The Creed Legacy

Brody reached over, gave her hand a brief, light squeeze. “That’s pretty obvious,” he said gently.

“I feel like such a fool,” Carolyn lamented, refusing to look at him.

“Don’t,” Brody said.

She looked down at her hand, where his had been rested for a second, and frowned, seemingly surprised to discover that he’d let go.

“You probably think I’m pathetic,” she went on, staring straight through the windshield again.

“Nothing of the sort,” Brody assured her gruffly.

“Getting drunk. Signing up for a dating service—”

Before he needed to come up with a response, she turned to look at him, straight on. And she was pea-green.

“Stop!” she gasped. “I’m going to be—”

Brody stopped, and she shoved open the door and stuck her head out.

“Sick,” she finished.

And then she was.

CHAPTER FIVE

IF SHE’D DELIBERATELY set out to make a lasting impression on Brody Creed, Carolyn thought wretchedly, as she stared at her wan image in the mirror above her bathroom sink later that evening, she couldn’t have done a better job.

First, being the proverbial bundle of nerves, she’d had too much wine at supper. Then, with ultimate glamour and grace, she’d thrown up, right in front of the man. Just stuck her head out of his truck door and hurled on the side of the road, like somebody being carted off to rehab after an intervention.

“Very impressive,” she whispered to her sorrylooking one-dimensional self.

With the spectacle playing out in her mind’s eye, Carolyn squeezed her eyes shut, mortified all over again. Brody had reacted with calm kindness, presenting her with a partial package of wet wipes and following up with two time-hardened sticks of cinnamon-flavored chewing gum.

She’d been too embarrassed to look at him afterward, had hoped he would simply drop her off at home and be on his way again, with his dog, leaving her to wallow privately in her regrets.

She couldn’t be that lucky.

Instead of leaving her to her misery, he’d told Barney to stay put, insisted on helping Carolyn down from the truck and escorting her not only through the front gate and across the yard, but also up the outside staircase to her door.

“I’ll be all right now,” she’d said, when they reached the landing, still unable to meet his eyes. “Really, I—”

Brody had taken her chin in his hand; sick as she was, the combination of gentleness and strength in his touch had sent a charge through her. “I believe I’ll stay a while and make sure you’re all right,” Brody had replied matter-of-factly.

Though she was painfully sober by then, Carolyn didn’t have the energy to fight any losing battles, so she merely unlocked the door and allowed him to follow her inside.

Winston, perched on the windowsill, greeted him with raised hackles and a hiss.

“Whatever, cat,” Brody had said, with desultory resignation. “I’m here, like it or not, so deal with it.”

Carolyn had hurried into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth, following up with a mouthwash swish and two aspirin from the bottle in the medicine cabinet. Then she’d slipped into her room and changed her T-shirt.

And here she was back in the bathroom again, trying to work up the courage to go out there into the kitchen, thank Brody for bringing her home and politely send him packing.

He was moving around out there, running water in the sink, carrying on a one-sided chat with Winston, his voice set too low for her to make out the words. The tone was chiding, but good-natured.

Most likely, Brody was bent on winning over the cat.

The idea made Carolyn smile, but very briefly, because even smiling hurt.

How would she feel when the actual hangover kicked in?

Sobering thought. That’s what you get for drinking, she told herself grimly. You know you’re not good at it.

All this self-recrimination, she realized, was getting her nowhere, fast. So Carolyn drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, let the air whoosh out of her lungs and forced herself to step out of the bathroom and walk the short distance to the kitchen.

Brody was leaning against one of the counters, sipping what was probably coffee from one of her three million souvenir mugs.

This one bore the image of a famous mouse and was painted with large red letters trumpeting Welcome to Orlando!

“You have quite a collection,” Brody observed, raising the mug slightly for emphasis.

“I’ve been everywhere,” Carolyn said, in a lame attempt at normality. Some of the mugs were from thrift stores and garage sales, actually, but she saw no point in explaining that sometimes she liked to pretend she’d purchased them on family vacations over the years.

Which was pathetic, because to take a family vacation, one needed a family.

Brody gave her that tilted grin, the one with enough juice to power a cattle prod, his eyes as soft as blue velvet but with a twinkle of amusement, too. Moving to the microwave, he took out a second cup, this one commemorating some stranger’s long-ago visit to the Alamo, in San Antonio.

