Chapter Four
Jamie dropped her ereader in her purse, then added her migraine pills. She stopped at a framed photo she kept on her bureau. It was a picture of the dog and cat she’d had when she was younger. A handsome German shepherd her parents had named Tennyson, alongside their Siamese cat, Lord. Tennyson had been the best dog ever, loyal and devoted, and a complete sweetheart, especially considering how well he’d played with Lord.
If only she could find another German shepherd. But the breed was hard to come by at animal shelters. She’d tracked down a young puppy in a San Jose shelter last week, but was on a waiting list for him. She hadn’t heard back, so she figured the puppy had gone to another home. She’d just keep checking with more local rescues until another puppy arrived.
A dog would surely take her mind off a certain someone.
She repositioned the photo. Then moved it to the other end of the bureau. Or maybe it would look better in the middle. She’d already dusted, swept her floors, and scrubbed clean her kitchen counters. Her whole house was spotless, but her brain kept returning to last night.
“Crud,” she muttered. She was stalling, and she knew it. She had to go to work in thirty minutes, and Smith would likely be there, working on the construction of the same back room where they’d danced. She’d avoided him today, his calls and his texts wanting to know if she was okay. But she’d have to man up in a few minutes, and what was she supposed to say?
Hey, you’re a swell pal, and you screw like a rock star, but let’s just pretend last night never happened, shall we?
Ugh.
The person she really wanted to avoid, though, was herself.
She couldn’t believe she’d had sex with Smith, let alone liked that filthy mouth of his. She was a romantic. She had a soft spot for poems and wine and the finer things in life, so how the hell did she get off on a man who liked it down and dirty? He’d sent her into such a heated state, she was barely herself last night. She’d been pulsing, alive and trembling with want. She was supposed to fall for someone classy, who courted her with odes and stanzas, not hot, bossy words as he pinned her to the wall.
She dropped her head into her hand. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t into that kind of rough play, she didn’t need to be bitten, or manhandled, or talked to like that. But then, maybe she did, because those orgasms he delivered were the stuff you didn’t just write a poem about; those were the kind of Os that made you write an anthemic album that sold millions of copies as everyone screwed and made babies to it.
She waved her hands in front of her face, as if she could wave off the memories of the Best. Sex. Of. Her. Life.
She marched into her living room, grabbed a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets and sent a quick prayer to the Bard that he would reset her as the romantic she knew she was. God knew, the novel she’d tried reading this morning hadn’t helped—she’d downloaded a racy romance about two coworkers who agree to a no-strings-attached relationship for one week, hoping that will cure them of the simmering lust they have for each other. Whether their tactic worked was up for debate—she’d had to set the story down when the hero pushed all the papers off the desk and lifted the heroine onto it. She’d been getting too hot and bothered for her own good.
Settling into Sonnet 116, she reacquainted herself with a reminder of the importance of having something in common with a partner. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,” she read out loud, nodding vigorously. Shakespeare was right. She and Smith were too far off the mark; they’d simply never work. Now take her parents—they were two like-minded people. They ran a winery together, they both loved wine and poetry, they liked the same books and movies, they were neat and orderly and they’d lasted through the years. On the other hand, there was Diane and the Douche. Her sweet sister went for the guy she was friends with, the life of the party type, and wound up being saddled with a divorce after only three years.
The proof was in front of her in her very own family. Smith would never be the kind of guy who could take care of a woman outside the bedroom. Though as soon as that thought touched down in her head, she flashed back to the Spring Festival last year. They’d played a few rounds of Skee-Ball, both their competitive spirits running strong. She’d won twice, he’d won twice, and they’d shared beers afterwards. But then a cruel migraine had set in quickly. He walked her home, fixed her a quick cup of the green tea that sometimes took the edge off her headaches, then tucked her in bed and turned out the lights so she could sleep her headache away. She’d hate to lose that sort of closeness if anything else continued with them.
