An Imperfect Match / Next Comes Love: An Imperfect Match / Next Comes Love

“Hi, Brandon,” Annabelle said with a smile as if she wasn’t aware that he could barely tolerate her. That baby actually smiled at him, too. Like they were working together to mock him with their nice routine. Annabelle looked around him to gesture toward Jessie. “This your girlfriend?”

He gritted his teeth, hating even to answer, but his dad kept getting after him for being rude so he jerked his head in the affirmative, but turned his attention to his dad. “Me and the guys are heading over to Buckley’s for a few hours. That okay with you? I’ll be home by curfew.”

Dean paused to regard his son but then returned to his paperwork. “As long as your homework is done and you’re home by ten o’clock. What did Coach say about your shoulder?”

Brandon rotated the muscle and shrugged. “It’s nothing. Just a strain. The PT guy said there’s nothing ripped or torn. Everything should be fine for the game tomorrow.”

“That’s good but I don’t want you playing if you’re hurt,” his dad warned him. “One game isn’t going to kill you.”

“Dad, I’m not stupid. Don’t worry about it. Everything is fine.” He looked to Jessie, who had been quietly chatting with Annabelle, and gestured that it was time to leave. “See you later. Thanks, Dad,” he added over his shoulder as he left, Jessie right behind him. Once they were out of earshot, he nearly snarled at Jessie, who blinked in surprise at his tone. “Don’t get chummy with her. She’s not sticking around,” he said. “She’s just a charity case that my dad’s taken on because he felt bad.”

“That’s a crappy thing to say,” Jessie said, frowning. “What’s gotten into you?”

He drew a deep breath and apologized for snapping, but inside he felt no different. The sooner Annabelle Nichols was out of their lives, the less chance Brandon had of getting a stepmom. The thought made him queasy.

The only thing that kept him from totally freaking out was that his dad had promised him there was nothing going on between him and Annabelle. If only she wasn’t so pretty…and nice.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ANNABELLE had just snapped Honey into her car seat and slipped the key into the ignition when her old Ford Escort made a horrible racket that ended in a guttural wheeze.

“No, you will not do this to me,” Annabelle muttered, trying to turn the ignition again despite the ominous clicking it was making. “You were just given a clean bill of health last week after the oil change. There’s no reason for you to be acting like this,” she said, talking to the car as if it were a recalcitrant child rather than a machine that had just expired. She clenched her teeth and leaned into the steering wheel. “I do not accept this. You will turn over and we will drive home!”

Dean appeared beside her window with a puzzled expression. “Everything okay?”

“Yep. Just great,” she lied with a bright smile. “Just having a difference of opinion with my vehicle.”

“Come again?”

She shook her head and waved him on. “No worries. I’ll get this figured out. Go on home.”

But just as she feared, Dean wasn’t about to leave her without knowing she had reliable transportation, and, while that chivalrous routine was endearing, she really didn’t want him to feel obligated to stay. She glanced at her watch. Dana was working tonight. It was a five-mile walk from the office to her craptastic duplex and it was already getting dark. She considered her meager checking account balance and immediately discarded the thought of calling a tow truck.

“Annabelle, pop your hood.”

“No, it’s okay, really,” Annabelle called out, but Dean refused to budge and gestured impatiently. “Well, uh, okay. But I’m sure it’s nothing.”

The latch snapped and Dean propped the hood. Needing to feel useful, she grabbed the flashlight from her glove compartment and climbed out of the car to stand beside Dean as he inspected the engine. She peered into the coiled machinery and wondered if he knew what the heck he was doing. Thad hadn’t been much of a mechanic but he had always liked to pretend he was.

“Fan’s not broken and your battery cables are fine. But we’ll have it towed to Mountain Motors and see what Jonas can make of it.” He carefully closed the hood. “I’ll take you home. Go ahead and grab your stuff and I’ll get Honey.”

She wanted to decline politely, but that would really be stupid. There was no way she was going to walk five miles with a toddler who was a half hour away from becoming really cranky, not to mention, Annabelle wouldn’t be able to see two feet in front of her once she headed out of town. She might end up in a ditch or something. “Thanks,” Annabelle said, though it came out not at all grateful sounding. He didn’t call her on it and she was at least glad for that.

