by Cindy Miles
“He’s what?”
Claire and I had parked at our usual bench in the quad for lunch, across from the fountain and beneath an aged magnolia tree. Made of sturdy concrete, the bench completely circled the base of the tree. It was colder outside than the day before, and I’d worn my Sherpa lined Bomber jacket with a pair of jeans and tall leather boots. Pulled over my head was a red slouch knit hat. The air felt brusque but not completely unbearable. The sun shot through the magnolia branches and warmed my cheeks. Students hurried here and there; some had claimed one of the many benches like we had. Many familiar faces; some I’d never noticed. I peeled open the plastic package of the turkey and Swiss on wheat that I’d bought at the café and took a bite. As I chewed, I watched Claire’s comical little fairy face, all raised brows and wide eyes. Surprised. I often thought one day her pixie disguise would be shed and her pointy little ears would show. I finished chewing, drew a long pull on the strawberry soda I’d also purchased, and grinned.
“I said, Jace is coming over to my house this afternoon. He offered to fix my Jeep.” I took another bite of my sandwich. “For free.”
Claire, who weighed maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, wore a snug light pink knit cap pulled over her pixie haircut, and she opened her container of blueberry yogurt and dipped her spoon in. Daintily, she took a bite. “Well,” she said, fixing her gaze onto mine, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. “You little minx.”
“Who’s a minx?”
Sugar and Brie walked up and we scooted over. Brie had her seemingly-always messy hair—which we’d lovingly dubbed the freshly fucked look—pulled into a carefree fishtail braid, draped over one shoulder. She wore a brown puffy down jacket and jeans with mid-calf leather boots. Sugar wore her hair straight and long, and the sun shined off her highlights. The bright fuchsia knit scarf stood in stark contrast from the black wool pea coat that she’d had since we all met four years earlier.
“The knickertwister worked,” Claire said, bending forward so she could see around me. “Jace the Tow Truck Guy has offered to come over to Memory’s this afternoon to fix her Jeep.” She smiled wide and wiggled her brows. “For free.”
“No way,” Sugar breathed.
Brie beamed. “I knew he couldn’t fight it for long.”
“Fight? Where? Who’s fighting?” Crisco’s voice boomed from behind us as the guys joined us. He pushed his way between Claire and me and draped his lanky arms over our shoulders. Behind his shades, he looked at first me, then Claire, waiting for an answer.
“Ain’t nothin’ for free, girls,” Conner added. His blond curls pushed around his face as a breeze cut through the courtyard. “Shit, it’s cold,” he muttered.
“Memory here has caught yet another curious eye,” Sugar said. She bit into a granola bar that she’d apparently been munching on throughout the day, since it had been nibbled down to about a fourth. Sugar’s philosophy on being healthy was that you could eat whatever your little heart desired—as long as granola was consumed at some point during the day.
“Sweet Lord,” Bentley added in. “Who set you loose on another poor helpless male?”
I grinned and took another bite of my sandwich—just before Crisco relieved me of it. I watched his teeth take off more than half. I let him have the rest of it. My appetite was growing thinner by the day, which sucked because man, I loved some good food. I finished chewing and swigged some more strawberry soda. Crisco jacked that, too.
“Come on, Thibodeaux,” Bentley urged. “Spill.”
I gave a shrug. “Nothing to spill,” I answered. “Jace is coming over to fix my Jeep.” A smile pushed at my lips. “That he’s completely adorable is just a plus.”
“I think we should come by and monitor the situation,” Conner added. He shoved his hands into his jacket. “You know.” He winked at Crisco. “Make sure the guy escapes with his life.”
“And his britches,” Bentley said with a grin. “Memory, please let the guy have his britches.”
Everyone laughed. Including me.
I glanced at the time on my cell phone. “Ha, ha, very funny,” I accused, and flicked Bentley on one of his big ole ears, and he yelped. I knew they all loved ribbing me about guys. It wasn’t like I slept around a lot. I just appreciated a sexy man, and I’d happened to encounter a few. Okay, more than a few. I hadn’t slept with them all, though. Still, picking on me about being promiscuous—which I seriously wasn’t—was one of my pal’s favorite past times. That, and daring me. To do literally anything. I was surprised that hadn’t been brought up. No doubt it was being saved for the weekend’s zip-lining adventure. “Hey meathead, you’re still going to take me home after my next class, yeah?” I asked Bentley.
