Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8)

by Lauren Gilley

  “Cook’s Coffee is a landmark.”

  She gave him a look.

  “It is. It’s an important local business around here. You’d just need to find a new landlord who thought the same way and wanted to keep it as is.”

  “I don’t think you get to pick your own landlord,” she whispered, dryly.

  “No, but you could…” He gesturing, frowning to himself. There had to be a way…

  “Ask someone to buy the place,” she said, and then her eyes flew wide. “Oh my God, we could ask someone to buy it.”

  “It’s an idea.”

  “It’s a good idea.” She grinned, hope sparking in her gaze. “Who just bought every other building on this block?”

  He sat upright with a jolt of excitement. “The club.”

  “The club.” She grinned, and she was radiant. He wanted to kiss her, he realized. Wanted to thread his fingers through her hair, reel her in close, and taste her mouth.

  The impulse was so shocking, so intense, and flooded him with such molten heat that he gasped.

  “What?” she asked, brows drawing together. She must have thought something was wrong. He wondered what his face was doing, besides heating until he felt feverish.

  He cleared his throat and tried to get a handle on himself; tried to push away the specific, highly arousing fantasies that surged up out of the vague depths of his imagination and plastered themselves across the forefront of his mind. “I can talk to Ghost, and see if he’ll go for it.”

  “Would you?” She vibrated, bouncing a little in her chair and clasping her hands together. “Oh my God, Carter, that would be perfect!”

  Back at the practice field, his chest had felt light and empty; now it felt full, heavy – achingly so. Full of promise, and want, and the kind of crippling avarice that would keep him pinned to this chair until he could talk himself down.

  He picked up his tea and took a long, cool slug, helpless but to smile back at her.

  He thought about what Ava had said, about getting things settled first, and knew it was time to talk to Jazz.

  Twenty-Three

  He went back to the clubhouse first, showered and put on clean clothes, his cut. It was nearly eight by then, but when he fired off a text, Jazz answered right away, telling him he could come over if he wanted.

  He spent the ride to her condo trying to come up with something suitable to say, but felt no closer to the right words by the time he reached her welcome mat. He debated a moment, staring at the fresh paint of the door, the wreath of twigs and silk, spring flowers. He was sad, and he was full of regret – regret that he might be about to hurt her. That he’d wasted her time these last few years. But he didn’t feel a loss hovering. Deep down, he knew this was the right thing. He hadn’t been happy, and it hadn’t been Jazz’s fault, not at all – but sometimes, letting go was the best thing you could do.

  He took a deep breath, and knocked.

  He never knew what he’d find Jazz wearing when he turned up on her doorstep. Usually something slinky; sometimes a mini dress, sometimes cutoffs or tight jeans and a halter top. Sometimes nothing but a filmy scrap of a robe, and always a smile. He was expecting something similar tonight, and was already steeling himself not to get lost in looking, when the door opened, and he was hit with a blast of surprise.

  Jazz stood in the entryway wearing sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt with a modest scooped neckline. Her honey hair was piled up on top of her head in a messy bun, and she’d already washed her face, her skin clean and scrubbed pink, makeup free.

  He’d never seen her so casual.

  “Hey, baby boy,” she greeted, her smile soft, her voice affectionate and warm – but not at all suggestive. “Come on in.”

  “Hey,” he echoed, belatedly, wiped his boots, and stepped inside.

  The TV was on in the living room, some sort of reality show where women with lots of makeup and hair extensions screamed at one another. Jazz grabbed the remote and thumbed the volume down low. “You want something to drink?” She gestured to the half-finished glass of wine on the coffee table.

  “No, thanks.”

  They settled in side-by-side, plenty of space between them, and that in and of itself felt like a domino tipping over; the start of the chain reaction. Jazz drew her bare feet up beneath her, propped an arm on the back of the couch, and angled her upper body toward him, expression open, soft, ready.

  “What’s up?”

  Carter realized he’d linked his fingers together and was worrying them. He unlaced them, and smoothed his hands down his denim-covered thighs. His skin itched, too warm beneath his clothes, and his stomach jumped.

