Just One Touch - Leo & Jasmine (Crossroads Book 16)

by Melanie Shawn

  For the first few months after Patrick died, she was so grief-stricken and Ricky’s easy demeanor was a blessing compared to his brother’s. She never had to worry about him getting in a fight, flunking a class, or being detained for destruction of property. But lately she’d grown more concerned. Both boys were in therapy, but she wasn’t sure it was helping. Or maybe she wasn’t doing enough. Maybe she was failing them both.

  Her mind was consumed with doubt as she bent down and retrieved her six-quart pot and set it in the sink and turned on the water. As she watched the water rise an all too familiar guilt rose up like bile in her throat. What if everything she was doing was wrong?

  That was the biggest difference between being and aunt and a parent. It wasn’t that her life no longer belonged to herself, or that she had to budget in a way she’d never dreamed of, or that there never seemed to be enough hours in the day. It was the constant second-guessing. The constant worry and anxiety. The constant doubt about whether or not the decisions she was making were the right ones. The constant fear that she was dropping the ball and doing irreparable damage.

  No. No time for that. She blinked back tears as she pushed those thoughts from her mind and went into survival auto-pilot, a mode she’d lived in for the past year and a half.

  She set the pot on the stove and turned the knob igniting the burner. Then she moved to the laundry room and pulled the clothes out of the dryer before replacing them with the wet clothes on deck in the washing machine. She carefully synchronized slamming the door and pressing the on button at the same time. It was the only way to start the damn thing. It had to be jarred at the exact same second that she pushed the button. She’d figured out the trick after the first time it hadn’t roared to life and out of sheer frustration she’d began kicking it and slamming her hand against the button. It had started running and since then it was the only way to get the thing to work.

  Resting the basket of laundry now heaping with freshly laundered garments on her hip, she headed out of the room and caught her reflection in the mirror across the hall and stopped up short. She looked haggard.

  Her long honey blonde hair was pulled up in a messy bun, emphasis on the messy, there were dark circles beneath her eyes and her cheeks were hollowed out. Her clothes were hanging on her frame that was fifteen pounds lighter than it had been before her brother passed. Between taking care of the boys and running Whisper Lake Rentals and trying to keep up with the cleaning and repairs on this nearly one-hundred-year-old house, she never had time to take care of herself.

  She let out a harsh puff of breath and revoked her one-way pass to Pity Town. She didn’t have time to visit there. Tonight, when she lay her head on the pillow, that’s when she’d let herself go and hit up all her favorite places: The Why Me Store. This Can’t Be My Life Shop. Feeling Sorry For Yourself Boutique. She was a regular customer at all three emotional destinations. But she only visited after the boys were in bed. When her responsibilities were taken care of for the day.

  With renewed determination to pull herself together, she hummed as she headed up the stairs to fold and disperse the clean clothes. Sometimes it fooled her mind into thinking she was happy. If she sang or if she hummed, her mood instantly lifted no matter how much her life was imploding around her.

  She hadn’t made it to the third step or finished the chorus of Bruno Mars’ “Finesse” when she heard a loud knock at the door. The unexpected sound caused her to jump and the basket fell from her hands in a start and the freshly cleaned clothes scattered on the steps that hadn’t been vacuumed in…she didn’t remember how long.

  Staring down at the T-shirts, socks, and boxer briefs she made an executive decision. The thought of doing another load of laundry today was just too much to bear. So, enacting the five-second rule she quickly scooped up the T-shirts, socks, and boxer briefs.

  The open-up-it’s-the-police knock came again and she set the white plastic basket on the landing as she turned toward the front door. Her stomach churned in dread. The last three unexpected visitors had all come to tell her of some trouble KJ had been involved in.

  “What now?” Her shoulders dropped as she walked to the door, feeling much like she was walking the plank.

  Patrick still had some good friends in this town, namely Deputy Sheriff Ethan Steele, who tried his best to keep KJ out of serious trouble. But the boy was blowing through his Get Out of Jail Free cards, and she knew that it was just a matter of time before her nephew did something that even Ethan couldn’t help him out of.