Honey gurgled with pleasure as Dean strapped her into the back of his king-cab monster diesel truck and then Annabelle hopped in, trying not to notice how comfortable his ride was in comparison to her own. Of course it was comfortable. It was practically brand-new, while hers was…not.

There was nothing wrong with her little Escort. It was her first car and she’d bought it with her own money. It probably just needed a tune-up. Everything would look better in the morning. The thought was very Scarlett O’Hara-esque of her, but sometimes that Southern belle had had the right of things.

“Where do you live?” Dean asked, pulling out of the driveway and onto the highway.

“Uh, just on the outskirts of town, in those duplexes off Morning Glory Road.”

He appeared troubled but didn’t comment. The first time she’d seen the duplex she’d nearly cried. But she’d lived in worse and with a little elbow grease, she’d rationalized that it could be very cozy.

As they pulled up to the duplex, Annabelle grimaced. Well, it was safe to say the duplex—despite her efforts—had never quite reached her aspirations.

She opened the passenger door and dropped to the ground from the dizzying height of the truck, then went to her front door to unlock it while Dean unbuckled Honey from her car seat. She accepted Honey from his arms while he unlatched the car seat from the truck. She tried taking the car seat, too, but he wouldn’t let her and simply followed her into the house.

She tried not to cringe when she caught him openly assessing her unit with a critical eye.

“Who’s your landlord?” he asked, his hands going to his hips as he stared at a crack in the ceiling. “Is this structurally sound?”

She laughed nervously, but she’d wondered that herself. “It’s fine. You’re paranoid. Thanks for the lift. I’m sure Dana can take us tomorrow.”

“No need. I’ll come get you. I have to come by this way anyway.”

“No, you don’t. You’re being ridiculous. I don’t need you to be my taxi. Dana can get us or maybe Sammy.”

There was a loud bang and Annabelle jumped. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have reacted like that, but having Dean in her space put her on edge. She felt him judging her and her humble home. This place was a palace compared to where she’d grown up. If he thought so poorly of her duplex what would he think of her background if he knew? She tried not to let it bother her, for who really cared what others thought? But knowing that Dean might harbor the slightest amount of pity toward her was enough to make her defensive.

“What was that?” he growled, moving past her to peer out the small kitchen window. “Are your neighbors rowdy? Have they given you any trouble?”

Annabelle sighed. It was sweet, really, that he was worried. But her neighbors were nothing compared to the riff-raff she was used to putting up with. Hell, she could handle those yahoos next door with her eyes closed. “Dean, everything’s fine. Thank you. I appreciate your concern but it’s unnecessary.”

He paused and for a wild moment Annabelle wondered if he was going to grab Honey and her, toss them both back into the truck and burn rubber out of there. No doubt that’s what he wanted to do. Dana had all but said the same thing when she’d first seen the place, but Annabelle was determined to make things better on her own.

He must’ve read that in her eyes for he backed down—grudgingly. With one caveat. “I’m picking you up. Be ready at 8:00 a.m.”

And then he closed the door behind him with instructions to use the dead bolt when he was gone.

She slid the dead bolt into place and shut the thin drapes across the kitchen window to create some semblance of privacy before making Honey and herself a quick bite to eat.

After a shower, she put Honey to bed, doublechecking the window latches before she turned off the light, and then she took a seat by the window to stare into the night.

The duplex was squalid—not even three passes with a rented steam cleaner could get the carpets completely clean—but the view was beautiful. From the ridge above Emmett’s Mill, the lights of downtown twinkled like stars and the moon illuminated the dark sky with a soft glow.

A sigh escaped her as her thoughts returned to Dean. He wasn’t a man of many words, but that was okay. Sammy seemed to do most of the talking for everyone. But Annabelle appreciated a man who spent less time talking and more time working. Her mom had been a sucker for sweet talkers. Poor Mom. Always looking for a knight in shining armor to rescue her from the way her life had turned out.

Stop it. Shaking off her melancholy, Annabelle reached for her mail and started to sift through it. She was still receiving the previous tenant’s mail but the landlord hadn’t much cared. They had left in the middle of the night, skipping out on the last month’s rent. So Annabelle had had to pay two months in advance. Tossing the misdirected mail in a growing pile to return to the post office, she got to the last envelope in her small stack and slid it open, barely registering the label from the district attorney’s office in Hinkley.