  “You smell nice. Where you been tonight?” she asked, without any hint of accusation. She wasn’t the jealous type, and didn’t look like that was about to change in the next few minutes.

  Carter let out a deep breath, and relaxed down into the cushions a fraction. “I was out at the park earlier,” he said. “I’ve actually, uh, been working with the varsity quarterback at the high school. Helping him with his long passes.”

  “Really?” She perked upright, her smile widening. “Did you meet him over at the school? Waiting for me?”

  “Yeah.” He had no reason to blush – it wasn’t like he was doing anything wrong – but he felt his cheeks warm, regardless. “I watched them practicing, and when I offered to help him out, he said yes.”

  “He getting better?”

  “He already had all the natural talent; he had the range. But he’s more accurate, yeah.” He couldn’t keep the tinge of pride from his voice.

  “Well that’s great, baby.” She slapped him lightly on the arm, chuckling. “Good for you! You big sweetheart.”

  “Oh, I’m not–”

  “Yes, you are.” She nodded, sagely. “The sweetest. You like helping people. It makes you happy.”

  He shrugged.

  “You helped me, when we first got together. You came running to my rescue.”

  He sent her a skeptical look. “Oh no, I saved you from getting dicked down by Candyman,” he deadpanned. “Some hero.”

  Her expression turned serious, smile fading. Softly, she said, “I didn’t want anything to do with Candy that night. And I don’t take him for the violent sort, but he wasn’t listening real well. I didn’t want–” She took an unsteady breath. “I didn’t want things to get ugly. You saw that I didn’t want to be there in that spot. You stepped in. That was a help. You’re a help. You’ve never pushed me for anything, and let me tell you, that’s a damn rare thing in this life most of the time.”

  Guilt washed over him, sudden, unexpected. Settled in his belly like cold water. She trusted him; he’d never frightened her, or pushed her, or forced her. And here he’d come to tell her that he wanted them to draw new lines around their relationship. How could he do that to her? How, after all this time, and what they’d both been through? Life had dealt both of them shit hands, but they’d found a little comfort with each other. And to turn away from that – to stop being a help – all for a rush of childish emotions and a few locked gazes. He…

  “Carter.” She said his name so rarely that the sound of it on her lips was startling. As was the hand she laid on his arm. She scooted closer, caught his eyes, and offered him a look that was peaceful, unbothered. Almost encouraging. “It’s alright, honey.”

  “What is?” A tremor moved down his spine.

  She smiled. “I know what you came to tell me.”

  He swallowed, unable to say it, now. His hands curled to fists on his thighs.

  “It’s not working anymore with us, is it, baby?”

  “I don’t – it isn’t–” He stopped. Took another breath. Thought, no. He couldn’t keep stuttering and dodging around it. He’d come here to talk, and he couldn’t let himself shake apart like he had the last time they’d skirted around this subject. No skirting tonight, even if the guilt left him sick, even if sweat prickled his skin beneath his clothes. It was time to step up and be a
man about this.

  He exhaled slowly, and met her gaze head-on. She studied him with kindness, and understanding, but no sadness. She didn’t look on the verge of heartbreak.

  “Jazz, I love you.”

  Her brows jumped, expression blanking with shock. She hadn’t expected that.

  To be honest, he hadn’t either. But it was the truth, of a sort. “You’re a good person. A kind person. And you’ve been really, really good with me, even when I don’t deserve it.”

  Her head tilted, smile returning, the soft, sad one. “You deserve it.”

  He shook his head, but pressed on. “We’ve been through a lot, you and me. And it’s been really fun. I mean – really fun.”

  She chuckled.

  “I do love you. I care about you, and I want you to be safe, and happy. To have the things you want.” He sighed. “But I’m not – shit, this sounds so fucking cliché.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? I’ll say it: you’re not in love with me.”

  He winced, but nodded.

  “Hey, I’m not in love with you either, baby boy.” Her gaze dropped to his lap. “Parts of you, sure.”

  “Jazz,” he protested, a startled laugh bubbling out of him.

