Out of the Ashes Read online

  Out of the Ashes

  Can't Help Falling, Volume 4

  Lauren Giordano

  Published by Harvest Moon Press, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  OUT OF THE ASHES

  First edition. January 23, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Lauren Giordano.

  ISBN: 978-1386134633

  Written by Lauren Giordano.

  Also by Lauren Giordano

  Blueprint to Love

  Trusting Jake

  Falling For Ken

  Chasing Marisol

  Sheltering Annie

  Blueprint to Love Books 1-3

  Can't Help Falling

  Out of the Mist

  Out of Reach

  Out on a Limb

  Out of the Ashes

  Can't Help Falling Books 1 to 3

  Watch for more at Lauren Giordano’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Lauren Giordano

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Sign up for Lauren Giordano's Mailing List

  Further Reading: Trusting Jake

  Also By Lauren Giordano

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Curtis Forsythe hobbled down the porch, each step more excruciating than the last. Shifting to his overworked left leg, he clutched the rail. When the screen door slammed behind him, he froze.

  "Don't leave."

  Afraid to move, Curt pivoted on the step. For the last three hours, he'd smiled and joked his way through the pain, hiding it from the people who knew him best. It would be just like his brother to catch him now—only steps away from the safety of his truck.

  "Hannah . . . what are you doing?" In the porch light, her blond waves were captured in a frame of deceptively angelic light.

  "Stay with me," she pleaded.

  Her earnest, captivating, oh-so-trusting, brown eyes returned his stare. With a sigh, Curt lurched back up the step, his grip white-knuckled on the rail. Since the moment they'd met, he'd been unable to resist her. "Does anyone know you're out here?"

  A guilty smile twitched on her lips. "Maybe."

  Despite the sharp knot clutching his shredded muscle, he laughed. "Get over here." Joy and a frisson of fear tightened his chest when the little girl launched into his arms.

  "Uncle Curt, when you leave . . . they make me go to bed. And . . . I'm not even tired." Her complaint, voiced through a fierce yawn, fluttered against his throat, where she planted a tired, sticky, chocolate ice cream kiss.

  "Honey, it's getting dark. Where's daddy?" Shifting the small bundle of stubbornness to one arm, Curt retraced his steps to the front door, all the while wondering how in hell his brother would survive her childhood.

  "Little Curt pooped. Daddy's changin' his diaper. He says Curt's toxic." Her head lifted briefly from his shoulder. "What's toxic mean?"

  Stepping into the dim foyer, Curt headed back to the kitchen, the pain settling into a dull strum, something he'd grown to prefer to the sharp stabs of agony. "It means yucky. Where's Mommy?"

  "She's feedin' Sean." Another ear-splitting yawn. Though he heard voices in the back of the house, Curt didn't want to expend a single step beyond what was absolutely necessary. Travis was nowhere to be found. Setting Hannah on the counter, he decided to lecture his niece while waiting for his brother to appear.

  "Han, you can't just leave the house whenever you feel like it. It's dark outside. What if you got lost?"

  Her eyes drooping, she smiled. "In the driveway? Uncle Curt, I'm five."

  Lips twitching, he glanced away, fighting the urge to laugh. "You're almost five," he corrected. Damn, she was good. Worse—she knew it. Tomorrow, he would install alarms on all the exterior doors to give his brother at least a fighting chance. "Your dad is going to have heart failure when he realizes you're missing."

  "Is that when your heart gets broke? Mommy says you're a heartbreaker."

  "It's when your heart gets terrified," he corrected. If his sister-in-law knew half of what Hannah repeated, she'd be mortified. He, on the other hand, appreciated the stealthy information he gleaned. All the better to torture her with later. Steps in the hallway grew louder as they approached the kitchen. His brother emerged, a diaper in one hand and Curt's two year old namesake in the other.

  Travis' face registered surprised. "I thought you left?" Lobbing the diaper into the trash as though it were a basketball, he slung the toddler on his shoulder for a brief victory dance. "Lockwood's still got it."

