Raid Page 3

  “I’m good, long’s you’re okay,” he replied.

  “Peachy,” I muttered then forced a smile. “Sorry again and… later.”

  Then I took off, hoofing it by him and walking fast to my bike.

  I dumped the cat food bag in my cutesie, girlie basket, mounted the saddle, put my feet to the pedals and took off, heading straight to Grams’s and not looking back at the pet store.

  This was good, seeing as if I did I would have seen Raiden Miller, arms crossed on his chest, sexy smile playing at his mouth, watching me go.

  Chapter Three

  Sweet Tea

  One week, one day later…

  I opened the door to Grams’s place and shouted, “Hey, Grams! I’m here!”

  To this I got shouted back, “I’m on the back porch, precious. Soakin’ in sun and drinkin’ sweet tea. Bring the pitcher, I’m low!”

  I grinned at the hardwood floors and lugged in the bags of groceries, stopping when Spot came into my vision.

  He sat on his ample booty in the hall and stared up at me.

  He was white with big splotches of gray. He was one of the prettiest cats I’d ever seen. He was also the orneriest. And the fattest.

  He wasn’t just fat, he was solid. Twenty-two pounds of compacted cat held in by soft white and gray fur.

  It was good he was beautiful because he was a pain in the patoot.

  Like when he got in a lovable mood no matter how infrequent that was and you were lying on your back on the couch and he jumped up on you and settled in, there was a good possibility he could crush you.

  You didn’t move him, though.

  There were two reasons for this.

  One, he could turn at any time. I’d had to have his front claws lasered since he kept clawing Grams and breaking skin.

  Two, he was so pretty that when he was lovey you took advantage.

  “Meow,” he said.

  “Meow right back at ‘cha, buddy,” I replied.

  Luckily, that worked for him, and instead of complaining, hissing and attacking my ankles, he turned and waddled toward the backdoor.

  I went to the kitchen, dumped the groceries, grabbed the pitcher of sweet tea out of the fridge and headed out back.

  Grams used to be my height, but she’d shrunk. And on top of that, she was stooped so now she seemed tiny. She was also wrinkles from head-to-toe. This was partly because she was old as dirt. This was mostly because she was a sun fiend. I’d had to buy her one of those outdoor heaters, because, even in the winter, if it was sunny she’d grab afghans, put on slippers, sit outside and stare at the sun glinting off the snow, wrapped up in wool.

  Mildred Boudreaux loved everything, everyone and every moment of her life (except when her husband died, of course, and when her son, my Granddad, died, and when her three other children died, obviously).

  She was just that kind of person.

  But she loved some things and some moments better.

  And any moment that included sun, she was all for.

  I pushed open the back screen door and turned, mouth open to tell her I had more groceries in the car to bring in, when I stopped dead.

  This was because Gram was sitting in her cute Grandma dress, her blue hair newly set, because Sharon from Betsy’s came out every Thursday morning to give her a wash and set, and it was Thursday. Her feet were up, red painted toenails wriggling in the afternoon sun that was peeking under the roof of the porch. And Raiden Ulysses Miller was sitting in the loveseat kitty-corner to her. His arm wide, resting on the back of the seat, long, strong, masculine fingers wrapped around a glass of sweet tea.

  What on earth?

  “Look here, precious girl, I got a gentleman caller,” Grams announced, and Raiden’s eyes, already on me, smiled.

  My stomach dropped.

  “Well, chère, you gonna say hey?” Grams prompted.

  “Uh… hey,” I mumbled to Raiden.

  “Hey,” he didn’t mumble back.

  “You didn’t bring yourself a glass,” Grams noted, staring at the pitcher.

  I tore my eyes from Raiden’s gorgeousness lounged on Grams’s back porch loveseat and looked at my beloved great-grandmother.

  “I don’t like sweet tea, Grams,” I reminded her.

  “I didn’t say you had to fill it with tea, precious. But you gotta have a cold one, you sit in the sun,” she replied.

  “I have groceries to bring in,” I told her, and she looked to Raiden.