“My taxi is at your service, darlin’,” he answered. “For a small fee.”
I shook my head as the others all whooped and whistled, and I started toward class. “I am not going out with your cousin Clyde again!” I hollered. The others burst out into whistles and obnoxious snorts. “What is the fee, Bent?” I threw over my shoulder.
“Don’t you worry,” he called after me. “I’ll let you know!”
Typically, I loved my Behavioral Anthropology class. I’d just turned in a paper entitled Sexy Female Blowfly Meets the Bug of Her Dreams. I’d taken pride in cleverly penning the mating rituals and subsequent eggs and birth of baby blowflies in a fun, story-like fashion. I’d thought it was sidesplitting and extremely witty—and so did my classmates. The professor? Not so much. I’d seen Dr. Malcom’s lips twitch beneath a bushy gray mustachio a few times as I’d read it aloud but in the end, despite the accuracy and depth of my research, my epic wit and charm had only garnered me an 82%. Blah! Oh, well. I’d enjoyed myself, anyway, despite the extreme ribbing my friends had given me for getting anything less than a 90%. Sucked! But these days, for some reason, a less-than-perfect score just didn’t bother me as it once did. I supposed it was because, at heart, I wasn’t a true A student. I didn’t strive for A’s. They just came naturally. I’d long ago chalked it up to a photographic memory.
As soon as we’d been dismissed from class, I made a B-line for the parking lot. I was halfway there when a firmer-than-needed hand around my wrist pulled me to a stop. When I turned, Kirby Porter was there, his brown eyes covered by a pair of shades. He grinned.
“What’cha been up to, Thibs?” he asked.
I sighed. “No, Kirby, I’m not interested in going out again. I thought I’d made that clear the last time you got wasted on our date.”
Kirby stared at me a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “Man, Memory, don’t be so harsh. I don’t even remember that night.”
I gave him a little shove with my fingertips. “Exactly. Go bother someone else, yeah?” I walked off, and I heard Kirby swear.
“Whatever,” he called. “You don’t know what you’re missin’!”
Oh yeah, I did. I really, really did. Not too bad when sober. Drunk? Kirby Porter was a Grade-A Asshat. No thank you.
Bentley awaited me, engine running and, although he’d ribbed me pretty good along the way, my fears were dispersed once he dropped me off and headed back to campus. No requests to blind date his obnoxious cousin Clyde. I’d just known he would pull some jackass stunt to embarrass me later, though.
FYI: It was nearly impossible to embarrass me.
I was, after all, the Winston Daredevil.
The sun hung heavily, precariously close to the tree line as I stood, Captain Gregg by my feet on the porch, pulling on my knee-high Wellingtons. I’d made it home early—3:35 to be exact. I’d muck Little Joe’s stall out and feed him before Jace arrived. I hurried across the yard to the barn, and once Little Joe caught sight of me, he threw back his big head and whinnied.
He trotted to the gate, and I stroked his velvety muzzle just before slipping through. “Come on, boy,” I crooned, and he nudged my shoulder, then his lips brushed my back pocket where he knew I’d have a carrot hiding there. I turned and he gently plucked it out. I
rested my forehead against his, and shoved my fingers through his coarse mane. The scent of hay and horse filled my lungs as I inhaled. “You’re such a fine old boy, Joe,” I murmured, running my hand across the warm skin of his thick neck. “What in the world would I do without you?” He crunched a carrot in response.
Captain Gregg took off around the side of the barn as I hurriedly approached, grabbed the pitchfork from behind the door and mucked out Joe’s stall. He’d followed me, his big black and white patchy presence a familiar comfort. How many times had I slept in the barn on a cool night? When Dad was gone? Countless. It’s not that I hated being alone—I had the best of friends to keep me company, anytime I wanted. Still. There was a true comfort here, with my old furry friends. I’d never deny it. I was a sucker for the four-legged ones.
Little Joe pushed against me as I poured his mixture of oats and sweet feed into his bucket, and then buried his greedy head into his dinner. Turning on the faucet, I let fresh water fill his trough, and just as I finished and was slipping back out of the gate, Jace’s truck was ambling down the lane. I kept walking toward him, adding a little sling to my strut as I met him in the lane.
