by Jordan, Skye
Marty didn’t look convinced as he came toward Miranda with sweet iced tea laced with fresh mint. “What do you think, Miranda?”
She took the drink. “I think I’m useless on the topic. I know even less about social media than Marty does.”
Gypsy tsked. “Miranda, you should be building your base now, before you’ve even started your business. Then you’ll be ahead of the curve once it’s off the ground. Seriously, you guys, if I can do it, anyone can do it.”
Miranda took a long drink, closed her eyes, and let the sweetness slide down her throat. She hummed in pleasure, and her body released some tension.
“Maybe it’s not rocket science,” Elaina said with a heavy dose of attitude, “but it might as well be Greek.”
Miranda started laughing and almost choked on her drink. At least she had Marty and Elaina as a buffer from Gypsy.
She opened her eyes and let her gaze rest on the low flames dancing in the firepit. It was a beautiful night, still and quiet. Just the tranquility Miranda needed. If only Gypsy hadn’t shown up.
While Marty and Gypsy continued to talk about growth plans for the bar, Miranda reached out and gave Elaina’s arm a squeeze. “How was your day?”
Elaina covered Miranda’s hand with her own. The woman reminded Miranda of an elderly sprite. Strangers easily mistook her small frame for frailty. Though Miranda had seen the woman use that perception to her advantage, the truth was she and Marty were cut from the same cloth. Tough. Persistent. Survivors.
“Oh, fine, sweetheart,” Elaina said. “Gypsy has been great company. You two look so much alike. You must both look like your mother.”
Gypsy had obviously been discussing their family history. Miranda had always hated explaining that she, Gypsy, and Dylan all had different fathers. It was so stereotypical white-trash-ish. But there was no escaping the truth. And, ironically, out of the three of them, Miranda was the one that fit the stereotype best. She’d never known her father, dropped out of high school, never moved away from home, and she’d nursed her neglectful, addicted mother through a slow, ugly death from cirrhosis.
That was Miranda’s reality. All she could do was her best to rise above and prove the stereotype wrong. Though when she scrutinized her life, she wasn’t sure she was succeeding.
When Gypsy and Marty’s conversation turned to travel, Miranda was once again adrift at sea with no compass. They compared notes on places they’d visited all around the world—Marty through the military, Gypsy with her father and her father’s second family. Germany, Italy, Japan. All of it reminded Miranda she’d never even traveled outside Tennessee.
Marty stood and moved to the barbeque to tend the meat, and Gypsy followed, topping off her drink.
Elaina leaned in and murmured, “Tell me about the boy. And don’t spare nothin’. I gotta live vicariously you know.”
Miranda grinned, half at Elaina’s spunk, half at the thought of sharing Jack’s deliciousness with someone. Her mind drifted to Violet’s messages telling Miranda he’d come in the last two nights looking for her. Even if she’d wanted to see him again, she’d been too busy avoiding Gypsy to have the energy. At least, that was what she kept telling herself.
“Well,” she said, “he is—was—amazing. But he’s a Yankee. He’ll be moving on soon.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Helping out family.”
“Then he’s not one-hundred-percent Yankee, is he? With family here, he’s got a tie that could bring him back. Haven’t seen you glow like this in a long time, baby.”
Elaina’s comment piqued Miranda’s curiosity. “Marty said something similar the other day. What is so different about me?”
“It’s one of those subtle things,” Elaina said. “Eyes a little brighter, smile a little quicker. I can tell that Yankee was something special.”
That was the same sense Miranda had about Jack from the start. There was a unique spark between them. A lingering pull tugged deep inside her.
She glanced toward the barbeque. When she found Marty and Gypsy keenly focused on their own conversation, Miranda leaned a little closer and lowered her voice. “Do you believe two strangers can instantly connect? Not that love-at-first-sight crap, but an honest click with someone right away?”