Unfolding the letter, she scanned the contents and her heart began to thunder uncomfortably in her chest as three simple words scared the living hell out of her.

Out on parole.

The phone rang, jangling her nerves. She rose on unsteady feet to answer it.

“Hello?”

Nothing. But Annabelle could hear someone breathing. Damn kids. She gripped the phone tighter and said, “This is juvenile. Do your parents know—”

“Bitch!” And then the line went dead.

Annabelle drew back in startled silence. Swallowing, she glanced out the front window before hanging up the receiver. Kids, she thought shakily. With a mean streak.

Suppressing a shiver, she double-checked the flimsy lock on the front door but still felt exposed. Forcing a short laugh, she told herself she was overreacting, but her gaze strayed to the letter on the coffee table and her heart beat painfully against everything she was trying to convince herself of.

A prank call. No big deal. She could handle it.

DEAN ARRIVED at Annabelle’s place a little early, but he hadn’t slept well the night before and found himself up earlier than usual. Downing a quick cup of coffee and burning his taste buds in the process, he made the short drive to Annabelle’s and then wondered if he should wait outside or knock on the door.

After a minute of arguing with himself on the merits of waiting or knocking, in the end, he went to the front door and tapped on it hesitantly.

A few moments later, Annabelle peered around the door frame clutching a towel, and he cursed his impatience. He should’ve waited in the truck.

“Are you early?” Annabelle asked, biting her lip. “Or am I late?”

“I’m sorry, Annabelle. I’m early. I’ll just wait in the truck until you’re ready.” He turned to leave, positive he felt the tips of his ears reddening when she called after him.

“It’s okay. I was running a bit behind anyway. I overslept. Why don’t you come in and keep an eye on Honey for me while I take a quick shower? It’ll be much faster if I don’t have to take her with me. She likes to play with the shampoo when I’m not looking.”

“Uh…okay,” he said, though his Adam’s apple bobbed uncomfortably in his throat as he dutifully tried to avoid the imagery jumping to his overactive imagination. Annabelle with her lush curves and creamy skin—naked. The blood rushed from his ears to his groin and he almost did an about-face. But then he saw Annabelle grab Honey from her crib as the toddler rubbed at her eyes, smiling sleepily when she spotted him, and his heart warmed in a pleasant way. The kid was too darn cute. A person would have to be made of stone not to like Honey Nichols.

“Look who’s here,” Annabelle said, pressing a kiss to Honey’s wild hair. “Mama’s going to take a quick shower. Can you sit with Dean for a minute? I won’t be long. I promise.”

Honey didn’t even hesitate but went straight into Dean’s arms. Annabelle’s expression faltered, surprise at Honey’s reaction evident in her eyes. She met Dean’s gaze with a puzzled smile. “She must really like you. I’ve never seen her so open with anyone. Not even her da—” Annabelle stopped, plainly disturbed by how much information she was sharing. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Take your time,” Dean said, holding Honey against his chest and walking the perimeter of the small duplex as Annabelle disappeared. The bathroom door closed and Dean busied himself with studying her unit.

Despite Annabelle’s attempts at livening up the place with a few pictures here and there and a vibrant handmade afghan draped across the top of the faded sofa, the duplex maintained a stale atmosphere that spoke of the countless inhabitants before her who hadn’t cared as much as she did for their living conditions. Apparently, upkeep wasn’t the landlord’s top priority. Peering out the window, he realized it didn’t have a screen. Drawing away, his mouth formed a tight line as his blood pressure rose. Window screens were required in residential rentals. He wondered who owned the property and how hard it might be to find out. His cell phone was in his hand before he realized what he was doing. Seconds before he got more involved than he wanted to be, he came to his senses and snapped the phone shut. He glanced at Honey with a light smile. “Let’s get your seat in the truck, kiddo. We can wait for your mom there.”

It was only a few minutes later that Annabelle appeared at the front door, locking it before making her way to the truck gingerly on spindly heels, wearing another of her short skirts that showed off a lean pair of smooth pale legs. Dean groaned and looked away. He didn’t know how he was supposed to keep his mind in neutral when she kept shoving it into overdrive. She had to know that she was driving him crazy with those flashes of cleavage peeking out from behind that flimsy V-necked blouse and those impossibly short skirts that rode up her legs.