  "It's sad what your life has devolved to." Curt smiled. "Han decided to follow me. I found her on the porch." He paused a beat. "In the dark."

  His brother's eyes widened. "Shit."

  Hannah fixed him with a glare. "That's a bad word. I'm tellin' Mommy."

  Flustered, Travis raked a hand through his hair. "I thought MaryJo-"

  "Mommy's feedin' baby Sean."

  Curt experienced a twinge of sympathy for the quick shudder of fear that rippled through his brother. Little Curt slobbering on his shoulder; a close call with Hannah. A new baby wailing all night. His version of living hell. Trav and MaryJo were on overload. "I'll be back tomorrow to install a few door alarms."

  Travis shot him a grateful look. "Jesus, I'm off my game with this third one."

  "That's two swear words." Her sleepy pout turned surly.

  "You are in trouble, young lady," Travis warned. "What do you think Mommy will say about you being outside without permission? Again."

  "Maybe . . . she doesn't hafta hear about me goin' outside?" Hope sparked in velvety, brown eyes. "And . . . I don't hafta tell her about your bad words."

  His brother battled to control his expression. Hell, Curt wanted to crack up, too. But, Hannah already wielded a dangerous degree of power. Time spent around his niece and nephews had proven addictive. Despite catching him off guard, he'd increasingly found himself imagining a kid of his own. "Maybe you should get ready for bed," he suggested. "Before your dad gets angry."

  "Too late," Travis said through clenched teeth.

  Wide eyes fixed on him, Hannah nodded as he lifted her from the counter and set her on the floor. "I'll go brush my teeth." She paused. "Daddy?"

  "What?"

  "You're not angry, Daddy," she prompted. "You're just . . . worried."

  A stand-off in the making, Travis glared at his daughter. From Curt's vantage point, his brother's clenched jaw had to be painful.

  "Go. To. Bed. Now."

  Rethinking the kid thing, Curt turned to hide his grin. Maybe—he'd be just as content with favorite uncle status for another decade. All the perks—with none of the hassle.

  "Bye, Uncle Curt."

  Travis waited for her to climb the back stairs before he released an exasperated sigh. "Jesus, Curt. Thanks for bringing her back. I'll have nightmares for a week about her wandering in the dark."

  He gave his brother a friendly pat. "At least she didn't get far—this time." Shifting uncomfortably, he pushed off the counter. "I need to hit the road. I've got a full day tomorrow."

  "Your leg is killing you," Travis accused as the baby released a gusty sigh. Sucking noisily on his fingers, Little Curt flopped against his sh
oulder. "Have you scheduled the damn surgery?"

  He dismissed his concern with a wave. "I'm meeting with three or four candidates tomorrow to help in the office. Once I get someone on board, surgery is next on the list." This time, Curt actually meant it. The pain was becoming more than he could handle. And without the luxury of painkillers, the handful of ibuprofen he swallowed each night wasn't allowing much in the way of sleep.

  "We can take care of you after the surgery," he reminded.

  With three drooling, crying, sticky cling-ons underfoot? He suppressed a shudder. Though his brother meant well, he doubted he could survive a recovery at Trav and MaryJo's house. The thought of Hannah helping made his skin crawl. "Uh—I think I'll pass."

  "You know what I mean." Travis grinned. "We'll get you a nurse. You don't have to stay in this zoo."

  "A hot, sexy nurse?"

  "One with big, man hands. Maybe a German accent." He paused, warming to his visual."Strong enough to carry you to the bathroom. Help you find your-"

  "No, thanks," he cut him off.

  Travis trailed him to the front door. "Don't put it off any longer. You should've had the surgery done a year ago."

  Hell, he'd been on borrowed time for two years. After the last procedure six years earlier, the surgeon had told him four years, tops. "I know, but Four Seasons took off and I didn't want to risk turning down work. I've had fifteen months of backlog."

  "No more excuses," Travis warned. "Or I'll sic MaryJo on you."

