No Ordinary Home. Mary Sullivan

the diner, the stranger talked to another man and Gracie’s instincts for self-preservation kicked in. Did this guy think she’d be good for an afternoon three-way?

      She might be homeless, she might have fallen lower than she’d ever been in her twenty-nine years, but she was not, never had been and never would be a prostitute. Not even for food.

      She stomped out of the diner.

      A second later, a hand clamped down on her shoulder and spun her about. For a big man, he sure could move quietly.

      “I thought you were hungry. Why are you running off?”

      “I saw you talking to your friend. Did you think I’d sleep with you both in exchange for a meal? I’m not a whore.”

      He reared back. She’d offended him. “I didn’t think you were. I was just going to feed you. What kind of guy do you take me for? I’m a cop.”

      “Cops aren’t always lily-white.”

      “Neither are homeless women who hang around truck stops and steal wallets.”

      Shame flared in her chest, hot and unwelcome. She used to have a conscience, before life and desperation had taken over. She shouldn’t have touched this man’s wallet, or stolen those date squares two days ago. Gran would be disappointed in her. “I told you I’ve never done it before. This was the first time.”

      “I think you’re telling the truth and that’s the only reason you aren’t already sitting in the back of a police cruiser.” He hooked his thumbs into his back pockets. “Figured you just needed a good meal. That’s all I’m offering.”

      Gracie wanted to believe him, not because she trusted anyone anymore, or because she had any naive belief in the innate goodness of humanity—a lot had been burned out of her by experience—but because if she didn’t eat soon, she was going to pass out.

      “And the other guy with you?”

      “He’s a good man.” He didn’t need to add too. She could see in his face he was probably exactly who and what he said he was.

      “Let’s pretend we trust each other for the hour it’ll take for lunch.” He watched her steadily, like a poster boy for good health.

      Shaggy, dark blond hair framed a face carved by a hard, but loving hand. Sharp, intelligent and wholesome with a generous side of sexy. GQ could put him on its cover and women would swoon. Blue eyes drooped down at the outer corners in a languid parody of sensuality, but the awareness in their depths was anything but lazy.

      He differed from the people she saw on the road—too many truckers with potbellies from hours spent sitting behind a steering wheel, or the obesity of housewives and kids who watched too much TV or spent too much time at computers.

      But this guy? He exercised a lot.

      “Let’s start over.” He stuck out his right hand. “Austin Trumball.”

      She didn’t want to touch him, because she knew she was unworthy of him. If she hadn’t stolen his wallet, he would never have given her the time of day, not only because she was down and out, but because she had chosen to be that way, a position most didn’t understand. If he knew that, he’d boot her to the curb.

      The choice had been hers and she had long ago accepted it as the right one. Lately, though, as she’d grown so thin her ribs were prominent, she’d had her doubts.

      Now here was this man offering not only food, but also decency. Accept, she ordered her pride. Take his free meal and then move on.

       Keep a wary eye, but trust him long enough to eat.

      She shook his hand. “Gracie Travers.” Why was it that after so long on the road, she still stumbled when she said Travers? She should be used to it by now.

      His warm fingers wrapped around hers, hard and assured. She hadn’t been warm in years, not even in the middle of summer. Not even on a beautiful July day as hot as this one.

      He shook once, all business, then let go of her hand. She felt the loss of his heat.

      “Let’s eat.” He turned back to the diner and she followed without hesitation this time. She wanted a meal, just one big, hot meal to get her through the next two days until she made it to Denver. Then she would be home-free for the rest of her life.

      The day after tomorrow, she would turn thirty. Her money would be hers, free and clear. She needed to get to a bank. Denver was the closest large city.

      What she wouldn’t give to stop moving, to find a small place to live—nothing ostentatious, just a modest roof over her head and three square meals a day—but that would require a permanent job. To get one she would have to provide a social security number. Once that happened, her freedom would be gone, and that she wouldn’t give up.

      If she could access her money, her problems would be solved. She could buy a new identity. She could buy a small house somewhere. If she lived normally without extravagant spending, she would be okay for life. No one would ever need to know who she really was.

      Inside the crowded restaurant, Austin’s friend sat in a booth. When he saw her beside Austin, the corners of his mouth turned down.

      “What are you doing?” he asked. “Who is she?”

      “She’s having lunch with us. I invited her. Her name’s Gracie.” He gestured for her to slide into the booth across from the other guy. She did. “Gracie, this is Finn Franck Caldwell.”

      She nodded to him while Austin slid into the booth beside her. He took up a lot of room. She studied both men. About the same age, she guessed, or close to it. Early thirties. Finn wasn’t as big as Austin, but he looked equally as fit.

      It didn’t take a genius to see Finn wasn’t happy she was here. Tough. As if that was going to hold her back from a free meal. At least, Austin had assured her there were no strings attached. She wasn’t yet sure she believed him 100 percent.

      A harried waitress brought menus. “Coffee?”

      “Yes,” they all said and she returned a minute later with a full pot.

      Gracie doctored hers with plenty of sugar and cream, sipped it, sighed and sipped again. Nothing had ever tasted better than this hot drink sliding down her throat.

      When she opened her eyes, she found both men staring at her.

      “What?” she asked, defensive.

      “Nice to see someone appreciate a good cup of coffee, that’s all.” Austin had a strong voice, deep and rich like the coffee in her cup. He could make a fortune with that beautiful voice. “What do you want to eat?”

       All of it.

      She studied the menu. “How much can I spend?”

      “As much as it will take to fill your belly.”

      His friend still hadn’t said anything. He didn’t have to. The flare of his nostrils signaled his disapproval.

      “I’m paying him back,” she shot at Finn, because she wasn’t the deadbeat he thought she was.

      “How?”

      She turned to study the bench hog beside her. Cripes, he was big. “What do you need?”

      Finn snorted and she glared at him. “Not that.”

      She turned back to Austin and glanced at his messy hair. “You could use a haircut. I’ll do that.”

      Without waiting for a response, she gave her attention over to the menu as though it were the Holy Grail. She couldn’t waste another minute talking. The sooner she ordered, the sooner she could kill the pain in her gut. Perusing the options, she blinked to clear mistiness from her eyes. Not tears. No. She was just tired, but God, look at the choices. Saying yes to one thing meant saying no to another.

      When