Garrett cringed inwardly as the pieces fell into place. “That’s right.” He was at least partially responsible for the crazy woman being here. “You and Josh work together?” Disbelief was evident in his voice, but the woman standing before him—who sported a tattoo beneath her ear, a pierced eyebrow and blue-tipped hair—didn’t look like any of the high school teachers he’d had. Of course, his teachers had all been Catholic nuns.
“I teach freshman English at Paducah Tilghman.” A subtle rise of one of her eyebrows seemed to add, “So there.”
Apparently the mention of Josh’s name loosened Dylan’s tongue. “What happened to your hand?” He pointed blatantly at her disfigurement.
“Dylan—” Garrett started to correct him.
“No, it’s okay.” Tara gave him a small smile, but then sobered when she looked back at Dylan. “Motorcycle accident.”
“Cool!” Dylan’s voice was filled with awe.
Bona fide crazy, Garrett thought.
Tara continued to address Dylan. “Yeah, motorcycles can be very cool, but they can also be very dangerous. Sometimes people driving cars don’t notice them, or they think of them as a bicycle. So don’t ever get on one without a helmet, and don’t ride too fast.”
“I won’t,” Dylan assured her.
“Well.” She sighed, and Garrett followed her eyes to the rain that was coming down so hard that her flat across the way was barely visible. “I’ve been enough trouble to y’all this morning. I’ll just mosey on back to my place.”
“Stay and have breakfast with us!” Dylan blurted, and Garrett’s jaw tightened at the suggestion.
“Oh, no, I can’t. I’m soaked to the skin. My hair’s a mess.”
Garrett’s logical side urged him to let her go on her way, but his emotional side, which was being suckered by the sultry, Southern accent, chided him for even entertaining the possibility.
“You can’t go out in this,” he said, ignoring the warning sirens blaring in his brain. “Although we’re just across the terrace, we’re actually on opposite sides of the building. You’d have to go literally halfway around the block to get back to the main entrance.”
“Well...”
She chewed her bottom lip as a visible shiver ran through her, making her suddenly appear delicate and fragile. Garrett felt a stirring below and realized he was still standing there wearing nothing but a towel.
“I’ll go get dressed and find you some dry clothes to put on. I think this rain has set in for a while.” He motioned to the pot of French-pressed coffee on the counter in the kitchen. “Help yourself to some coffee. We’ll be right back.”
“I’ll bring you some clothes!” Dylan was obviously excited to have an unexpected guest for breakfast. He ran ahead into Garrett’s bedroom.
Garrett lost no time rifling through a bottom drawer for the long shorts he shot hoops in. No doubt they would swallow Tara, but they had a drawstring that might, at least, help her keep them up. He grabbed a T-shirt from another drawer and thrust the pair toward Dylan, who was still in his pajamas. “Take these to our guest, sport, then go get dressed.”
A smile spread across his son’s face. “I like her, Dad. She’s cool.” He ran from the room, clutching the bundle.
“Of course you like her.” Garrett muttered under his breath as he closed the door. “She’s crazy. Just like your mom.”
He wasted no time getting dressed. Time alone between his son and the crazy woman wasn’t going to happen.
CHAPTER FOUR
PEOPLE STAYING AT bed-and-breakfasts do this all the time, Tara told herself as she passed the plate of croissants to the little boy who’d insisted on sitting beside her. Of course, it would probably have been easier to convince herself there was nothing weird about eating breakfast in a new country with total strangers if she hadn’t seen one of them naked a few minutes earlier.
She tried to focus on the inch-long scar that cut diagonally through the left side of Garrett’s upper lip—the one that disappeared almost completely when he smiled—rather than let her mind wander to the foot-long one on his thigh that pointed like an arrow to his masculine assets.
“I finally decided it was time to see Paris.” She answered Dylan’s last question just shy of the complete truth. “How long have you lived here?”
Dylan piped up before his dad could answer. “Three years. We moved here when I was three, but I’ll be seven soon, so I guess then I’ll have to start saying we’ve been here four years.”
Garrett used his spoon to point at his son. “Quit talking so much, sport, and eat your breakfast.”
With a grin that could charm the sweet spot from a Louisville Slugger, Dylan opened his mouth wide and shoveled in a spoonful of Greek yogurt and fresh berries.
The boy’s grin was a replica of his dad’s, as was the sandy color of his hair. But the jade-green hue of his eyes was a far cry from the walnut-brown of his elder’s.
No mention had been made of a wife or mother. And something about Garrett Hughes’s manner seemed standoffish, despite the fact he’d invited her to stay for breakfast. If he’d kidnapped his son and moved to a foreign country, Josh Essex would’ve let her in on that, wouldn’t he?
“So you’re originally from St. Louis?” Tara probed, trying to get Garrett to continue where he’d left off before Dylan had started in with questions again.
Garrett held up the carafe as a question, and Tara offered her cup in response. “I grew up in St. Louis,” he said, “and moved back there after college. Not too long after my wife died—”
Ah, a widower. “I’m so sorry.” She took another sip of the incredibly strong brew and settled a hand on her chest to check for any hair it might cause to sprout through the T-shirt.
“Thanks.” Garrett acknowledged her condolences with a curt nod. “The brewery I worked for was bought out by a Belgian company that was expanding. Dylan and I moved here with that expansion.”
“How exciting that must’ve been.”
Garrett shrugged one of his broad shoulders, and even though a sport coat now covered it, Tara’s mind flashed back to how it had looked unclothed and damp from the shower. “It came at the right time,” he answered.
The concoction Garrett called coffee had chased away any effects of jet lag and set her mouth to chatty mode. “And what do you do at the brewery?”
“I’m head of the marketing department.”
The formality of the country she was visiting struck her as she wiped away the last remains of the buttery croissant from her lips with the linen napkin that had been part of her place setting. “Were you already fluent in French before you moved here?”
Her question brought a low chuckle from Garrett that tickled at the bottom of her spine. “Whether I’m fluent now is still debatable.” He jutted his chin in his son’s direction. “Dylan’s the language wizard. He speaks it like a native.”
Dylan paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “C’est vrai, Tara. Je parle le français très bien. La langue n’est pas difficile.” He cocked his head and grinned, looking like the cat that ate the berry-and-yogurt-covered canary.
Garrett shook his head as his mouth rose at one end. “And he’s obviously quite modest about it.”
Tara smiled, her heart touched by the endearing relationship between these two. Would she and Jacques Martin