Carolyn had always wanted to visit the Alamo.

She caught the soothing scent of mint tea with just the faintest touch of ginger. Her throat, still a little sore from being sick, tightened with some achy emotion.

“Good for what ails you,” Brody said, setting down the tea on the kitchen table. “Have a seat, Carolyn. I’m not fixing to bite you or anything.”

She dropped into a chair, wishing she’d put the sewing machine away before she’d left for Davis and Kim’s house to have supper and campaign for fool of the year. Now Brody would probably think she was a slob as well as a shameless lush.

Brody waited a beat, then sat down across from her. Watched in easy silence as she took a sip of the tea, sighed at the herbal goodness of the stuff.

“You’ve been very…kind,” Carolyn managed to say, after more tea. She was recovering in small but steady increments. “Thank you.”

Brody’s eyes smiled before his mouth did. “You’re welcome,” he said. He’d finished his coffee, but he appeared to be in no particular hurry to leave.

“I’ll be fine on my own, now that I’ve had some aspirin and this tea,” Carolyn told him, hoping he’d take the hint and hit the road.

Hoping he wouldn’t.

He lingered, watching her. “I’m sure you will be,” he agreed.

“And your dog is all alone, down there in your truck.”

Brody chuckled. “Barney’s fine,” he replied.

Carolyn let her shoulders slump, and her chin wouldn’t stay at the obstinate angle she’d been maintaining since her kitchen reentry. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said, in a near whisper, without planning to speak again at all.

“Don’t be,” Brody said. “It’s obvious that you can’t hold your liquor, but that’s not such a bad thing.”

Carolyn bit down hard on her lower lip and forced herself to look Brody Creed directly in the eye. Before, she’d spoken without meaning to—now, she couldn’t seem to get a word out.

“You probably should have some soup or something,” Brody said mildly. What was it like to be so at ease, so at home, in his own skin? Was this what came of belonging somewhere, being part of a tribe? Even with all those years away, Carolyn reflected enviously, the man’s roots went deep into the Colorado soil, curling around bedrock, no doubt. “Might settle your stomach down a little.”

Carolyn shook her head quickly. The thought of putting food in her mouth—even soup—threatened to bring on a new spate of helpless retching.

“I couldn’t,” she managed to croak.

“Okay,” Brody said.

Oddly, his unflappable solicitude made her feel even more vulnerable to him than that infamous kiss had.

Carolyn steeled herself against what was surely a perfectly normal human need to be reassured, cared for, looked after—normal for other people, that is. Foster kids, no matter how good the homes they were placed in, had to be strong and self-reliant, tough to the core.

Always.

“You could leave now,” she suggested carefully.

Brody chuckled again. Sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “I could,” he agreed, showing absolutely no signs of doing so anytime soon.

“And as for what Kim said at supper, about my signing up for a dating service…”

“Who said anything about that?” Brody asked, when her voice trailed off.

“If I’d known she was going to tell everyone,” Carolyn said, “I wouldn’t have mentioned it to her in the first place.”

“Kim didn’t mean any harm, Carolyn,” Brody offered quietly. “Anyway, you’re a grown woman, sound of mind and…body—” He paused, and once more that special something sparked in his eyes. “And if you want to date potential con artists, that’s your business.”

On one level, Carolyn knew full well that Brody was baiting her. On another, she couldn’t resist taking the hook. “Potential con artists? Well, that’s cynical,” she accused, and never mind the fact that she’d had similar thoughts herself, right along.

“If you’re in the market for a man, Carolyn, it’s your call how you go about roping one in. All I’m saying is that you ought to be careful. There are some real headcases out there.”

“In the market for a man?” She leaned forward in her chair, incensed. “Roping one in?” Being incensed felt like an improvement over being embarrassed, at least.

“Will you stop repeating everything I say?” Brody intoned. A tiny muscle bunched in his cheek, then smoothed out again.

“Who else would want to date me, right?” Carolyn ranted, stifling her voice so she wouldn’t yell and scare Winston. Or the neighbors. “Only a head-case loser who couldn’t get a woman the normal way?”

Brody laughed. Laughed. He didn’t lack for nerve, that was for sure.

Or sex appeal, damn him.

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