  “Son, do us ladies a favor, bring in the groceries,” she said, and my body lurched even as Raiden leaned forward to put his glass on the coffee table.

  “It’s only a couple of bags. I’m good,” I announced, and Grams looked at me.

  “Get yourself a cold drink, Hanna, sit down. Let the menfolk help you take a load off,” she said then tipped her head way back to look up at a now standing Raiden. “Hanna, my precious girl, she runs herself ragged takin’ care of this old biddy. You help out, it’d help me out.”

  “Not a problem,” he rumbled and moved to round the coffee table.

  Grams kept talking. “Now, she’s sure to have brought me some ice cream. You get that in, child, you put it in the freezer. You hear?”

  Raiden was closing in on me, his eyes on me, mine glued to him, and he winked at me as he replied to Grams, “Yes, ma’am.”

  I found it miraculous that, at the wink, I didn’t melt into a puddle.

  He disappeared.

  Grams prompted, “Hanna. Fill me up and get yourself a cool drink.”

  I jerked out of my daze, and lightning fast I filled her tea, filled Raiden’s glass and rushed to the kitchen in hopes I got my “cool drink” before Raiden got in with the last of the groceries.

  This was foiled as he walked in while I was walking out with a bottle of diet root beer.

  Therefore, since his huge frame filled the doorway, blocking my escape, I was stuck in the kitchen with him.

  “Sweet ride,” he said, eyes on me.

  I looked to his chest. “Sorry?”

  He dumped the groceries on the counter. “The Z. Sweet.”

  Oh God.

  My car.

  And I was wearing white jeans and a white, fitted, scoop-necked tee.

  The last time, I matched my bike.

  This time, I matched my car.

  I matched my car!

  Luckily, I had a slim black belt and a pair of black gladiator sandals on so at least that was something.

  Seeing as his eyes were on me even as his hands were in the bag, I felt it necessary to respond.

  “Yeah.”

  Yes, that was all I could get out.

  He looked down at the bags, muttering, “She drives a Z and all she can do is agree it’s sweet.”

  “I got her because she’s pretty,” I informed him, sounding like an idiot, but also telling the truth.

  It was just the idiotic truth.

  Raiden pulled out the carton of ice cream and shot another smile my way. My legs went weak and he headed to the freezer, talking.

  And, incidentally, rocking my world by calling me honey again.

  “Honey, the wheels on her, I’d give you my Jeep just to drive on those wheels. Smart upgrade, the sports package.”

  “Sorry?”

  He shoved the ice cream in the freezer and turned to me. “You got the sports package.”

  “I did?”

  His head cocked to the side and again it was sexy as all blooming heck. His brows snapped together. They were as lush as his hair, which made the whole maneuver seriously sexy as all blooming heck.

  “You didn’t know you got the sports package?”

  “The sports package?”

  “Yeah, on the Z. You didn’t know you had that upgrade?”

  “Is that, um… more?” I asked.

  “As in, more money?” he asked back.

  “Yes,” I whispered, definitely feeling like an idiot.

  Raiden wasn’t looking at me like I was an idiot.
/>   He looked weirdly angry.

  “Yeah, Hanna. It’s more money. Like, a fuckuva lot more money. The dealership didn’t tell you that?”

  “No,” I told him, and his head jerked to straight again.

  “Where’d you go?” he asked.

  “Bob’s,” I answered.

  “You go alone?” he pressed.

  “As in, by myself,” I asked (yes, idiotically!).

  “Yeah, a woman alone buyin’ a car. Did you go by yourself?”

  “Yeah,” I told him.

  His mouth got tight and he walked back to the bags, muttering, “Bob just got scratched on my to-do list.”

  What did that mean?

  Before I could ask, he spoke again.

  “Any of this need to go in the fridge?”

  “You can go back out, finish your tea. I’ll do it,” I said, and he turned his head to me.

  “You do everything for her?”

  “Everything?”

  Yes, still being an idiot.

  He flipped his hand out to the groceries. “Yeah, everything.”