  Knowing that she couldn’t face the bearer of bad news with a defeated attitude, she closed her eyes and took a deep, fortifying breath as she turned the knob and opened the door. She was glad she had, because when she opened the door, all of the oxygen in her lungs was sucked out.

  She blinked twice in shock, not believing what she was seeing. On her porch stood the only man—other than her brother—that she’d ever depended on. The only man she’d ever loved and the one and only man to ever break her heart. The man whose name she hadn’t even been able to utter for the past eighteen months. The man who shared legal custody of her nephews but had disappeared off the face of the earth and left her to pick up all the pieces. The man who also happened to be the sexiest, hottest, most infuriatingly charming man she’d ever known.

  Kade Jameson McKnight.

  The sun was backlighting him like some kind of angel except she knew different. If he had a halo, there were horns holding it up.

  Her vision went as hazy as a bathroom mirror after a hot shower but the first thing that came into focus were two deep sea-green eyes staring at her beneath a bed of dark lashes that she knew kissed his cheek when his lids were closed. As the fog dissipated, she noticed that his thick, dark hair was a little longer and more unruly than he normally wore it. And there was a significant amount of stubble covering his square jaw giving him a bad boy edge, not that he needed any help in that category.

  He wore a faded black cotton shirt that molded to his Adonis chest like he was shrink-wrapped in it. His jeans were faded and worn in all the right places. Black boots and a leather wristband that he’d worn since she’d given it to him at sixteen completed the holy-hotness package. Slung over his shoulder was a large gym bag, which she knew was his idea of luggage.

  When the entire picture became clear her mind short-circuited. Her arms and legs began shaking like leaves. Her lungs were trying to take in oxygen but she felt like there was none to be had. And her mind was spinning like a top on an ice rink.

  She didn’t know if she wanted to hit him or hug him. Or both.

  In an effort to play it cool, she tried to sound detached and unimpressed at his arrival as she asked, “What are you doing here?”

  Her question sparked a smile that spread on his handsome face and the sight caused her heart to leap in her chest as a wave of tingles spread through her from head to toe.

  Ali didn’t understand how she could both love someone and hate them at the same time. But there was no doubt…she did.

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  Wishing Well, Texas

  Teasing Destiny

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  Chapter 1

  Destiny

  “That boy can strut sitting down.” ~ Grandma Dixie

  “Come on now, sweetheart. Why ya gotta be a tease?”

  Oh, for the love of Tim McGraw!

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. Calm. I needed to remain calm. I had been accused—more than once—of having a short fuse, and I was doing my best to curb that particular trait.

  By this time next year, I planned on being a successful business owner. I couldn’t go flying off the handle whenever anyone pushed my buttons. Too many people in this town already doubted my entrepreneurial ability, mainly due to my age. No one thought I was ready to run my bakery—successfully—at twenty-two except Gram. She believed in me. She’d even offered to front me the money, which I had respectfully declined. I wanted to do this on my own. Sink or swi
m—without a life vest.

  “I’m not being a tease. I just don’t want to go out with you, Brady. Now, that will be six forty-five.” While stretching my hand out, palm side up, I opened the register with a friendly (not flirty!) smile planted firmly on my face. I crossed my fingers, my toes, and my eyes—metaphorically—that Brady would take the needle off the broken record he’d been playing for the last six months and stop asking me out over and over again.

  “How’s your kitty?” Brady’s eyes danced with amusement at his double entendre.

  Seriously!? Do boys ever outgrow seventh grade humor?

  I knew he wasn’t talking about my handsome boy, a one-eyed tabby cat I’d rescued when I’d found him behind the diner two years ago, but I chose to ignore his implied meaning.

  “Captain Pickles is doing great! Six dollars and forty-five cents, please.”

  Maintaining a cheerful demeanor was not always easy when you wanted to punch someone in the face. Although the knowledge that, if my never-declawed, man-hating tabby ever got his paws on Brady, he would not be using Captain Pickles as a euphemism anymore, did help to keep my spirits high.