He killed the engine and climbed out with the ease of an executive exiting a limo. It was a movement he’d done a gazillion times. Something about that made me grin as I walked up to him. He had a small duffle bag and the belt in one hand.
“Boy, you just don’t give up, do ya?” I teased, and shoved my hands into my pockets. “Won’t stop following me.”
In his hand, said belt. He smiled, lifted it and gave it a wave. “Just here to replace your belt, ma’am.”
I gave a little snort. “That’s what all the boys say, Jace Beaumont.” I tipped my head back and peered at him. Shades covered his eyes. Scruff darkened his jaw. “I like the way the afternoon sun gilds you, Jace Beaumont. Makes you look, oh, I don’t know.” I sidled closer. “Quite Zeus-ish, in my opinion.” I grinned. “Say, how did you get that scar, anyway?”
His eyes held mine. Curious. Cautious. “Horse bucked me off and I hit a fence post.”
“Hmm,” I answered, and thought it would do all guys well to get thrown from horses with a resulting badass scar. It definitely upped the sexy-factor. “Interesting, because you just don’t seem to be the kind of guy who is easily…bucked.” I gave another lazy smile. “Did you come here to ask me out, Mr. Beaumont?”
Jace gave a polite chuckle and made his way to the Jeep, parked exactly where he’d left it two nights earlier. I followed, and when he popped the hood and propped it open, I eased up onto it and sat on the frame. My feet dangled over the grill. He took off his shades, placed them in his jacket pocket, and reached for the duffle. His mouth twitched. “No one’s ever accused you of being old-fashioned, have they?”
“Why, as a matter of fact, not even once,” I admitted. “Funny, don’t you think? Seems like it would happen a lot.” I leaned closer as he shook his head and started to replace the belt. He continued working in silence, his hands rough, calloused, and sure of every movement. “So,” I asked in a sultry voice. “What exactly do you do for fun?”
He wrenched and ratcheted and continued installing the belt, and I watched his strong profile as he did so. “I’ve already had my fun”—he slipped a quick glance my way—“Miss Thibodeaux.”
“Hmm,” I answered, slightly miffed by the fact my sultry voice didn’t work on him. “That’s sincerely pathetic, Mr. Beaumont. Okay, so what do you do in your spare time?”
A grin tipped his mouth upward. “Study.”
“Ugh,” I covered my face with my hands in a pretend-exhaustingly heavy sigh. I peeked at him through the cracks of my fingers, and to my surprise he was looking at me. “Oh my god, man,” I said with a groan. “You have to do something for fun. You can’t be all work and no play.” I took my hands away from my face and squinched my eyes. “You know who and what that would make you, right?”
“Jack? And a dull boy?” he answered.
I slapped the fender with my palm. “That’s right!” I gave his shoulder a gentle shove. “A Stephen King fan, I see. Why, that just earned you an extra ten points.”
He fished something from his back pocket. “You, Miss Memory Thibodeaux, are a very peculiar girl.”
“Right?” I broadened my smile until my cheeks were tight. “I like unique, don’t you? Keeps life on the fascinating side. So, what are you doing now?”
“Checking your oil,” Jace answered. He wiped the dipstick with a cloth. “You’re a little low. When’s the last time it was changed?”
I pulled one leg up so that I was half-sitting, half-dangling on the Jeep. “I’m not sure.” I leaned forward and allowed my mouth to pull into a wicked grin. “What do you suggest to a girl who is so…low on oil?”
He nodded, all business-like, and ignored my blatant flirt. “I’ll add a quart but find out. You don’t want to drive around with the oil low.”
I sighed. “Ten-four, Mr. Fun.” He disappeared around the Jeep, and I leaned over to watch him swagger to his truck and retrieve the quart of oil. As he returned, I was still hanging over the edge of the fender. “I’m not really used to this, you know.”
Twisting the cap off, Jace carefully poured the oil in. “Used to what?”
I gave a hefty sigh again. Exaggerated. Pitiful. Worthy of an Academy Award. “Having a dead knickertwister.”
A smile pulled at his face, but he didn’t look at me until he’d finished pouring the oil. “And what is that, exactly?”