  “She still cooks but I, uh… get her groceries in every Thursday, then I clean her house. And I take her to church Sunday morning and we have breakfast together after. Oh, and I take her out to dinner every Tuesday night. And, of course, to mah jongg every Monday morning. But mostly, she does her own thing.”

  Raiden turned to me. “Don’t you have a brother?”

  “He lives in California.”

  “Folks?” he pushed.

  “They’re in Arizona,” I replied.

  “They all left her with just you?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, no, but yeah,” I babbled. “What I’m saying is,” I carried on in an attempt to make sense (for once). “Mom and Dad wanted her to go to Arizona with them, but she refused to go. But Mom got in a really bad car accident about two years before they moved. It was snowy and she never really liked driving in snow. That just capped it. She became terrified. Dad got a transfer offer to Tucson and they wanted to take it, go down there, Dad working until retirement, Mom getting a part-time job. Kind of semi-retirement. Grams, well, she’s old, but she’s still good on her own. She’s busy. She has a lot of callers. Someone is by every day, not just me. And Grams and I are close so I’m good with, uh… popping by and seeing to things. So I talked them into going and Grams was right there with me. She didn’t want to delay their retirement preparations since she’s convinced she’s never going to die and daily proves that she’s right so, uh… they went.”

  Raiden stared at me.

  I inwardly squirmed.

  Finally he again spoke.

  “How ‘bout you give it a rest for today and let me deal with this shit?”

  I blinked.

  “You mean, put away the groceries?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “You don’t know where anything goes,” I told him.

  “I’ll find my way around.”

  It struck me that if I let him do this I could quit talking to him and therefore quit acting like an idiot. So I decided to let him do this.

  “Okay, but,” I started to warn, “if Spot shows, and he’s feeling less than lovable and attacks your ankles, just ignore him. He doesn’t have any claws and he doesn’t ever bite too hard.”

  It was Raiden’s turn to blink.

  Then he asked, “Are you talking about that fat cat?”

  “Yes,” I replied, and a slow grin spread on his face.

  Magnificent.

  “Miss Mildred named her cat Spot?” he asked.

  Oh boy.

  I was going to have to show my idiocy again.

  “Actually, she couldn’t come up with a name, so I named him Spot.”

  His features shifted with the warm amusement that flowed through them.

  I was wrong before.

  That was magnificent.

  “You named a fat cat Spot,” Raiden stated.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  His amazing eyes dropped my mouth.

  I forgot my name.

  “He wasn’t a fat cat then,” I stupidly went on. “Seeing as, back then, he was just a little kitty.”

  His eyes came back to mine.

  “You name a dog Spot,” he informed me.

  “Okay,” I agreed (again, stupidly).

  “Unless you’re cute. Then you name a cat Spot.”

  I had no reply to that, mostly because there wasn’t one, but partly because he kind of said I was cute, so I was having trouble breathing.

  He jerked his head to the door. “Go. Take a load off. I’ll be out when I’m done with this.”

  “Righty ho,” I muttered.

  His grin came back, I decided to check online for a hairshirt so I could wear it and torture myself for my idiocy (I mean, “righty ho”?), and I scuttled out.

  Grams was snoozing in the sun, but she came to when I threw myself in the cushioned Adirondack chair kitty-corner to her and across from the loveseat Raiden had been sitting in.

  “Where’s our handsome company?” she asked, searching behind me with not a small amount of obvious excitement, looking for Raiden.

  Seriously, I was so totally of her loins, except I wasn’t funny and interesting.

  “Putting away the groceries,” I answered, and she gave me a big smile.

  “Coulda knocked me over with a feather, the front bell went and I opened the door to that tall drink of cool water,” she remarked, settling back into her chair and closing her eyes. “Woke up and I knew it was a good day. Felt it in my bones. Opened the door to him, glad I was right.”

  I wasn’t.

  “Grew up good and strong, that one did,” Grams kept talking. “Coulda called it. You asked me thirty years ago, would Raiden Miller be a fine, tall, strong, handsome man? I woulda said, ‘You betcha.’”

  I sucked back root beer, wishing it was vodka.

  Then I sat back and lifted my feet up to the coffee table, saying, “You’re rarely wrong, Grams.”

