire...

Wanted: Receptionist for the Strawberry Inn.

If you can:

* Speak to strangers

* Answer a phone

* Show up on time

* Type complete sentences

You have the skills we need.

Contact Dorothea Mathis to schedule an interview.

Excellent! Up next, posting the flyers and setting Holly free.

Would Dorothea be met with hugs or insults?

She heaved a sigh. Like she really had to wonder.

* * *

DOROTHEA RETURNED TO the inn and stopped short in the lobby. Her little sis had actually listened to her! Holly rather than Mrs. Hathaway manned the desk. If “manned” was defined as staring at a cell phone and chewing gum. Still, it was progress.

“Good afternoon.” Dorothea approached her sister the way she would approach a wounded animal.

Holly popped a bubble. “Daniel Porter came by to see you.”

The air gushed from her lungs. “What’d he want?”

“He looked tee-icked, but he wouldn’t tell me what the problem was. I bet he’s going to complain about his last stay.”

Or discuss his offer.

Head fogging, she said, “Enough about Daniel. Let’s talk about you.”

“Nope. I’m busy.”

“Too bad.” If it’s broken, fix it. Dorothea braced herself for an onslaught of insults and said, “I met with your teachers today.”

“So? Would you like a medal?”

Ignore. Continue. “I was told you haven’t been turning in your assignments.”

Holly never even glanced up. “That sounds like a me problem.”

Anger sparked. “I’m giving you the rest of the school year off. That means no more working this desk. Now you can devote yourself to your studies.” Good. Her tone remained calm, collected. “You can use your free time to get caught up...and afterward you can have a little fun.”

Holly pressed a button on her phone with enough force to crack the plastic case, ending the game. Her emerald gaze jerked up at last and narrowed. “You’re firing me?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t.”

“I can, and I did.”

“Well, I’m hiring myself back. You aren’t the boss of me.”

“Actually, I am,” Dorothea said with just enough sneer in her voice to shock them both. “Mom gave the inn to me, not you, and my decisions are final. You’re fired, little girl. You’re welcome!”

Holly hurled her phone across the lobby—the phone Dorothea paid for—and leaped to her feet. “You’re being stupid. You need me.”

Was she freaking kidding? “You are lazy, incompetent, destructive and entitled. In what way do I need you?”

Uh, maybe take it down a notch?

No! New Dorothea didn’t take crap.

Holly pointed an accusing finger at her. “You’re just desperate to get rid of me. Admit it!”

“I’m not—”

“You are!” Foot stomp.

Sweet Lord in heaven. Knife fighting with a serial killer would have been easier than arguing with a teenage girl. “I’m desperate to repair our relationship, Halls. I’m desperate to do right by you. I’m desperate—”

“I don’t care!” Once again her sister stomped her foot like a five-year-old child. “You and Mom worked here during your school years. Therefore I will work here during my school years. Got it?”

So much fury trapped inside one little body, her usual antipathy toward Dorothea nowhere to be found. I’m actually...getting to her?

“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “When tradition does more harm than good, it’s time to try something else.”

Holly bristled. “Tradition isn’t the problem. You are. You’re miserable, and you want everyone around you to be miserable, too. I bet that’s why Jazz left you.”

Wow. Low blow. Jazz had been happy with her...at first. And he’d truly seemed to love her. He’d called and texted anytime he was away, just to tell her how much he missed her. When they were together, he’d watched her as if the sight of her gave him great pleasure. If she’d been near, his hands had been on her.

But it had been a trick, only a trick. A long con.

After everything had gone down the toilet, she’d wondered if he’d married her because she’d been the only woman in creation dumb enough to quit school in order to pay his bills. If she’d been a free ride—in more ways than one.

Sure, he still called her at least once a week to talk about Holly and beg Dorothea for a second chance, saying he’d made a mistake, blah, blah, blah, that he missed her more every day, that he’d lost the best thing that had ever happened to him, that he’d only slept with Charity Sparks—his coanchor—because he’d feared she would get him fired if he refused her advances. As if he were a Victorian maiden with a pushy beau. He’d said he needed his job in order to provide for Dorothea and the baby.

If that were true, why had he insisted she continue to work, saving money, rather than return to school?