  She scooted closer again, and her hand shifted up to sit on his shoulder, her smile impossibly fond. “You are the cutest damn thing, and you fuck like a dream. But, honey, it’s like I said before: we both knew this wasn’t going to be a permanent arrangement. We could keep doing what we’re doing, and it would be real fun, no doubt. But you won’t be happy.”

  “I want to be happy,” he said, leaning into her touch. “I can’t help thinking it’s insulting and ugly as hell to tell you I haven’t been happy.”

  “Have you been unhappy because of me?”

  “God, no.”

  She shrugged. “I know it’s not my fault. It’s not about what you do have, but what you don’t have.”

  He sighed, smiling back at her. “You’re taking this really well.”

  “I’ve seen it coming for a long time, baby boy. Don’t worry about me.” She leaned in, and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial volume. “So who is she?”

  “What?”

  “Carter Steven Michaels” – okay, how did she know his middle name? – “you’ve been perfectly content to be not content at all, and then, bam, you wanna have the big talk.” Her grin was teasing. “So I think you met somebody.”

  “Jazz,” he protested.

  “Nobody? Nobody at all?” An innocent eyelash flutter. “Not even that cute little thing you went to high school with?”

  A droplet of sweat trickled down his back, tickling unpleasantly. “Ava’s married. To Mercy.”

  “No, not her.” She flicked his shoulder with her fingertips. “Her friend. That little tiny one. Didn’t she just come back into town? I saw her with Ava at Dartmoor one day.”

  He resisted the urge to fidget, but barely. “She’s not tiny.”

  “She’s so tiny, and it’s so her.” She laughed, but it wasn’t mean, nor mocking. She sounded delighted, almost, if that was possible. “She’s cute! And you two go way back. It makes sense. She’s club friendly, right?”

  “Nothing’s happened,” he said. “We haven’t – I haven’t – I mean, nothing.”

  “I know.” Her manner gentled, and she reached to tidy his hair in the front, nails delicate and familiar. “You like her, and you wanted to come tell me before you did anything.”

  Forget a few moments of chemistry, a couple of intense gazes: what existed between him and Leah still felt so fleeting. Could turn out to be nothing. But he said, “Yes,” because it was the truth, and because, like he always had when he was younger, when he threw himself out onto the field every day in the hope that it would amount to something, trying was worth it. Wanting to try was the most alive he’d felt in years. “Jazz, I’m sorry.”

  She smiled again, and then rested her head on his shoulder, patted his chest – not seductively, but in a comforting way. “Don’t be, baby boy. If you like her, go get her.”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me: I like the idea of doing things on my own a little while. Besides.” Her tone turned mischievous. “I have a date this weekend.”

  “With who?”

  “Todd.”

  “Todd the contractor?” He made a face that must have manifested through the rest of his body, because though she couldn’t see his expression, she laughed.

  “Come on, he’s nice!”

  “His name’s Todd.”

  “Doesn’t matter what his name is. Have you seen him in those Wranglers he wears? Damn.”

  Carter laughed, and groaned, while she giggled against his side, and it felt, almost, like they were friends – it definitely didn’t feel like he’d just broken things off painfully with a lover.

  The lightness returned to his chest, and he knew he’d done the right thing.

  A lightness edged with nerves, because now there could be no more excuses. He hadn’t tried to court a woman properly in years, and the idea terrified him, more than a little bit.

  Twenty-Four

  “Really?” Ghost’s eyes lit up with immediate interest when Carter explained the Cooks’ situation to him the next morning. “I had no idea.” He took a meditative sip of his coffee and nodded, gaze shifting toward his VP.

  Walsh was sitting on top of a table, legs dangling off the edge, cigarette dangling off his lip as he dug for his lighter in his cut pocket. “I don’t know,” he said, cig bobbing. He paused to light it, and then exhaled a plume of smoke, the notch between his brows the only outward sign of his doubt. “Things are very comfortable right now – we’ve got enough legit money to get us through until the Main Street shops are up and running and pulling in income. We could stretch it.” He didn’t sound like he thought that was the best idea, though. “You could buy it personally,” he told Ghost.