  Sniffing loudly, Brady rolled his shoulders as he opened his billfold. His lips fell open on a sigh, and I thought for sure the toothpick—which was always hanging precariously from his lips—was going to fall to the ground. Defying gravity, it stayed in place. Slow as molasses in January, he pulled a ten out and dangled it in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I chirped as pleasantly as possible and extended my hand for the bill.

  After snatching it away from me at the last second, Brady leaned over the countertop, his voice growing husky as he asked, “What’s it gonna take to change your mind, Red?”

  “Brady Calhoun!” Tami Lynn’s sharp voice rang out as she reached past me and ripped Brady’s money right out of his hand. “You don’t have the sense the good Lord gave a goose. The girl does not want to go out with you. Get it through your thick skull.”

  I stepped to the side, my cheeks burning like asphalt on a scorching-hot day as Tami Lynn took my place in front of the cash register and made change for Brady. I tried my best not to focus on the fact that every eye in the diner was now glued to the three of us. The center of attention, any attention, was my least favorite thing to be. The small consolation to this uncomfortable display was that only ten people were dining in The Greasy Spoon. Everyone in town was getting ready for either the Fourth of July festivities tomorrow or the annual Third of July party out at Briggs Farm.

  “That’s just a temporary setback. She’ll change her mind.” Brady winked at me as he took his change from Tami Lynn, dropping a dollar in the tip jar beside the register. “You wait and see. I’m gonna make an honest woman out of Destiny Rose Porter.”

  Tami Lynn’s raucous laughter filled the small space at the front of the diner. “Boy, what color is the sky in Delusion Land, where you appear to be livin’?”

  Making a show of looking right into my eyes—my blue eyes—Brady smiled. “Blue. Baby blue.” Then, winking again as he tilted his Stetson in my direction, he drawled, “Have a nice day, ladies. Destiny, I’ll see you tonight.”

  With that unwelcome promise, he spun around and left, the chime dinging as the door opened and shut.

  I turned to thank Tami Lynn for stepping in, but her eyes were glued to Brady as he walked out to his truck.

  After shaking her head with an exaggerated sigh, she fanned herself with a to-go menu. “That man is dumber than a sack of rocks and more stubborn than a mule but prettier than any man has a right to be. Believe me when I say you won’t always have that body and neither will he. You sure you don’t want to just have some fun, hon?”

  Tami Lynn was in her fifties and seemingly unaware of the pin-up curves she was rocking. She spent a lot of time reminiscing about what a “looker” she’d been in her day. Which always led to her pointed diatribe about how she’d wasted her glory days worrying about a few pounds and being self-conscious instead of celebrating her figure and “doin’ it with the lights on every chance I got.” The last part had always struck me as TMI, but I loved Tami Lynn and had become well practiced at not letting mental pictures pop up in my head during her colorful conversations.

  “I’m sure.” Sticking out my bottom lip, I blew a puff of air up my face in a futile attempt to cool off. Then I picked up the coffee pot and stepped around my coworker before making my way down to the end of the counter to refill Mr. Rogers’—Mr. Fred Rogers, and yes, that was his real name—mug.

  “That Calhoun boy is not gonna give up on you. You know that, right?” Tami Lynn filled two tumblers of soda for her two-top.

  “I’m keeping hope alive that he will.” Tipping the coffee pot, I zoned out as I stared at the dark java filling the mug.

  At the Christmas festival last year, Brady Calhoun had set his sights on me, and hadn’t given it a rest since. Honestly, I was under no illusion that it had anything at all to do with me. Quite the contrary, in fact. Boys like Brady—tall, good-looking, and charming in their own way, with bodies that would put Calvin Klein models to shame—were not used to getting turned down. So, on the rare occasions they did, it spun their worlds in a loop-de-loop. Brady saw me as a challenge. Game in his hunt. That’s all it was.

  Being “game” was not good times.

  “How’s that lovely grandmother of yours doin’ these days?” Mr. Rogers asked, his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows rising above the black rim of his thick reading glasses.

  Speaking of game.