Truth was, he hadn’t wanted Dorothea to return to school—to become competition. Now he just wanted to keep her on the hook. Well, good luck with that. He’d made her feel like garbage when she was a prize. More than that, his actions had led to the worst day of her life. He meant nothing to her. Less than nothing.

Holly glared at her. “You want to run the inn without me. Fine. Do it. When you fail, and you will, I’ll laugh in your face, not just behind your back. Meanwhile, I’ll be sure to get caught up in my favorite class. Assholeology 101.”

Can’t win. She hadn’t reached her sister at all, had she? Rather than wilt, she forged ahead. “If today is any indication, you’re well on your way to a solid A plus.”

Her sister’s jaw dropped. Dorothea walked away before she said something to further widen the gulf between them.

Once enclosed in her room, she pressed her palm against her rose tattoo and focused on her surroundings—her sanctuary. She’d decorated the space with Grandma Ellie’s antiques: a floral-print couch, a pink velvet settee and a royal blue porcelain side table painted with...of course...roses. Those flowers were the reason she’d named—

Sickness churned deep in her stomach, and she forced her thoughts back to Grandma Ellie, who lived in heaven now; the woman was probably speaking with angels right this very second. You go down there and slap some sense into my former son-in-law. He’s actin’ nuttier than a Porta Potty at a peanut festival. No one treats my grandbabies like that!

Dorothea missed her spunky grandmother with every fiber of her being.

Disheartened—again—she showered and dressed in a clean pair of scrubs; they were made to survive daily washings and vast amounts of bleach. This pair happened to be purple, one of her favorite colors. She swiped her lips with cherry-flavored lip gloss before heading to the storage closet on the bottom floor. Along the way, she anchored her thick mass of curls into a sloppy, wet knot on the crown of her head.

As she cleaned the first block of rooms, music spilling from her iPod and setting the pace, she tried not to lament her initial attempts to improve her life. With Holly...and Daniel.

Time to figure out what to do about him.

To be fair, he wasn’t exactly a failure. He’d offered her exactly what she’d asked for—a single night of pleasure.

Not enough for me. Not anymore.

Just once, Dorothea wanted to be the girl the guy desired deeply, madly...and long-term. She longed to be first choice, the prize and not the consolation. She yearned to matter. To mean more to a man than his job, his bank account or the opinion of his family. What she didn’t want? To sleep with a man and later see him fawning all over another woman.

Been there, done that.

What had a lot better odds of success: the local tackle shop selling bait and calling it sushi.

A hard knock sounded, jolting her. She ripped out her earbuds and spun. A common occurrence lately. This time she had to swallow a yelp or a moan, she wasn’t sure which. Daniel had pushed her cart aside, giving her a full frontal view of masculine perfection. His black tee stretched across wide shoulders and hugged well-defined biceps while his dark jeans did naughty things to his lower body. The wind had left his hair in charming disarray, and her fingers ached to comb through the strands. His beard stubble had grown thicker, making him look rough, tough and bad to the bone.

He looked so danged good, like a sexy outlaw who followed no rules but his own...and he was seeing her in her scrubs and without a speck of makeup.

Oh, what the heck did it matter? She no longer had any interest in catching his attention. Did she?

She lifted her chin, all drink me in—but don’t you dare touch.

Daniel smiled at her, slow and devastating and utterly wicked. Pleasure unfurled deep inside her, delicious warmth spilling through her whole body.

He held a large bouquet of dew-kissed roses. One of every color, with the exception of pink, which had two buds.

The moisture in her mouth dried, and she shook her head. The roses couldn’t be for her. He couldn’t know what that particular flower meant to her.

And according to Lyndie and Ryanne, flowers were cliché, a generic gift given without much thought for the recipient.

“Hello, Dorothea.”

“Hi.” To mask her sudden cascade of tremors, she ripped the sheets from the bed. Cooter Bowright had checked in last night and, though he didn’t know it, he’d competed with Daniel for the title of Worst Guest Ever, wrecking the room. “Holly mentioned you wanted to speak with me.”

“Among other things.” The huskiness of his voice proved to be a weapon as powerful as any touch. “These are for you. I thought your favorite color might be pink, because of your tattoo, but decided to cover all the bases, just in case, because of your fingernails.” He walked around her, placed the flowers on the nightstand and helped her fit the clean sheet around the edges of the mattress.