“I know you can,” Elaina said. “Some of my dearest and longest friendships started as an instant connection. Marty’s father always told me it was love at first sight between him and me. I didn’t believe in it then either, but looking back, I know he was right. Is that how you feel about your Yankee?”
Miranda just smiled, not willing to commit. She was juggling way too many foreign ideas at the moment.
“When will you see him again?” Elaina asked.
Miranda shook her head. “New York may as well be Alaska for me. I don’t have the time, money, or interest in a long-distance relationship. No sense in letting things linger between us.”
“What about when he comes back to town to visit his family?”
She shrugged. “I’m not going to throw my heart after that kind of maybe. Besides, we’re not exactly made of the same stock, you know? He’s Ivy League, white collar, good family.”
“Miranda Wright.” Elaina’s tone scolded. “Don’t you dare talk down about yourself. You’re one of the most remarkable women I’ve ever known.”
Miranda smiled. Praise was something she’d missed out on growing up, but Elaina had always showered her with it. Miranda had to admit, it felt good, even if she didn’t believe she deserved it.
She gave the older woman’s hand a squeeze. “Thanks, Elaina.”
Elaina turned her hand over and clasped Miranda’s. “Give the boy a chance, sweetheart. You never know what could happen.”
Miranda felt walls closing in on her and changed the subject. “Did Gypsy say what brought her here?”
Elaina tsked. “Some awful man was stalking her. Said they met at the nightclub where she worked and wouldn’t take no for an answer. She was terribly frightened. Wanted to get away.”
Miranda barely kept herself from rolling her eyes. Gypsy was worse than a terrible liar. And Miranda was sick of lies. Her mother had been a master. Gypsy obviously had spent just enough time with her to learn how to lie, but not enough to learn to do it well.
Marty and Gypsy brought meat and corn to the table on big platters, and business talk continued through dinner.
Elaina said something about dessert and disappeared into her trailer. Miranda kept her ears perked for slivers of information she could understand. But the language was completely foreign—marketing, promotion, customer base. When they started throwing around acronyms like ROI, MOM, B2C, Miranda decided to cut her losses and turn in early.
Elaina returned with a plastic tray. “Look what I’ve got.”
She moved from chair to chair with the makings of s’mores. Even though Miranda didn’t want any, she put her plans of retreating on hold to spare Elaina’s feelings.
When she reached Miranda, Elaina said, “Gypsy was telling me how this was a tradition at your cookouts when you were younger, and I was feeling nostalgic today, so I picked this up at the market.”
Miranda slid two big marshmallows onto the long-handled aluminum roasting stick with memories flitting through her mind. Bittersweet memories.
Her siblings’ fathers always made an effort to keep their kids acquainted. They scheduled summer trips and Christmas gift exchanges. They’d had Gypsy and Dylan call each other throughout the year to catch up. But Miranda hadn’t been as lucky. Her mother hated the men for taking Gypsy and Dylan. Not because she cared about her children, but because when they left, the child support vanished. And without it, Miranda and her mother were dirt poor.
To their credit, the fathers continually tried to include Miranda, but unless the trips were short and within an hour of wherever she was living, her mother made it impossible for Miranda to go. Without Miranda at home, her mother had to do her own cooking, her own laundry, her own cleaning,
her own errands. And she couldn’t stand the idea of Miranda having fun while she was miserable. So her mother did what came naturally: she took advantage of the fathers’ good nature and demanded money she swore was for food or rent. Of course, she spent the money on drugs and booze.
Now, as Miranda roasted marshmallows and listened to Gypsy tell stories of her many vacations with Dylan, she remembered the personal turmoil that surrounded those few weekends away. The fights with her mother to let her go. Her mother bad-mouthing Gypsy’s and Dylan’s fathers. The chores Miranda had to do to make up for the time she was away. The drugged-up state of her mother upon her return.
By the time she took the first bite of her carefully constructed s’more, the dessert settled in her mouth like sand. She set it down after one bite, while Gypsy finished off her first helping and speared another two marshmallows for a second.
