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He watched Dylan eat. Eric had seen what could happen to teenagers on the streets of New York. Things might not be as dire in the university town of Davis, but everyone deserved better than being reduced to scrounge for food and shelter. And everyone he knew who’d gotten involved with a homeless person had gotten bitten in some way.
He wanted to trust his instincts about the kid, but he knew he should keep his guard up. “Want another sandwich?” he asked.
“She made chocolate-chip cookies today, but I’m guessing they’re for you,” Dylan said, pointing to a plastic container on the counter.
Eric leaned back in his chair, grabbed it and set it in front of the boy. Dylan didn’t hesitate. He yanked the top off and pulled out a handful. Eric went to the refrigerator to get the milk again, deciding to give up asking questions. The kid would talk when he was ready.
After a few minutes Marcy materialized in the doorway. “I made up a bed for Dylan on the sofa,” she said, then disappeared as quickly and quietly as she’d come.
They rinsed their plates in the kitchen sink then walked into the living room. The sofa looked welcoming. Because it was a normal hot August night, she hadn’t added a blanket, only sheets, but she’d turned down the top sheet invitingly and put a chocolate mint on his pillow.
Eric smiled at that. She may not trust Dylan being there, and she may even harbor resentment for his sneaking into the house under her watch, but she still recognized he could use a little comfort.
“Are you gonna call the cops?” Dylan asked, scuffing his toe against the hardwood floor.
He was too tired to deal with it. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.” He dragged his hands down his face.
Dylan sprang into action, making a quick side step around Eric, running to the door. He was already to the front sidewalk by the time Eric made it to the porch.
He should’ve anticipated that, but he’d figured Dylan would be grateful for the food and the offer of a place to sleep, although Eric had fully expected him to leave before sunrise.
Eric locked the door, then climbed the stairs. He could probably find something to wedge into the window jam, making it impossible to open, but he didn’t bother. If Dylan changed his mind, he would have a way in.
When Eric reached the second floor, he didn’t see a light on under either guest-room door, so he didn’t know which room she’d taken. His bedroom door was open, however, and a lamp on. He stepped over the threshold. His quilt was folded at the foot of the bed, leaving only sheets for him, too. The house was warm even with the air conditioner on.
And there was a mint on his pillow.
Even though she was wary of having Dylan in the house, and had borne the brunt of his own anger for the window lock not being fixed, she’d turned his room into a retreat for him.
He dug out shorts and a T-shirt from his suitcase and climbed into bed. The sheets felt crisp and smelled fresh, as did his room. He’d had housecleaners all his adult life, but that’s all they did—clean house.
Marcy had already made him a home.
Chapter Three
Marcy jolted straight up in bed when the doorbell rang, followed by someone pounding on the door. She flung back the covers, grabbed her cell phone to check the time—3:30 a.m.—then rushed out of the bedroom, pulling on a summer-weight robe.
From the top of the staircase Marcy saw Eric open the front door. Two uniformed officers stood there, Dylan in front of them, looking hostile.
“We caught him as he dropped out a window out back,” one officer said. “Neighbor phoned it in that she’d seen someone climb inside. He was carrying this.” He held up the plastic container of cookies Marcy had baked. “Says he knows you.”
“We’ve met,” Eric said, his arms crossed, his eyes drilling the boy.
“You want to press charges?” the cop asked.
“I don’t know. Do I want to press charges, Dylan?”
Marcy saw the boy’s hostility transform into fear. Scared, he looked even younger.
“It’s just cookies,” he muttered.
“And breaking and entering,” Eric pointed out.
“The window wasn’t locked,” Dylan said, cockiness not just in his voice but his stance.
The look Eric gave him would’ve reduced Marcy to a quivering mass, but Dylan challenged him right back with his eyes.
The look might not have backed Dylan down but he did respond to it. His hostile expression smoothed out, and he stood a little taller, waiting for a verdict.
“Charges, sir?” the now-impatient officer asked.
“No. Let him go.” Eric started to shut the door.
“Wait! Give him the cookies,” Dylan ordered the cop. “I’m sorry.”
