Even with his mind mired in the past, he was aware of Harper across the table, and he tracked her movements as she reached for the pitcher of sangria. The container was still fairly full, the distance wasn’t optimum for her reach and he watched its weight immediately tip forward as she picked it up. Surging to his feet, he leaned across the table to steady the pitcher and slapped his free hand over hers on the handle to correct the forward momentum.
It was as if he’d grabbed the business end of a live wire. Heat streaked like lightning through his veins, and it wouldn’t have surprised him in the least if someone started slapping at his head and yelling that his hair was smoking. He wondered if she felt it, too, or if this began and ended with him. She’d gone very still, and those big eyes were locked on him and rounded in the same O as her lips. But, hell, that could very well be due to the sheer speed of the events from her reach for the pitcher, to its tipping, to him leaping to the rescue like a tattooed, beefed up version of Dudley Do-Right.
The instant the pitcher touched the tabletop again—this time nearer her where its entire weight wouldn’t be dangling from her hand with no arm muscle behind it for support—he yanked his hands clear. Thumped back into his chair.
He did his best to ignore the residual electricity zinging through him from the feel of her skin. Making a point of not looking at her again, he deliberately forced his thoughts back to the relative safety of his old animosity toward Jake.
His mom sure as hell hadn’t helped the situation. Not that he’d seen that at the time; it wasn’t until he was old enough and distanced enough to view the situation with an adult’s perspective that he’d realized if Angie Bradshaw had been a different kind of woman, he probably wouldn’t have suffered much damage from the desertion. Hell, he’d barely been two years old when Charlie had moved out. Most of the memories of actual time spent with his father had come through the home movies Charlie had left behind.
His mother, however, wasn’t a big believer in letting things go. Rarely had a day gone by that she hadn’t reminded him of what they’d lost. All he’d ever heard were acid-etched stories of the slut who’d stolen his father away, and of his little shit of a half brother who had gotten everything that should have been his.
It hadn’t helped that in school his half bro had been a serious student and run with the kids of Razor Bay’s movers and shakers, while he had pulled average grades, run with a wilder crowd and frequently gotten into trouble.
No wonder he was so fucked up when it came to the silver-spoon girls. They were simply the female version of Jake.
“Max?”
The sound of Harper’s voice snatched him from his stroll down memory lane, and as his awareness raced to catch up with his inner musings, he realized his name hadn’t been the first word she’d directed at him. Looking at her across the table, he felt the same crazy-ass clench of his heart he experienced every damn time he laid eyes on her.
And clearing his throat, he lied without compunction. “Sorry. I was thinking about work for a minute there. What did you say?”
“I was just asking what you did with the rest of your day off after I saw you.”
Okay, this was something he actually liked talking about. “I went out to Cedar Village.” He was surprised to see startled recognition in her eyes and raised his brows. “You’re familiar with it?”
“I’ve heard it mentioned, although I can’t remember where. It’s a...boys’ camp?”
Jake snorted, and Max gave her a one-sided smile. “Don’t mind him, he thinks it’s more like a reformatory. It’s actually a group home for troubled kids—boys. And, yeah, most of them have been in trouble. But, so was I at their age and—”
“Look how well that turned out,” Jake deadpanned.
He grinned at the sarcasm in his broth—half brother’s voice. “I know, damn good, right? For instance, unlike Mr. Shutterbug here, instead of playing with cameras, I have a real job.”
Harper was staring at him, and his smile faded, his self-consciousness resurfacing. But damned if he’d allow it to short-shrift his responsibility to the Cedar boys. He rolled his shoulders. “Anyhow, a lot of these kids come from dicked-up backgrounds—broken homes, substance-abusing mother or father or sometimes both. None of our boys’ parents are physically abusive, but some are purposefully neglectful, while others simply have to work killer hours just to put food on the table or hang on to their house. A few of the boys actually come from warm, involved families—they just lost their way for a while or fell in with the wrong crowd. In every case, they need the attention, the stability that the counselors out there provide.”
“Is that what you are—a counselor, as well as a deputy?”
“Me?” That startled another one-sided quirk of his lips from him. He shook his head. “Nah. I’m on the board of directors, but mostly I just hang out with the boys. But, speaking of my board position...”
Everyone except Mark’s youngest son and the woman named Sharon groaned, and Max laughed outright. “That’s right, boys and girls. It’s put-up-or-shut-up time. Our pancake breakfast fund-raiser is next Sunday. I know most of you have already bought tickets, but we also need volunteers to help man it. I just happen to have a sign-up sheet in my car.”
“Can we be excused, Jenny?” Austin asked, hastily pushing back from the table. His friends Nolan and Bailey followed suit. “We have to finish setting up the croquet stuff.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Max said. “You guys wanna be waitstaff or work in the kitchen?”
“Aw, man! Do we hafta?”
“We have several boys from the Village who’ll be working the event, but we could really use more help.” He looked his nephew in the eye. “These kids haven’t had the advantages you’ve had. It’s for a good cause.”
Austin sighed but nodded. So did his sidekicks. Max turned his attention to the adults.
“Don’t look at me,” said Sharon. “Those boys scare the crap out of me.”
“No, c’mon. They’re just kids.”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, they still scare me. I’ll buy a ticket, though.”
He knew better than to feel resentful on the kids’ behalf, but it took a little effort to say mildly, “Thanks, that’ll help. You want the eight or nine-thirty sitting?”
“I’ll take the eight.”
“You can sign me up to help,” Harper said.
Max’s head whipped around. Oh, yeah, baby. Sternly telling his libido it was out of line and to take a damn seat, he raised a brow. “Yeah?”
“Yes, sure. I have next Sunday off and it would be a good way to see the town in action. I’ll wait tables. I can get to know more people that way.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” He leaned back in his chair and looked around the table. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about, people. Harper and the kids just gave us a decent start here. So, how ’bout the rest of you?” He gestured with uncharacteristic expansiveness. “Step right up, ladies and gents. The line forms to the left.”
CHAPTER THREE
LAUGHTER, DEEP, LOUD and masculine, rolled out of the community center kitchen and across the counter where Harper had just picked up her industrial-sized