The roses are for me. And he noticed my tattoo and my nails. Goose bumps spread from head to toe.

Dang him! “They’re beautiful.” Like my curves? “Thank you,” she muttered. She gathered the supplies she needed and headed to the bathroom. A hint for him to leave.

Hinges squeaked. Then a soft snick sounded. Then an ominous click. She sucked in a breath. He’d just shut and locked the front door, hadn’t he?

He appeared in the bathroom doorway and crossed his arms over his chest. Before she could protest, he said, “You smell amazing, like lavender and...what’s the other scent?”

“Scents. Sweet marjoram and ylang-ylang. I like blending essential oils.” Those particular scents happened to be known for relieving stress...and stoking desire. Which had nothing to do with her choice to basically soak herself in them. Of course.

“I like you. I want to start over with you, Dorothea. I want to go on a date with you, get to know you better.”

Her heart leaped with excitement... “What about your dad?”

“We’ll have dinner in the city. He’ll never know.”

...only to fall into her ankles.

There was no denying the truth any longer. She still wanted Daniel. Actually, she wanted him more than ever. He hadn’t just called her curves beautiful; he’d backed up his words with actions; he’d chased her, bringing her a gift. Something Jazz had never done. And she understood Daniel’s reasons for wanting to hide their association from his dad. She really did. But that understanding failed to soothe the fears and hurt his answer had sparked. What if, deep down, he was simply ashamed of her?

What if he only liked the challenge she represented?

For a moment, only a moment, Dorothea allowed herself to ponder what things would be like if Daniel were proud of her. They’d go to dinner, but not in the city. No, he would surprise her with a picnic in the middle of Strawberry Valley. Then they would go hiking. Oh! Bowling. They would trash talk, of course, and decide the winner would receive a bone-melting kiss...in the location of his or her choosing.

“One date,” he said. “Give me a chance.”

“No, thanks,” she croaked. “I’m not interested.” The words resounded inside her head, shaming her. Lies were Jazz’s thing, not hers. “Fine. I’m interested, but what I want isn’t what I need. I won’t date you.”

He listened to her without reaction, seeming to ponder her words. “Tell me why.”

“Why?” she parroted like a fool.

“Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?”

“I know you’ll hurt me.” As soon as he finished with her, her hard-won self-esteem—if she had any left—would take yet another beating.

His gaze hardened, pinning her in place. “If we discuss the terms of our relationship up front, the chances of either of us getting hurt diminish significantly.”

Please! As if she would ever be able to hurt him. “We wouldn’t have a relationship, not really. And I can already guess your terms. One, we’ll sleep together and never speak again. Two, see term number one.” And oh, wow. The bitterness in her tone astounded her. She had once demanded he have a one-night stand with her, zero strings. Now she hated him for offering the same to her?

When had she become such a hypocrite?

“We’ll sleep together once...twice...a dozen times.” He hiked a shoulder in a shrug. “The number is negotiable as long as we both accept where the relationship—because yes, we’d have one—is headed. But why must we never speak again?”

“A dozen times?” She struggled to breathe. And she understood where the “relationship” would be headed, all right. Nowhere.

“Or more,” he said. “Like I told you, I’m flexible. I’m also waiting for an answer to my question. Why must we never speak after we have sex? I happen to like speaking with you.”

He did?

Thou shalt compliment when merited.

Red alert! Danger, danger.

She cleared her throat. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Daniel, but I don’t like speaking with you.” Truth. Conversations with him tended to end disastrously for her.

Again he gave no reaction, as if he’d expected resistance and had come prepared to forge ahead regardless. “I’m happy to do all the talking, then.” He held out his arms, the last sane man in the universe. “See how easy I am to get along with?”

Double dang him! He was too charming for his own good. No, he was too charming for her good.

He tapped two fingers against the stubble on his chin. “I have a brilliant idea. Which happens to be the only kind of idea I ever have. Why don’t we focus on getting to know each other today, and speak about sex tomorrow?”

I’m not delighted by his persistence. And his ego is absolutely, positively not charming.

She grabbed the glass cleaner and a new rag. See Dorothea fake nonchalance. “No way, no how.”

“All right, then, we’ll talk about sex today.”

She nearly choked on her tongue as she faced the mirror. Her reflection had enormous green eyes and bright pink cheeks. Soft, open lips, ready to be kissed...