Marcy watched Eric close his eyes for a few seconds and then assume the stern-parent look before he reopened the door. The officer passed Eric the container. He and his partner strode off.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” Eric said to Dylan as he stood on the porch, then Eric caught up with the police officers, entering into a discussion for a couple of minutes before returning. He walked past Dylan, went inside, then turned at the threshold. “Do you have anything to say?”
“I know I was stupid to do that,” Dylan said right away.
“You think?”
“I’ve been on my own awhile. I’m not used to someone being nice to me.”
“Cut the crap,” Eric said, shocking Marcy. Dylan had seemed genuinely sorry.
“Maybe that works on some people, but not me. There’s no reason for someone your age to be homeless, not with all the public options available. You’ve chosen to be. I don’t know if you’re running or hiding, but I expect other people have been nice to you.” Eric leaned close to him. “You’ve heard of the three-strikes law?”
Dylan nodded.
“You’ve got two in my book. Good night.” He shut the door in the boy’s face.
Marcy’s heart caught in her throat. He was just a kid, a scared kid. “You’re sending him out there again? In the middle of the night?”
His face looked cold, so very cold. “Coddling is not going to help this boy, even though he could use a whole lot of that, too. If he wants help, he’ll knock. He needs to be a man. Someone hasn’t taught him that.”
“But you will?”
“I don’t see anyone else stepping up, do you? But he has to want it. Look, those cops already knew him. I told them we were thinking about letting him stay with us, so they were straight with me. He had some trouble at one of the shelters and got booted out, but the cops think it wasn’t his fault. He hasn’t gotten into any trouble that they know of. Keeps his head down and his nose clean. That’s high praise in my mind. They gave me a couple of people to check with. That and my own gut feeling says we can let him stay here for now.”
A quiet knock came on the door.
Eric didn’t make him wait long before he pulled open the door.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Eric asked.
He drew a shaky breath. “Breaking in. Taking the cookies. Not being cool after you tried to help me.”
“Apology accepted.”
They faced off, one more question hanging between them. Dylan gave in first. “I’d like to stay the night, if the offer’s still good.”
“It’s good.” Eric backed away, letting him in. “Don’t do anything that deprives me of sleep for the next six hours or so.” He passed Dylan the cookies then headed up the staircase without looking back.
Marcy resisted the temptation to hover over the boy, even though the look on his face just about broke her heart. “You know where the milk is,” she said. “Good night, Dylan.”
“Night.” His voice was tight, as if he was fighting tears.
She touched his arm. “You’ll be all right,” she said, her throat burning, her heart aching. He wasn’t a hardened criminal but a kid who’d somehow lost his way. “Mr. Sheridan seems like the right person to trust,” she added.
He nodded. She patted his arm instead of hugging him, as she was tempted to do, then she climbed the stairs and got into bed.
Sleep eluded her. So much had happened in the past few hours that it seemed like a whole day. Taking center stage in her thoughts was what a surprise Eric had been. She’d expected a man decades older, but she doubted he was forty. He was at least six feet tall, and his temples were graying, but otherwise his hair was light brown, cut not so short as to look severe but not long enough to fall into his face. His eyes were a deep, rich, penetrating brown. And he was built like a football player, sturdy and solid. Sexy, actually. Strong, too. He’d dealt with Dylan on the porch earlier swiftly and powerfully but without hurting him.
Eric didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor, but he hadn’t exactly walked into a situation allowing or requiring one—and he was a mathematician, after all. He was probably logical to a fault. At the moment he must be wondering about his decision to move to Davis, especially now that he seemed fated to become responsible for a stray with criminal tendencies.
Marcy smiled at the ceiling. She was a big believer in fate, which had led her down some interesting paths in life. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that fate had just dealt her the most important hand of her life when her last-two-weeks-of-August, regular-as-clockwork, house-sitting job had fallen through for the first time in four years, leaving her free to take this job.
She had nowhere to go tomorrow, and she felt a strong draw to the man in this crazy scenario. Would he ask her to stay? Would he be her hero?
She didn’t usually have such fantasies. She had goals to accomplish, after all, and promises to keep—with no time to slack off, not even when it involved a gorgeous math professor who summed up a situation and took control immediately and well. And who made her heart flutter with just a look.