Dean swallowed with difficulty but managed to keep his attention on the road with ruthless determination.

“You need screens on those windows,” he said, startling her with his gruff tone. “It’s dangerous with a baby in the house.”

“I know. That’s why I keep the windows closed on that side.”

“That’s no solution. Who’s your landlord?”

Annabelle sighed. “I don’t know. I go through a property management company, Grafton Realty. Besides, I’ve called the manager and he told me that the owner isn’t interested in replacing the screens because the tenants keep ripping them out. He said if I want screens I have to buy them.”

Dean balked. “That’s bullshit.”

She shrugged as if she was used to this sort of thing. “It’s not that big a deal. We just work around it.”

“Honey could fall. This isn’t something that can be ignored, Annabelle.” He earned a sharp look, but he didn’t care. He already hated the idea of Honey and Annabelle living in that place because of the neighbors on the other side. They looked a little rough.

“It’s not your concern. Thank you, anyway,” Annabelle replied curtly, sending him the clear message that she didn’t like to be treated like a pet project. “Besides, with the weather turning soon, I won’t have much need for open windows anyway.”

“There are liability issues,” he argued. “It’s not as simple as you just choosing not to open your windows. And then there’s also the issue of the landlord refusing to provide the basics of his responsibilities to his tenant. My dad used to own plenty of rental properties. Trust me, I know all the work that goes into owning them. When I was growing up, my brothers and I spent many of our weekends helping Dad do repairs. Your landlord is a bad one,” he finished.

“Be that as it may, I don’t need you poking your nose into my business. Bad landlords have a tendency to kick out their troublemaker tenants, if you catch my drift.”

“That would be a blessing,” Dean muttered.

“Not for Honey and me. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a shortage of rentals in Emmett’s Mill. We were lucky to find this place.”

Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue some more just for the sake of keeping his mind occupied, but she had a valid point. He thought of his expansive home and the two spare bedrooms gathering dust, but before he could continue in that direction, he shook himself loose of that particular brand of crazy. Annabelle and Honey could not move in with him and Brandon. For one, Brandon would declare a mutiny and two, it was just plain stupid.

Focus on what you can fix, Dean told himself. Like window screens and broken cars.

Yeah, Halvorsen…stick to those.

CHAPTER NINE

“SUGAR?” Annabelle exclaimed, staring in dismay at Jonas, the head mechanic at Mountain Motors as he wiped the grease and motor oil from his fingers. “How does sugar get into the gas tank? Is that something that happens naturally?” she asked, knowing she was teetering on the edge of desperate with her questioning. Deep down she knew the answer but she was praying she was wrong.

She wasn’t.

“Uh, no.” Jonas shook the dirty mop he called a head of hair regretfully. “Someone put it there. Screwed up your fuel intake valve, too. Possibly even your fuel pump.”

Annabelle groaned but didn’t have time to cry. Her lunch was only an hour and she had to get back to the office. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. Two questions. What’s this going to cost me and how long will it take to fix it?”

Jonas sucked his front teeth as he mentally counted the beans in his head and answered, “About $800, give or take a few.”

“A few what?”

“Hunnerd.”

It might as well be a million. She didn’t have it. “Right.” She drew a deep breath, her brain whirring fast. If it weren’t for bad luck she wouldn’t have any. “I don’t have that kind of cash right now,” she said, going straight to the point. “But, uh, we could work out a deal, like trade for something?”

Jonas’s eyes widened and he shook his head in alarm. “You’re pretty and all but I’m a married man. I don’t reckon my wife would take too kindly to any sort of arrangement, Miss Annabelle. I’m sorry.”

Annabelle’s cheeks burned as she grasped what Jonas thought she was offering. “God, no, Jonas. I didn’t mean that. I just meant if you had some office work you needed some help with, computer work, or, hell, I don’t know, maybe someone to clean up a bit, then I could help out in that way in exchange for the repair.”