Despite the breakthrough with Gypsy earlier in the evening, Miranda was backsliding and second-guessing her commitment to rekindling a relationship with her sister. They very well might be too different to rebuild a relationship now. Miranda might be—much to her own disappointment—too damaged from the past to forgive and forget.
Her best course of action would be to devise another plan to avoid Gypsy as much as possible while she was here. Then, once the dust had settled, she could think about what Marty had said and take some type of action to start building the company she wanted so badly.
Her cell rang, and a burst of relief for the distraction cut through her stomach. She pulled it from her back pocket and found the bar’s number on the screen.
Hallelujah!
She stood and turned her back on the firepit, wandering a few feet away. When she was out of earshot, she answered with “Please say you need me.”
“I need you.”
The deep, smooth voice was familiar, and the words spilled with truth. A lightning bolt of awareness zinged down her spine. Her entire body came alive, tingling from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet. “Jack?”
“I’m thrilled you recognize my voice, I can’t lie.”
Her chest was suddenly tight. Her lungs short on oxygen.
“I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time,” he said. “I don’t mean for this to be weird or stalkerish or anything. I was just going to leave my phone number with Violet, but she—”
“Dialed my number for you,” she finished, knowing her coworker all too well.
“Yeah.” He hesitated. “I was so punch drunk from our night, I forgot to ask for your number until it was too late.”
His voice felt wildly intimate, the familiar timbre sliding in her ear and bringing scorching memories.
God, you’re so wet.
Fuck, you feel so good.
Bring it, Miranda. Come for me.
She shook the sex-crazed haze from her brain and rubbed her forehead, trying to focus on the words she’d just told Elaina. One minute on the phone with him was enough to push all other thoughts out of her head. “I didn’t think, you know, with you leaving town soon…”
Miranda heard the breathy desperation in her own voice and stopped talking.
“Sure, I get it.” A long, heavy pause. “So, can I give you my number? In case, I don’t know”—his voice dipped into a sexy purr—“you need me. Like, maybe…tonight.”
Miranda laughed. Then groaned. She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. But right now, all she wanted was to be somewhere she was comfortable and confident—even if that was only in the bedroom with a virtual stranger.
“I don’t know,” she teased, “you really wore me out the last time. A girl’s got to work, you know?”
“Hmm, yeah, I know.” A smile drifted through his voice. “I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to carry the load for one night. Let you just lie there while I ravage. Find new ways to bring you multiple orgasms. I might even let you nap in between.”
“Wow, that’s a generous offer.”
“Right?”
She smiled as silence stretched over the line, broken only by the music, voices, and noise from the bar in the background. Miranda couldn’t remember ever feeling so electrically connected to another person.
“I can come to you.” The heat rolling through his voice made her tingle everywhere. “Or I can pick you up and we can come back to the hotel.”
“What? No coffee? No small talk?”
He laughed. Then groaned. “Girl, you’re killin’ me here.”
She hesitated, reminding herself of all the reasons she shouldn’t do this. But all she had to do was tune in to the conversation behind her to have all her self-preservation disintegrate.
“I’ll come to you.” Her voice came out low and serious and breathless.
“Now, I hope.” His voice mirrored hers. “Like, right fucking now.”
Miranda laughed. “Yeah. Now.”
“There is a God.”
“Your hotel.”
“I’ll be waiting outside.”
“Hey.” She caught him before he hung up. “Tell Violet to cover for me, would you? She’ll know what I mean.”
10
This was crazy. Jack knew it, but this attraction felt beyond his control.
He paced the width of the landing just outside the wide glass foyer to the hotel.
Tell Violet to cover for me, would you? She’ll know what I mean.