She slammed the book of poems shut. They weren’t helping her forget him. She grabbed her phone and called her good friend Megan, who’d been living in LA for the last year. They’d gone to high school together, and Megan always gave solid advice. Her friend answered on the second ring, but didn’t speak right away. Jamie was greeted instead by loud clang, then a frenzied “Hello?”
“Hey Megster, how’s it going? You rearranging the furniture or something?”
“A pot just fell off the stove.”
“I hope it wasn’t boiling,” Jamie said with a laugh.
“It wasn’t. And it didn’t actually fall. I bumped into it,” Megan admitted sheepishly.
“You’ve always been prone to bumping into things.”
“So true. What’s going on up there? I miss you,” she said with a wistful tone in her voice.
Jamie started to tell her about last night, but something stopped her. She didn’t know what to say, or frankly, why she needed to talk about it. She’d already decided Smith was a one-time-only thing, so there was no need to rehash him. Chin up, move on, keep on keeping on.
“You should come back to Hidden Oaks then,” she said, shifting gears away from last night.
“I’ve been thinking about it. Things with Jason suck.”
“Oh no. I’m so sorry. Is it more of the same?” She asked carefully because last she heard, Megan’s boyfriend had been hitting the bottle a few too many times.
“Yeah. I never see him anymore. All he cares about is partying. I swear, I don’t know what I ever saw in him or why I moved here. We have nothing in common,” Megan said, frustration etched in her words. Jamie wanted to reach out and hug her, and tell her that somehow it was all going to work out. Not with Jason, but in general. They chatted some more, and Jamie checked her watch, realizing she needed to head to work.
“Okay sweets. Call me if you need to talk more,” she said, and even though they hadn’t chatted about Smith, somehow she felt better for that. Maybe this was the clear evidence that she wasn’t thinking about him—she didn’t need to discuss him.
She slipped her bag over her shoulder, locked the door, and walked to work, several blocks from her small bungalow. She wore a jean skirt, a short sleeve top, and ankle boots on her bare legs, the perfect ensemble for the warm spring day.
She walked past the local hair salon and the coffee shop, spotting a familiar face up ahead. Cara was walking her adorable black and white border collie mix in a perfect heel by her side. She was the best dog trainer in town, with a client list who adored her. Including Jamie’s sister.
She was about to say hello, when she remembered that Smith had once dated Cara. But who cared? She wasn’t dating Smith, and she certainly wasn’t so petty that she wouldn’t say hello for that reason. Besides, she was a dog person through and through, and she wanted to say hello to the pooch too.
“Hey Cara,” she called out with a wave. “How’s Violet?”
“She is excellent. A good girl as always,” Cara said and Violet sat by her owner’s side as soon as Cara stopped walking.
Jamie bent down to pet the collie mix. The dog lifted her snout, giving her more room to scratch between her ears. “She’s so cute,” she said.
“How’s Henrietta? Is she keeping Diane good company?”
A flush crept across her cheeks again as she remembered her excuse last night. But she sucked down her embarrassment. “She’s the best dog.”
“Diane said you were thinking about getting a puppy. A German shepherd?”
Jamie nodded. “If I can find one. I’ve been looking for one in a rescue. I’m on a waiting list.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open for you. They’re good dogs.”
“Thanks for doing that. I better get going into work. Don’t want to be late,” she said.
“See you around.”
“You too,” Jamie said with a cheerful wave. As she walked off, she was ready to pat herself on the back. She truly must have gotten Smith out of her system if it didn’t bother her to run into an ex. Her plan had worked and had cured her of all her feelings for him.
Jamie held her head up high as she walked into the bar, ready to focus on work and prep for the wine tasting she was hosting in an hour.
“Hey, Jamie.”