  “Grandma Dixie’s doing just fine.” I grinned, ensuring that my smile did not reveal the amusement simmering just beneath the surface at Mr. Rogers’ interest.

  “You tell Dixie Rose I said hello.” Mr. Rogers added a wink to his request.

  “I’ll do that,” I agreed, not bothering to inform him that when I did as he’d requested, Gram wouldn’t give two hoots and a holler about his message.

  Dixie Rose Porter, the woman I’d received my middle name from, did not “entertain the advances of gentleman callers.” As a kid, I used to wonder what my Grandpa Walter—who had, sadly, passed away before I was born—could have possibly done to win my stubborn gram’s heart. I’d finally asked her when I was thirteen, and I’d never forget not only what she’d told me, but also the look in her eye when she’d said it.

  “That man knew how to rope a steer, ride a horse, never told a lie, and had the softest lips and heart this side of the Mason-Dixon. He stole my heart when I wasn’t lookin’.”

  I’d always wanted a big family and knew that when I took the marital plunge, I needed to have the same look in my eyes, the same feeling radiating from them that Grandma Dixie had when she talked about Grandpa Walter.

  You do feel that way about someone, the small voice in my head (the one I liked to ignore) piped up.

  Shaking off the unwanted, sexy-as-sin visual my pesky inner voice had inspired, I returned to the crowded corner near the register to finish up my side work. Distraction. That’s what I needed right now.

  Losing myself in refilling ketchup bottles and salt shakers was not as easy as one might think. My mind kept wandering to a certain professional baseball player who knew how to throw a ball and ride horses, lied whenever it was convenient, and had the sexiest lips and coldest heart this side of the Mason-Dixon. The man who’d stolen my heart before I even knew my multiplication tables…and then proceeded to shatter it into a million pieces four years ago.

  Laughing at myself, I realized that, sadly, it seemed I had not inherited Gram’s “picker.” She obviously had much better taste in men than I did.

  “Oh. My. God. He’s back,” Tami Lynn whispered as she gripped my wrist, her long, acrylic nails digging deep into my flesh as the chime above the door rang out.

  Exasperated, my head dropped back and my shoulders slumped. I flat refused to turn around. Brady Calhoun was going to be the death of me. I decided right then and there that, on my weekly Monday morning visit to the wishing
well that sat smack-dab in the middle of town square—and had inspired the town’s name—I would wish for one thing and one thing only as I tossed my penny in: Brady Calhoun to cease and desist. Or that he would, at the very least, find some other shiny thing to distract himself with.

  “No. I. Will. Not. Go. Out. With. You.” Even though I was intentionally overemphasizing every word so he wouldn’t miss one, I still wasn’t sure if he would take the flippin’ hint. If I cursed, he would be getting quite an earful.

  I had no idea how much clearer I could be. Did I need to take out a front-page ad in the Gazette? Put it in the church bulletin? Paint it on the brick in front of the town square? Tattoo it on my forehead?

  I was seriously considering my options when a voice I hadn’t heard in four years, deeper than the ocean and smoother than butter, interrupted my thoughts.

  “I don’t remember asking, Pip.”

  I froze.

  One person dared to call me “Pip.” One and only one man had the nerve to address me with a nickname I’d always hated that was inspired by another redhead, Pippi Longstocking.

  No freakin’ way. I had to be hearing things. Having auditory fantasies. Audible hallucinations.

  Had the heat finally fried what few brain cells I had left? Had my daydreams just taken a giant leap in the direction of delusions?

  I spun around slow-motion style, the rubber soles of my work shoes squeaking against the tile. My heart was doing its best Thumper impression, thump, thump, thumping against my rib cage as my mouth dried up like the Sahara Desert. When I lifted my gaze, it locked on large, brown eyes I could easily drown in.

  “Hey, Pip.” A half smile appeared on full lips that could inspire a nun to sin, and that caused the indentation of the deepest dimples in the South to make an appearance beneath stubble so sexy that my fingers itched to reach out and touch the prickly hairs, and my once-dry mouth to suddenly water like Niagara Falls.