Her last words reminded him of just how little he knew about her. He couldn’t even google her since he didn’t know her last name. Over the weekend, he’d relived their night together a hundred times in his head. He’d convinced himself that one night of good sex could tell someone a lot about a person. Whether they were giving or selfish, confident or insecure, warm or cold, engaged or distant. Fundamental building blocks of a personality. He’d made himself believe that all those little moments they’d shared in between sex sessions had been the beginnings of something beyond lust.
Now…
Jack blew out a hard breath and rubbed his forehead, trying to tamp down the nerves. He was getting so ahead of himself. He might want romance, but Miranda had been clear this was all about lust for her.
Movement caught his eye up a side street. Miranda came toward the hotel from the direction of the bar. She must have left her car there. Suspicions flourished. His stomach dropped a notch.
She wore jeans and a white tank underneath a long-sleeved flannel. Her hair was loose, bouncing around her shoulders.
When she reached the corner, she spotted him, and a big grin brightened her face. The sight made his heart skip. She waited for cars to pass before jogging across the street, up the stairs, and straight into his arms.
The moment she wound her arms around his waist and hugged him, Jack’s world stopped spinning. He grew roots. Felt the click of a missing piece settle into place, completing him. He wrapped her in a bear hug and held on for several long, amazing moments.
“Mmm,” she said, her head against his chest. “You smell good.”
Spell broken, Jack eased back to look directly into her eyes.
Her smile faded. “What’s wrong?”
His stomach fisted. “I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest.”
“Okay.” She straightened away from him.
“Are you involved with someone? A boyfriend or”—he closed his eyes a dreaded second—"God forbid, husband?”
Her frown was immediate and hard. “What? Why would you think—”
“Having Violet cover for you. Leaving your car at the bar.”
Realization filled her gaze, and her expression relaxed again. “Oh, God, no. My sister showed up over the weekend, and we’ve got a complicated history. I was dying to get away but didn’t want to suffer anyone’s wrath or hurt anyone’s feelings. Just trying to keep the peace—”
He’d heard all he needed. Jack framed her face with his hands, lowered his head, and kissed her. A comfortable, familiar bond instantly formed between them. Jack backed her into an alcove between the building and the
landscaping, a private little nook hidden from view. Miranda stretched up his body and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his head down. She opened to him, tasted him, showed him she’d been needing him as much as he needed her.
When he finally broke for air, he brushed her hair back. “You left scratches on my ass. I can’t sit down without thinking about you.”
She laughed, the sound bubbly and euphoric. “You left a bruise or two of your own.”
He tightened his arms low on her back, pulling her hips against his. She smelled like fresh flowers, light and sweet. “This is crazy, right? Or have I just been missing out on the headiness of hookups?”
She grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling. “This is crazy.”
God, he wanted her so badly. He took her hand and pulled her into the hotel, heading straight for the elevator. Inside, she pressed him against the wall and kissed his neck.
“How was your day?”
“Long.” He ran his hands down her back, over her hips, gripped her ass. “Yours?”
“Same.”
“We should probably get more sleep.” He grinned. “Just not tonight.”
She laughed so hard, she dissolved into giggles, and the sound bubbled through his blood. By the time the elevator dinged on his floor, Jack felt drunk. They hurried down the hall, fumbled with the key card, and finally pushed into his room.
Miranda jerked his shirt from his pants before the door even closed behind them. Then struggled with his belt and almost broke his zipper.
Jack caught her wrists and spun her, pressing her back against the nearest wall. He pinned her hands above her head. They were both breathing hard already. He’d lost track of where they were in the suite. Could have been the living room, the bedroom, the fucking hallway for all he cared.
She broke the kiss with a breathless “Jack.”
He transferred both her hands into one of his, then let his free hand stroke down her chest and cover one breast. “You make me crazy.”
She moaned and moved against him. Their rhythm was already familiar, and even more intoxicating than it had been their first night. Now, he knew her body, knew her signals, knew what she liked, knew how she tasted. Now he knew exactly how quickly and how often he could make her come. Knew what a thrill it was to watch her shatter. And he needed that. Right now.