Jonas relaxed but he shook his head again. “Sorry, no computer. We do everything by hand, and, well, we already have a cleaning lady who comes once a month to scrub the toilets and such. We aren’t that picky and she does a good enough job. I’m right sorry, Miss Annabelle.” He paused, then added with a grin that showed off the gap in his front teeth, “I won’t charge you for the diagnostic or the tow. It’s on the house. I’ll even take it back to your place for you. I heard you don’t live too far out of town.”

She swallowed around the lump in her throat even as she fought to keep her voice strong and bright. “Don’t be silly. You performed a service. You should be paid for it. You’re not running a charity, Jonas. It’s a business. How much do I owe you?”

Jonas sighed heavily as if he hated to tell her. “Seventy-five.”

She winced privately but grabbed her checkbook. “Check okay?”

“Of course. I know you’re good for it. Dean Halvorsen wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t think you were good folk.” She smiled tightly and handed him the check. He gave it a cursory glance before saying, “Listen, when you get the money, you bring the car back and I’ll give you the newcomer ten percent discount off the total repair. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you, Jonas. Just leave the keys in the car when you drop it off.”

“Sure thing, Miss Annabelle. Take care.”

DEAN WAS packing up the last of his work tools when Sammy walked over to him, his expression puzzled. “You know anything about what went wrong with Annabelle’s car?”

Dean shook his head. “No. Why?”

“Dana just told me that Annabelle said someone put sugar in her gas tank.”

Dean stopped to stare at his brother. “Sugar?”

“Yeah. That’s pretty deliberate. Who’d want to do that?”

“I don’t know.” But he agreed with Sammy. Whoever did it meant to do something mean.

“Dana already took Annabelle and Honey home for the night so you don’t need to take them,” Sammy said, his expression still worried. “I gotta tell you, brother. This bothers me.”

“Me, too,” Dean admitted, glancing at Sammy. “You said something about Annabelle and Dana coming from troubled backgrounds. Anything I should know about?” Sammy’s silence was telling. Dean sighed. “Sammy, if she’s in some kind of trouble…”

“You gotta ask her, man. Dana swore me to secrecy and it’s nothing that’s Annabelle’s fault, but she should be the one to tell people if she wants them to know. Understand?”

“Yeah. I do.”

Sammy nodded, his relief evident. But as Dean went to climb into his truck, Sammy stopped him, his grave expression distinctly at odds with his usual jocular attitude. “No matter what, she’s a good person. Loyal to a fault I’d say. In some ways, she’s a lot like Beth.”

At the mention of his dead wife’s name, Dean tried not to stiffen. He knew Sammy was just trying to draw a parallel, but Dean was like a wounded bear inside when it came to the memory of his wife. Sometimes he couldn’t help but lash out at the people trying to reach out to him. “They’re nothing alike,” he said, pushing away the ache he felt inside. “And never will be.”

KNEES TUCKED into her chest, Annabelle willed the panic away. Someone had deliberately sabotaged her car. No one knew her here, which led her to surmise that someone from Hinkley had done this. And there was only one person she could imagine who hated her so much that they’d do such a thing.

Buddy. Her gaze strayed to the slip of paper lying on her coffee table. He was out on parole after serving eight years of his sixteen-year sentence. The prison system’s reward for good behavior.

And if it had been Buddy, this little stunt was simply a calling card. An ominous reminder that they had a score to settle, and he was ready to collect.

Shivering, she drew her knees tighter and squeezed her eyes shut to block out the fear that when she least expected it, his face would pop into view. Snarling, or worse, grinning with his jackal smile as he stalked her with revenge in his heart.

A knock at the front door nearly sent her hurtling to the floor in one startled movement as her heartbeat thundered in her ears. It was too late for visitors and it wasn’t like her neighbors were the sort to borrow a cube of butter. Her eyes watered and she wiped at them angrily. Get hold of yourself! It was highly unlikely Buddy was on the other side of that door, she told herself as she walked on wobbly legs to answer. “Who is it?” she asked, her voice still a bit high-pitched to sound normal.

“Dean.”

Relief was instant, but it served to make her knees even less stable. “What are you doing here so late?” she asked, opening the door and letting him in.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?” Annabelle asked, sincerely puzzled. “Is this about the new phone directory? I know I didn’t ask but your Rolodex is outdated. It’s a pain to go through and try to update those little cards when everything today is done digitally. The computer program I downloaded can be hot synced with your PDA—”