  Chuckling, he pushed through the screen door. "Your wife doesn't scare me . . . much." Pausing, he stroked his namesake's maddeningly soft tufts of hair. "See you later, little guy." His nephew grinned around the fingers in his mouth.

  "Let me know how the interviews go." Travis' voice drifted after him.

  Clammy with sweat, Curt attempted a casual gait as he hobbled down the porch, knowing his brother was hawk-eying every step. His knee felt as though it were caught between two crashing cymbals. "I'll send someone over to wire those alarms."

  "Tomorrow, Curt," he warned. "We're discussing this again."

  Releasing an agonized breath, he nodded. It was time. He couldn't put off the surgery any longer.

  SHANNON MCCARTY DRUMMED her fingers on the steering wheel. Was she doing the right thing? Or was she completely crazy? Applying for a job as an office manager—when she'd trained as a nurse? She could hear her mother's voice in her head. And—it wasn't comforting. But, the opportunity had been too tempting. When she'd scanned the ads the previous week, searching for the usual nursing jobs, she'd come across his ad. Curtis Forsythe. She'd followed him for years. Okay. . . thirteen years. "Which kinda sounds like stalking," she muttered to no one. Followed, her brain corrected. Not stalked. Stalk sounded—a little crazy. Keeping track was more accurate, her helpful brain reasoned. And now, he was looking for help. Four Seasons Electric was seeking an office manager. "How hard could that be?"

  Instead of resisting the impulse . . . as her mother would have been quick to point out she should, Shannon applied online—before she lost her nerve. After a few days passed, she'd forgotten about it. Sort of. For good measure, she'd applied for several nursing positions. If she was going to plant roots back in Boston, a job would be the first challenge. Then—finding a place to live, so she could move out of Kerry's too-small apartment. Shacking up with her younger sister—a desperate measure she'd never imagined she'd have to resort to. But, it was better than asking her mother for help. Better than crawling home as a big, fat failure.

  Kerry had welcomed her. For that, she was grateful. But, it still felt like a failure . . . watching her baby sister leave for work in a suit each morning, while she hid in the spare bedroom, eating Cornflakes she hadn't bought. With any luck, she'd soon be able to erase the last six years as though they'd never happened.

  Maybe it was karma that Curt Forsythe might be the guy who helped her escape the hole she'd dug for herself. Although, part of her still wanted to blame him for all her problems, the thought of being around Forsythe . . . while he paid her to do so, was too perfect to pass up.

  "That's how you ended up here." Through the windshield, Shannon studied the warehouse she'd parked next to. It appeared to house an office at one end and a shop/warehouse at the other. Checking her watch, she released a nervous breath. In seven minutes, she'd finally meet him. Face to face. A man to match the sexy voice she'd spoken to over the phone. "Not sexy," she muttered. Husky. Seriously male. Distracted. Though she'd seen him several times over the years, it had always been from a healthy distance. Every year, butterflies established residence in her stomach for weeks as the event drew closer on the calendar. Just knowing Forsythe would be there. She'd been dying of curiosity, yet when the opportunity presented itself . . . to be introduced to the man who'd changed the course of her life, she'd always bailed. Too afraid to meet him. Too self-conscious over what she'd done to actually face him in person.

  That would all change today. In seven minutes. Flicking a glance at her watch, she gasped. "Hell—in four minutes." Damn her daydreaming. Scooping up her bag, she launched from the car. How could she arrive early, yet end up late for the appointment?

  Thankfully, he kept her waiting for ten minutes. Shannon collected her thoughts as she scoped out the lobby—if one could actually characterize the sparse space she was sitting in—as a lobby. Dusty, still air assaulted her nose. The relic of a wooden chair she sat on was wobbly, but the other two she'd tried had been worse. Concrete floor. Drab paint on the walls. Noise echoing from the shop in the back. Clanging tools and the occasional shout from one guy to another. Her gaze drifted to the painted shut windows. They too, were in serious need of glass cleaner and elbow grease.

  "Miss McCarty? I'm sorry to keep you waiting." The tall stranger extended his hand. "Curt Forsythe."