She was greeted by Becker—tall, broad, brooding, and the owner of the bar. He was with the fire department too, running the volunteer force. She was grateful to have a boss like Becker. He was a cool guy, only a few years older than her twenty-six years. Even though the bar was a microbrewery, he let her bring in some of her favorite wines for the grape lovers who flocked to town, and she’d also urged him to throw the kickoff party for the festival. He was eager to make his mark in town, and since she knew this town inside and out, he’d often turned to her for input on how to grow and expand the bar’s presence. “So what’s the verdict? How was the party you convinced me to have?”
“It went so well. Everyone had a good time,” she offered with a cheery smile, forcing her brain to stay focused on the party itself, not what happened in the back of the bar as the event was winding down.
“Glad to hear that,” he said, then asked with a wry smile, “Are you going to convince me to throw a party every month now?”
“I just might do that,” she said. “But I do appreciate you letting me weigh in on things around here.”
“Speaking of that, I have a meeting this evening. Talking to some of the other business owners on the town square. See how we can make the Spring Festival a success. If you have any ideas I’d love to hear them.”
Her eyes lit up. She was glad to be able to contribute, and she admired that Becker was so focused on business. He worked late, he worked early, he worked a lot, and his brain was always ticking. She respected that about him.
“More games,” she offered.
“More games?”
“Well, everyone loves to play Skee-Ball or Whac-A-Mole, so we just have to make sure we have as many of those options as possible.”
“Whac-A-Mole,” he said with a straight face, as he wrote something in a notebook. Was he writing down Whac-A-Mole? Becker really did take serious to new levels. That kind of discipline was admirable. “Got it.”
“I’ll think of some others as I’m prepping. We’ve got a wine tasting soon. I need to grab some bottles, but I’ll have on my thinking cap.”
“Great. Can’t wait.”
She stopped in the tiny office, dropped her purse on the chair, and then headed to the wine racks to consider the best selection. She was reaching for a pinot noir that had been raved about recently when she heard the back door open.
She swiveled around. There was Smith, carrying a toolbox in one hand and a stack of wood planks on his shoulder. The way he held the boards made his white T-shirt rise up, revealing smooth, tanned skin and muscles she’d run her fingernails over the night before. Why did he have to have abs she wanted to lick and pinch and bite?
Oh, right. Because he was the fireman women drooled over. He was the very reason there were fireman calendars, and fireman erotica, and let’s face it, fireman fantasies.
And she was having one right now. A red-hot one about him pinning her against the wall. Saying naughty things. Bringing her there again. Oh lord, what had happened to her? Evidently, last night hadn’t cured her at all.
It had only fanned the flames of her desire, and she was a twisted knot of emotions right now—wanting to feel nothing, but feeling so much for him. He might not be relationship material, but he sure was good-in-the-sack material. She didn’t want to risk her heart, but maybe there was a way to preserve it and satisfy these cravings. Rather than a one-night stand, perhaps she needed a one-week trip. Maybe that couple in her novel had the right idea. One week, no strings. And heck, with such a finite period of time, she could keep their friendship intact too.
First things first, though. Before she proposed something crazy—she was going to have to play it like he would. Be cool, be easy, be casual. Make it seem like last night was no big deal.
…
His shoulders tightened when he saw her.
“How’s Henrietta?” he said sharply, biting out the question. He hadn’t intended to sound harsh, not when he was also worried that he’d scared her off. But the fact was, he was annoyed too. Frustrated with the way she took off last night. He didn’t like being left, and he certainly didn’t enjoy being left after what they’d done. What they’d said. How they’d both admitted feelings for each other. To top it off, this damn construction job was taking longer than he’d wanted. Between her ditching him and the possibility of falling behind schedule, he wasn’t in his finest mood.
“Well?” he asked again, lowering the wood and the toolbox to the unfinished concrete floor. “Is she okay? Because I saw her on my drive home last night having a nice late night walk with your sister.”
Jamie swallowed and blinked. She tightened her hold on the bottle of wine, then finally met his gaze. But said nothing.
“You didn’t have to walk Henrietta,” he said, staring hard at her. Waiting for a reply. He held his hands out wide.
“I know,” she said, looking at her feet.