Spray, spray, spray. Wipe, wipe, wipe.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, the husky note back in his voice, “but I’m imagining you seated on that counter...naked.”

This. This was the tone he would use in bed. The one he would use to whisper into a woman’s ear, driving her wild with raw, primitive passion.

“Your legs are spread, and I’m—”

“Fine!” she blurted out. “You can get to know me today. Okay? All right?” Anything to shut him up. If he continued to weave such an intoxicating picture, her resistance would shatter. She would end up in his arms, the consequences an afterthought. “What would you like to know?”

His eyelids were heavy, almost drowsy. “For starters, what’s your favorite color?”

Spray, spray. Wipe, wipe. Could he see how fervently she trembled? “I like pink in the morning, blue in the afternoon and gold in the evening.”

The corners of his lips quirked up, as if a smile was attempting to sneak past his usual frown. “That’s pretty specific. I would have guessed red, the color of your fingernails.”

“Well, my color favorites change according to the position of the sun. And the nail colors aren’t based on what I like but on my mood.”

One of his brows winged up. “Please tell me red is for passion.”

She fought a smile of her own. “Nope. Red is anger. I don’t actually have a color for—” She pressed her lips together. Crap! She’d basically admitted passion had no identifier and therefore no place in her life.

He could have teased her. Or come on to her, flirting more obviously. Instead, he quieted, different emotions whirling behind his eyes. Intrigue. Desire. Confusion.

“What do yellow and orange mean?” he finally asked. “Actually, tell me all the colors.”

Why not? “Yellow is hopeful, orange nervousness. Green is irritated, pink happy. Blue is sad, purple determined.” She stopped, pressed her lips together. Sharing these details made her feel exposed. Wanting the spotlight taken off herself, she said, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Yellow. No matter the time of day.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s bright? Mellow?”

“You don’t know?” To her, yellow represented the rise of the sun. The start of a new day. A clean slate.

“Never really thought about why. I like what I like.” He crossed his arms, his biceps straining the tee. “How’d you get the nickname Dottie? Those adorable freckles?”

“Adorable? As if! But yes, that’s exactly why, and I hate it. I’ve always hated it.”

“I think it’s endearing. More than that, Dorothea doesn’t fit you. It’s the name of a ninety-year-old crazy cat lady. So why have you stuck with it?”

“Never really thought about why,” she said, mimicking him. “I like what I like.”

His grin bloomed full force, causing her hormones to sing and dance with bliss. “Well, I’m a rebel, so I’m gonna mix things up and call you...Thea. Yeah. Thea. Short and incredibly sweet.”

She gulped. He was incredibly sweet. Feigning nonchalance, she said, “All right. I’ll call you Danny.”

He laughed with delight. “Look at us. We’ve got pet names for each other already.” Then his amusement died a swift death, his smile fading.

Why the change?

“Did you always want to run the inn?” he asked, switching gears.

“No,” she replied, and cringed. Her mother would be devastated if she found out Dorothea saw the job as, well, a job rather than a passion. “I wanted to be a meteorologist.”

“So why aren’t you a meteorologist?”

Let me count the ways... “It’s a long story.” Her guts churned as years of bad memories whisked through her mind.

“No worries. I’ve got time.”

“Too bad. I’ve got no inclination.”

He thought for a moment, nodded. “That’s fair. There are things I never share with others.”

“Never?” Not with anyone?

“Never.” Did he realize his gaze had glazed over, the color seeping from his cheeks? Did he know he was rubbing a small scar on his cheek?

That scar...she thought she remembered his dad talking about Daniel’s face being lacerated by shrapnel.

Did his secrets have anything to do with his many missions overseas?

She ran the rag over the faucet, the inside of the sink. “Did you always want to be in the military?” Wait. She had to stop asking him such personal questions. Nowhere in her Make Daniel Go Bye-Bye plan did she get to know him better.

“As a little boy, I ruthlessly and relentlessly led my toys into war. Stuffed animals against action figures. I’d be working my way to general if my dad’s health hadn’t deteriorated.”

Her heart melted as she pictured little Daniel commanding his furry or plastic troops. She’d played with Barbies, sending them into rainstorms and tornadoes—the washing machine and the dryer.

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