Nope. No time for that at all. It was better if he didn’t need her to stay. Safer.
But then safer wasn’t always better, was it?
* * *
The next morning, Marcy lay in bed listening. It was almost 10:00 a.m., but she hadn’t heard any sounds of movement in the few minutes she’d been awake. She wondered if Dylan was still asleep or had flown the coop. Or cleaned out the refrigerator.
She’d slept well, having relinquished responsibility to Eric.
Prepared for another hundred-degree day, Marcy pulled on shorts and a tank top, then left her room. Eric’s bedroom door was closed. She slipped into the guest bath, cleaned up, and made her way downstairs.
The sofa was empty, although the sheets were jumbled, so Dylan had slept there at some point.
Disappointment washed over her. She’d hoped not only that the boy would realize Eric would probably continue to help him, but also that Dylan would prove himself worthy of Eric’s trust.
She heard the shower in the master bath come on and headed for the kitchen. She would fix a nice breakfast before she left, wanting to end the job on good terms. She was curious, too, about his reaction to Dylan being gone.
She fixed cheese omelets and wheat toast, filled a bowl with grapes and cantaloupe. She was just about to slide the plates into a warm oven when she heard the creak of the stairs as Eric made his way down. He didn’t pause but came directly into the kitchen.
“He’s gone,” she said when he stopped in the doorway, looking rested, but wearing jeans and a polo shirt. He’d find out soon enough what summer in Davis was. She hoped he owned shorts. She’d bet he had great legs. And shoulders, and—
“I heard him go out the back door not too long ago,” he said. He came into the room. “Good morning.”
“The same to you. Breakfast is ready.”
“I see that. Thank you. It’s a nice surprise.” He took a seat. “Did you sleep all right?”
“Dead to the world. How about you?”
“Half dead.” He smiled. “Kind of a lot on my mind.”
She put their plates on the table, feeling his gaze on her. She was used to men taking second looks at her, especially at her weekend job, wearing what she wore. Eric took one look … that lasted a long time. And unlike with most other men, she was not only flattered but wishing she could take a good long look at him in return.
“Coffee?” she asked, distracting herself.
A couple of seconds passed before he answered. “Yes, please. Black.” He stared at something on the counter, leaned back and grabbed the plastic container with the chocolate-chip cookies. He shook it. Empty. “He feels no qualms about eating and running, obviously.”
She shuddered. “It’s just creepy knowing that someone can come and go while you sleep and never know it.”
“Survival instincts. He’s probably gotten good at not making noise.”
“Are you going to file a police report?”
“No.”
“Good.” She sipped from her mug, studying him over the rim. Easy on the eyes, she thought again. She opened a notebook she’d brought downstairs with her. “Here’s a list of all the work that’s been done, what I think needs to be done, and the contacts I’ve gathered. The receipts are in an envelope taped to the inside back cover.”
“You’ve been very efficient. I very much appreciate all you did. Including fixing breakfast,” he added, toasting her with a forkful of omelet.
“If there’s anything else you need before I go, just ask.” She held her breath, not knowing if she wanted him to ask her to stay or let her go.
“Do you have another job to get to?” he asked, choosing a cluster of grapes.
“I did have, but it got canceled.”
He tossed a grape in his mouth and chewed, looking at her thoughtfully. “Do you live in Davis?”
“I live everywhere. Davis, Sacramento, Folsom, Rose ville. You name it.”
“What does that mean? Are you homeless?” He sat back, looking shocked.
“Technically, but it’s entirely my choice,” she insisted. “If I don’t have a house-sitting job, I bunk with a friend in Sacramento. I always, well, almost always have a place to stay.”
“Is that where you’ll go today?”
“No. We thought I’d be house-sitting, so she invited her parents to come for a week.”
The doorbell rang before she could add something that didn’t make her sound pathetic.
“That’s probably the guy to fix the window lock,” she said as Eric left the table, taking a piece of toast with him. She grabbed a cluster of grapes and followed, notebook in hand to remind herself of the man’s name. It wasn’t the handyman, however.
“I locked myself out.” Dylan stood on the porch, his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched, staring at his feet.