  “Damn tootin’,” she replied. “And, get this,” she started, so I looked at her to see her eyes open and her head turned to me. “He asked if there was anything he could do around here. Says his Momma sent him to check on me, make sure I was okay and that the house was in tiptop shape. I told him I had to pay that Crane boy twenty dollars a week to mow my lawn and cut back my bushes. He said he’d be out every Friday to see that’s done and won’t charge me a penny. I took him up on that, you better believe it.”

  Seriously?

  What was going on?

  Years, Raiden Miller didn’t know I existed. He took off, was gone for years more. He came back and for months he still didn’t know I existed. And suddenly he was everywhere I was?

  I straightened, taking my feet from the coffee table and began, “Grams—”

  She waved a hand at me. “Don’t take away my fun.” Then she smiled and leaned my way. “Every Friday, him in my yard, sweatin’ and mowin’ my lawn. Even old women need a thrill.” She settled back and closed her eyes. “That right there’s gonna be mine.”

  If I didn’t act like a klutzy, dorky idiot every time I was around him, I would be there every Friday to watch Raiden mow the lawn, too.

  Instead, I would do my best to be in Bangladesh.

  I put my feet back up on the coffee table and sucked back more root beer. I knew it would be useless to argue with Grams, tell her favors never came for free, explain what my Dad reminded me of time and again. You paid for it, like Dad did, sending up money for Grams to pay the Crane kid, or you did it in the family.

  You didn’t owe anybody.

  And I was thinking, even for a ninety-eight year old woman, you really didn’t owe Raiden Ulysses Miller.

  On this thought, Grams straightened like a shot two seconds before Raiden showed on the porch.

  Ninety-eight or not, she had the hearing of a German shepherd. Always did.

  “Good! You’re back!” she cried then snapped her fingers
at me. “Hanna, go get your afghans. The taupe one. And the cream.”

  I couldn’t see me, but I was relatively certain my eyes bugged out, and I was relatively certain because I could feel them protruding from my head.

  “Raiden, child, sit. Let Hanna show you her handiwork.” She threw a bony, wrinkled hand toward the loveseat then leaned that way over the arm of her chair to get closer to Raiden, who was folding himself in and grabbing his tea. “My precious Hanna, she not only makes, but designs the most divine afghans you’ll ever see and feel,” she bragged.

  “Grams—” I tried to cut in.

  “I know this not only because I have three, but also because she sends them everywhere, even all the way to New York City, and not one of them sells for less than two hundred and fifty dollars.” She nodded as if Raiden had cried, “No!” (which he didn’t) and kept babbling. “Some of ‘em, the better ones, are worth five hundred dollars.”

  “Grams!” I snapped.

  “This I gotta see,” Raiden drawled, and my eyes shot to him.

  “Get ‘em, precious,” Grams ordered. “All of ‘em. The pink one too.”

  I tore my eyes from an amused Raiden and looked at my grandmother.

  “Grams, he’s a guy. He doesn’t care about afghans,” I told her.

  “He cares about five hundred dollar ones. Any fool would wanna see a five hundred dollar afghan,” Grams shot back, then looked to Raiden. “All three of mine would cost that in one of those fancy shops Hanna ships them to, and let me tell you they’re worth every penny. I sit out here, dead of winter, one of Hanna’s afghans around me, snug as a bug. Like it’s August in Looseeanna, but without the humidity. I’m not joking.” Grams turned a proud smile to me. “That and her preserves, makes her livin’, and it’s a good one.” She looked back to Raiden. “Now tell me, how many folks can say they make a livin’ off knittin’, crotchetin’ and cookin’ fruit? Don’t answer. I’ll tell you. Not many. To pull that off, you gotta have sheer talent, like my Hanna.”

  Again, her head turned my way.

  “Well, you gonna get those afghans or what?”

  I wanted to say, “Or what.”

  Instead, I put my root beer down, hauled my behind out of the chair and went into the house.

  Spot was on the pink afghan. He was not pleased with me moving him and therefore hissed and batted me with a paw.