  Ghost shook his head. “I don’t wanna take out another personal loan right now.”

  Carter sipped his own coffee and tried to keep his frustration from mounting. He’d never had a look at the club’s financials, and expected he never would. The numbers were for Walsh and Ghost to know, and they were all given details on an as-needed basis. The club never bought anything as a club without the hearty consent of its members. But moments like these left Carter feeling like a kid asking his parents for an allowance.

  Ghost made a face. “Marshall and Marie are good people. Club fans,” he added, to which Walsh nodded. “Owning that place would put that whole block in club hands.”

  Belatedly, a dark thought occurred. “You would just charge them rent, right?” Carter asked. “They wouldn’t have to do anything else, would they?” That would be Marshall Cook’s decision to accept or refuse, but the club had a way of backing people into corners.

  Ghost’s gaze shifted to him, and narrowed, like he could read his thoughts. “What kinda businessman do you think I am?”

  Carter thought it best not to answer.

  “But if that old shit Pearson is being difficult,” Ghost said, looking back toward Walsh, “I say we soften him up before we make an offer. If we make an offer.”

  Carter withheld a groan: intimidating landlords wasn’t exactly the sort of headline you wanted circulating on the business pages.

  But Ghost grinned and said, “Maybe we don’t buy it outright. I think I’ve got a better idea.”

  ~*~

  For years, the upstairs of Bell Bar had been nothing but storage, its dusty corners crammed with old, broken furniture, and decades’ worth of old receipts and files, some in cabinets, some in faded stacks tied together with string. In the process of cleaning it out, they’d found WWII newspaper clippings, and several antique mantels that had fetched a pretty penny at the auction house. Now, this many weeks into renovation, the space was totally cleared out, stripped down, and rewired. Ghost paced across the new plywood subfloor and surveyed the progress, already able to envision dark
wall paneling, gleaming marble counters, and cozy tables lit with flickering tea lights.

  The plan was to turn the second floor into a fancy little niche restaurant, full of Old World charm and soft music; the sort of place where the wait staff wore waistcoats and black ties.

  Downstairs, he could hear the whine and rhythm of work being done, but was alone here for the moment, peering out of the new glass in the window that Reese and Tenny had leaped out of when they caught Jimmy Connors trying to vandalize the place. He frowned to himself: the sooner they found out what was going on there, the better.

  Sunlight glinted off bright metal, and he watched a black Jag pull up to the curb. Bruce got out, and went around to let out his boss.

  The crisp strike of leather-soled shoes on the stairs announced Ian’s arrival before he stepped through the doorway and into view. Despite the ever-warming weather, he wore a topcoat and a pair of leather gloves; didn’t want to risk touching anything dirty at a construction site, Ghost figured with an internal eye roll.

  Bruce followed, silent and hulking as ever, and took up a post just inside the door, where he could monitor the stairs.

  Ian strolled across the subfloor with practiced elegance, surveying the exposed pipes and wires, the stacks of materials over against the far wall. “Love what you’ve done with the place,” he deadpanned.

  “Just wait ‘til we’re done with it. You won’t be able to keep your fancy ass away.”

  Ian smirked, and halted in the center of the room, making eye contact finally, one russet brow arched. “How flattering of you to notice my ass.”

  Ghost didn’t take the bait. He’d learned that it was best to let him get it out of his system, and he’d eventually get bored with taunting people.

  As predicted, the smirk melted away into a bland expression, and he took another slow look around the room, brow marked with signs of true scrutiny this time. “It isn’t the largest space, but then, the nicest restaurants favor smaller dining rooms and niche clientele. I can see the potential. Forgive me, though” – the smirk returned, as did his gaze – “but I think you’re wise to consult me. No offense, Kenneth, but you’re hardly familiar with the finer things in life.” Above the sharp lines of his mocking little smile, his eyes sparkled, fond and warm. It was just a game, the back and forth, the insults; he enjoyed it, and, truth told, in the right frame of mind, Ghost enjoyed it, too.