I’d gotten a smile out of Mr. McGrumpy! Score! “Why, it’s really not something I can describe accurately,” I said. “It’s, well…” I ducked my head to catch his gaze. “It’s my ability to make a man’s knees buckle with just my smile.” I tapped my chin with my forefinger. “Mais, I did meet a boy once. From Pointe Coupee Parish.” I wiggled my brows when Jace passed me a quick glance. “He pretended my knickertwister didn’t work on him.” I leaned closer. “But he was lyin’.” Then, I sighed dramatically. “So, for reasons I cannot figure out,” I continued, and he looked at me again, “it isn’t working on you, Jace Beaumont.” I sighed again. “You must be immune.”
Jace casually wiped the dipstick on the cloth he’d pulled from his pocket and gave a non-committal shrug. “I guess I’m just in a much more serious place in life than you are, Miss Thibodeaux. Nothing personal.” He shot me another fast look. “What does…mais mean?”
I hopped down, grabbed the dipstick from him, and put it back in its place, then turned directly to him. I held his surprised gaze. “The equivalent to the word well,” I informed him, then cocked my head. “I appreciate your candor, Mr. Beaumont, I truly do. But in my great-grandma Clementine’s very own words, I think you’re full of grade-A Acadian Cajun horseshit.” I gave him a sly, super-slow knickertwister. “Nothing personal.”
Jace stared at me for a moment, wordless, our eyes steady and held. The sun had started to drop and sat even with the tree line. A brisk breeze slipped between us, causing the windcatchers to all go off at once.
Neither of us blinked.
Neither of us looked away.
A smile turned his mouth up at the corners. “Let’s take her for a test drive.”
I returned the smile, a small victory for me! Hastening over to the passenger side, I eased into my seat. Jace got behind the wheel, pushed the seat further back to accommodate his longer legs, and started the engine. To my relief, it turned right over, and I squealed out loud; a girly little yelp of victory!
That was twice for me today.
We moseyed down the lane, with Jace shifting into all gears before stopping at the end of our drive, then making a wide turn into the road and pulling back into our lane. As he headed back toward the house, he glanced at me, and I noticed how the setting sun cast his face in gold.
“That was a nice thing you did yesterday,” he said. “With Jasper.”
“Are you kidding?” I answered, just as he parked the Jeep. “It was he who saved me f
rom a loud and rowdy trip to Rucker’s.”
“Saved you?” Jace asked.
I nodded, and we both climbed out. “Allergies. Gives me a terrible headache. But I was riding with my friends until Jasper offered to take me home.”
I stopped at the steps and turned around. Jace was looking at me. His stare felt heavy, sincere.
“You walked him to the bleachers,” Jace said, then grinned. “You must’ve given him…what was it again? A knickertwister?”
I couldn’t help it. I yelped out a laugh. “Well, I did do that,” I confessed. “He was a goner for sure!” I gave Jace a sincere smile. “He’s a great guy.”
Jace gave a single nod. “He is. Fought in World War II. A genuine Ace. Flew a P-38 Lightning in the Pacific Theater. A retired Texas Ranger.” He rubbed his jaw and glanced at the sky. “There isn’t a single cowardly bone in that old goat’s body.” He looked at me. “And he will never admit that he’s getting old. So,” he sighed. “I appreciate what you did.”
I shrugged and leaned against the porch post. “I always was a sucker for heroes.”
Jace shoved his hands into his jacket pocket as another gust of January wind blew through. The windcatchers all started jingling and jangling and twirling at once. His gaze lit on one after another. “Jasper said you made those.”
So, Jace and Jasper had had a little discussion about me. Score again! “I did, yeah.”
He nodded. “Pretty impressive. He also says you’re out here alone.”
I glanced around. “Only some of the time. My dad’s an offshoreman. Works the oil rigs.” With my gaze narrowed, I cocked my head. “Maybe my knickertwister worked after all.” I smiled, showing lots of teeth. “You’re worried about me, yeah?”
Jace’s gaze stayed on mine. “An ornery six-foot woman?” He grinned. “Mais, hardly.”
I laughed at his slightly correct use of the word. “Five-foot-eleven, for your information. Maybe it’d be best if you gave me your number. You know.” I sent him a lazy smile. “In case I need help.”
Jace smiled and shook his head, then turned toward his truck. He sauntered to it, that bowlegged, manly confident swagger that seriously was just too damn sexy to define. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. He was that delicious.