“So you lied. What was that about? You just took off.”
“Yeah. What of it?” she said with a steely-eyed coolness.
Whoa. This wasn’t the Jamie he knew. Something was wrong. Something was off. Jamie was feisty, Jamie was sassy, but Jamie was never blasé. Jamie always cared. About everything from her job to her family to beating his ass in bowling when she could.
Then it hit him. She regretted it. Whether because their night had tarnished their friendship, or because he’d come on too strong with his rough ways and his dirty mouth, when he should have started more slowly with her, taken his time. He had to rein in his annoyance over last night and over work and smooth things out with her. Say he was sorry for taking her against the wall, instead of taking her out to a candlelight dinner and wooing her properly.
He walked over to her, letting go of the anger over her lying about the dog. He needed to reassure her. They stood inches away in the middle of the room. It was late afternoon, but the lights hadn’t been installed in this section of the bar yet, so there were shadows across the two of them. “I thought we were having a good time. Hell, I know I was, and you sure seemed to be too. So will you need to take off again if I ask you out on a date?”
Her mouth dropped open. She stared at him as if he were speaking Swahili.
“A date,” he continued. “That thing where two people who like each other spend more time together. You’ve heard of it?”
“What kind of a date?”
“Something you’d like. I can take you out to dinner. We can go to a bookstore and browse if you want,” he said, trying hard to latch onto something that would win her over. Her lips quirked up as he asked her, but then she quickly reined it in and fixed her mouth in a straight, impassive line.
“I don’t know if we should date, per se,” she said, then let her voice trail off, and there was something almost suggestive in her tone. As if she were inviting him in for more. But he didn’t want to read her the wrong way. So rather than assume, he decided to be direct.
He reached out and brushed a strand of blond hair away from her neck, trying for softness. He’d scanned through a few romance novels on his smartphone last night; the heroes were always brushing hair off a woman’s face, neck, or shoulder. Maybe emulating those sensitive dudes would help him. “I’m sorry. Was I too rough?”
She tilted her head and shot him a questioning look. “Too rough?”
“I should have been gentler, right?” He was damn near ready to kick himself for letting his dirty thoughts get the better of him last night. He wished he could rewind the last twenty-four hours and try again with her. Court her properly, like a gentleman. He’d never been good with sweet words—love and romance. He certainly hadn’t seen that from his parents—more like vitriol when they’d split, though he’d tried hard to keep them together.
Nor did sweetness fit his life these days. Fighting fires, tending to drunk driving accidents, as well as his regular construction job—well, they weren’t conducive to bringing out the poet in him. Teasing, joking—those were easier ways to deal. When it came to women, he was much better off when he didn’t try to be the sweet, sensitive guy.
But he was going to have to work harder for her. “You don’t want to try again? Give us another chance? Because I thought we were pretty good together last night when we were making love,” he said, hoping using sweeter words might work on her.
A smile danced across her lips again. “We were,” she said.
Okay, so they were getting somewhere. “I’m so glad you agree,” he said running his hand down her bare arm, and enjoying the way she shivered in response. “Do you want to try again?”
“It’s just I thought we could try something else,” she said, and she seemed to be taking her time, trying to figure out exactly what to say.
He was dying to know what she wanted to try, so he jumped at the invitation. “Try what?”
She was about to answer when Becker walked in. “Jamie, your sister’s here. And she seems kind of upset.”
The look in her eyes changed in a nanosecond to one of deep concern. He swore he could hear her heart beat fast, and the worry pound through her veins as she swiveled around, looking for her sister. He understood needing to talk to someone when times were tough; he hadn’t had that luxury when he was younger and watched his parents’ marriage sever. He had to give her some space.
Jamie turned to him and started to explain. “My sister. Her divorce has been hard on her.”
“Yeah, I know. That sucks,” he said, and smiled sympathetically. Whatever she wanted to try needed to be tabled. He knew her sister had to come first. “Go talk to her. She needs you.”