  Her heart lurched. The moment of truth. She accepted the warm handshake. Tried to ignore the generous smile. Friendly, but distracted blue eyes. Damn. The glowing tan. The seriously built shoulders. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Forsythe. I'm Shannon."

  "Come on back to my office. It's there on the left."

  She followed him, studiously ignoring the heavy limp to his right leg. Though she couldn't summon any sympathy for him, the nurse in her acknowledged Curt Forsythe was a man in serious pain. Five years earlier, she likely would have been pleased by that knowledge. She'd seen his limp before, out on the basketball court. But, today it seemed far more pronounced than she remembered. She hadn't made it to a tournament these last four years. Hadn't had the money to fly home, despite her mother's guilt-laden suggestions. And she'd been too proud to ask for a ticket.

  Forcing her mind back to the present, she wondered who would watch the front office while he met with her. "This is a busy place." Forsythe ignored the persistent ring of the phone on his desk. When it fell silent, he then ignored his cell when it began vibrating. He released an aggravated sigh.

  "You have no idea." His smile was preoccupied. "I had a woman answering phones a while back, but she only wanted to work two days a week. For a while, that was better than nothing, but now, all hell's breaking loose. I need someone here full-time."

  Behind the cluttered desk, the old chair squeaked under his weight. Blocking out the boisterous shouts of two men in the back and the shrill ring of the phone out in the lobby, Shannon also ignored the sudden pounding of her heart. Five feet away from her enemy, she forced herself to close the distance. Eager candidates showed interest. She leaned forward in her chair. "Can you tell me more about the position?"

  As he launched into an explanation of what he was looking for in an office manager, she tried to pay attention to his words. Tried to focus. But, she was there—on his territory. In her imagination, she was still seventeen. And he—was still the careless kid she remembered. But . . . he'd aged since she'd last caught a glimpse . . . and not just in years. He appeared tougher. His sandy, surfer hair was cut short now, as though he no longer had time for such details. The hollowness alwa
ys so visible in the blue depths was less noticeable than in previous years. Though she would never forget the actions that had changed her family's lives, Forsythe had apparently managed to distance himself from history.

  His eyes grew animated as he discussed Four Seasons' volume and how the company had grown after weathering the recession. Pride laced his voice. He was clearly happy with all he'd accomplished in the last seven years. Shannon's thoughts drifted. What had she managed to accomplish in that time?

  "Miss McCarty?"

  She startled. "I'm sorry. What did you ask?"

  His gaze narrowed. "I asked about your experience. Your resume tells me more about nursing than office management. Why are you interested in this position?"

  Because she was utterly desperate? Because it provided the opportunity to spy on him while taking his money? "I've been a nurse for the last eight years since I graduated from college. But, moving to Denver allowed me the opportunity to explore other careers in between nursing jobs," she lied. "If you'll notice, I ran the office for a friend's car dealership for nearly a year. I also assisted another friend with his books."

  "What type of business was that?"

  She sensed Curt's scrutiny, attempting to pick apart her story. Or maybe trying to figure out what the hell she was doing in a place like this. Up close, his eyes held a wariness that only disappeared when he smiled. He looked older than . . . what? She did the math in her head. Thirty-three? Injecting enthusiasm into her voice, she smiled. "He ran a restaurant and bar. I helped set up his books. I managed the purchasing and worked with his suppliers." In the folds of her skirt, Shannon crossed her fingers.

  "I set up and managed the accounting system. I handled accounts payable and receivable." She tossed around the business terms deliberately. Forsythe didn't have to know the actual story. Falling under the spell of a guy who, instead of being her soulmate, had turned out to be a lying jerk. Or that the 'payables' had come from her own savings—so the place wouldn't go under. That Brad hadn't liked paying bills. Only spending the 'receivables' in the cash register. Until it was gone. Until he'd wiped her out, too. Before disappearing with a waitress named Lindsay—leaving Shannon to deal not only with a broken heart and destitution, but an ugly mess with his creditors—half of whom had mysteriously been given her name as the responsible party.