“You’re still a fan. That’s what counts. So, I saw your ex. Anyone else in the picture?”
“No.” Her fingers tightened around the edge of the metal table. “I’m glad he’s moved on. I was shocked, that’s all. It’s a big city. I didn’t think I’d run into him ever again.”
“Well, the table seemed pretty tight. He was holding her hand.”
“He’s probably with her.”
“Well, if you see him again, hopefully it shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“Probably not. I’m glad he found someone. We all deserve happiness.” Taylor shivered. Suddenly all her senses were on high alert, the warm fuzzy feeling gone—her head perfectly clear. Owen. For a year she’d constantly looked over her shoulder, worried he might be there. Even after things had settled, he was always in the back of her mind, but never in a good way. Tonight he’d been less than thirty feet away.
Joe noticed her shiver. “Cold?”
“A little. The temperature dropped.” Better than admitting that Owen had terrified her at the end of their relationship, so much that she’d called the police. Twice.
“We should probably get back,” he suggested. Their pretzel plate boasted crumbs and his beer glass held one last sip, so he lifted the rim to his lips, finished off the brew. “Unless you want anything else? I’m happy to stay longer.”
“Cup of black coffee might be good, if you have the time.”
“I’ve got all night.”
She relaxed. “Good, because I could use a jolt of caffeine. I’ll have no break when I get back.”
Leo magically appeared to take the order and remove the dirty dishes.
“Make it two cups black,” Joe told him, leaning forward to pass over the empty beer glass. “So, when can you show me how to take portraits? What’s your schedule look like?”
“I don’t have my planner with me, but I do have my phone.” Taylor scrolled through its calendar. Sadly, most days were empty. Once she met with Virginia on Tuesday, she had very few photo dates. She also had a meeting with the professor supervising her project, the one who’d rejected her time and again.
Maybe Joe was right about karma. Maybe she still owed on some great cosmic bill she didn’t know about. Maybe her professor would think that boxing would be project worthy. She could go to the gym …
Like her earlier buzz, she let the idea fade away as she sipped the coffee Leo brought. Her professor wanted something that would provide a window into the soul. He’d rejected idea after idea, everything from working with the elderly to a day in the no-kill shelter. Boxing would be too mundane. Not enough of a look into another world. He wanted something beyond the photo story. He wanted something where people allowed themselves to be vulnerable. Where they faced their fears head-on. Something where people exposed themselves without even knowing it, where they let others peer into the depths of their psyche. … Like exposing when they’d been burned.
She finally understood what her professor meant. Joe was passionate about making his sister and other burn survivors feel beautiful.
To do that, they’d have to show their skin, their flaws, and own them in a defiant celebration of their bodies. Show that they’d overcome. That fate hadn’t won.
She knew for certain that this was something her professor would get behind. She’d have to clear it with him, but it was the best idea she’d had. Come on, karma, she thought. You owe me one.
She glanced up, caught Joe’s gaze. “You know what?”
“What?” he asked, taking her bait.
“I’ll do it. Your book.”
He sat back with a thump. “You will?”
“Yes.” As soon as she said the words, she knew she was one hundred percent committed. Even if her project wasn’t approved, and she was pretty sure it would be, Joe had gotten under her skin in a way she didn’t yet understand. Doing his book meant she’d see him again, and not just one more time like if she photographed his family. She wanted to keep seeing him—she hadn’t felt this relaxed or turned on in ages.
After Owen, she’d sworn never again, but Joe made her want to trust, made her want to believe. She could use the publicity the book would provide, she rationalized. Maybe if she moved fast, she’d still have a shot at entering the competition. “I want those networking connections,” she told him. “You’re right. It’ll be a good opportunity.”
He reached forward and shook her hand. Her fingertips tingled, sending raw heat coursing through her veins. “Perfect. So we have a new agreement.”
“Yes. You. Me. We’ll take the photos and produce the book.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She laughed at his deliberate choice of words. Each minute she spent in his company made her like him more, made her loosen up, made her want to lose the fearful woman who was once bitten, twice shy. If nothing else, she wanted to feel something that didn’t come from a book, indulge in a fantasy even if it was a fool’s errand.
She took his hand, gave it another shake. Heat fused them together, warming her through. She blushed, smiled. Shook her head in disbelief as his lips inched upward in a grin. “You know, Joe, for once you just might be right.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” His hand felt good. She didn’t want to let it go. “I do believe we have a plan.”
* * *
Bill paid—his treat, he’d insisted—Joe found himself a few minutes later once again clinging to the door handle as she sped her little car through the streets of St. Louis. He didn’t mind. She’d agreed. A huge load had been lifted from his shoulders.
Sure, he would now have to introduce her to his family, who would immediately love her. That was a small price to pay, for every woman Joe brought around was potential marriage material until proven otherwise. Not that there were many. Actually more like few and far between.
As for Taylor, she was the photographer. Joe admitted he liked her. She was blunt. Funny. Devoted. Interesting. Sexy as hell, whether her hair was up or down, like now. He glanced at her profile as she whipped around a corner. They were almost back at Presley’s. Yes, interesting, and he’d be interested in asking her out, but he refused to complicate matters. Also, all his standard reasons of why he didn’t date rushed forward, but Joe pushed them aside. No reason to rehash those. He’d lived a long time with the truth about himself, that his flaws drove women away.
He needed Taylor for the book, and he wanted the book for his sister. So any desires he had needed to be kept in check. No matter how tempting she might be.
She threw the car in park, jolting him, and then they were standing outside her car. “I’ll call you,” he told her, “for sure this time.”
She smiled, the glow of the streetlights lighting up her whole face. “I won’t hold my breath.”
He had the urge to kiss her, to capture that breath, to draw it from her lips and into his body. Instead, he shoved his hands into his front pockets. “My mother and sister won’t let me live it down if I don’t. I guess you need to go in. Do you want me to walk you to the door?”
“It’s right there. It’s safe. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” He removed his hands, dropped them to his side. They weren’t on a date, and her upturned, expectant face demanded he take charge. He reached forward, tucked a loose stand of hair behind her ear. Her breath hitched. “Good night then.”
He thrust his right hand forward, the handshake failing to satisfy the overpowering need to touch her, to explore her softness. Just rubbing his thumb over her lower lip—what would that hurt?
Instead, he fused his fingers with hers, shook, and detached quickly before he did something that would embarrass himself or ruin being professional. Instead, he waited until she had safely entered the restaurant before he turned, took a deep breath, and went home.
Chapter Four
“You know I can’t do it without your help. If you don’t help me, the entire country could be in jeopardy.”
“You know I’ll help you, Duncan. How co
uld I not? I—”
“Don’t say you love me. I’m a rogue. A rake.”
“A spy in the guise of a pirate.”
He reached to gently touch her face. “My priority must be saving the crown.”
“Good book?”
“Hey, Mom.” Taylor dog-eared a corner. Sunday afternoon found Taylor making her weekly visit to her mother’s house. Unlike Taylor’s kitchen cupboards, which contained around two packets of ramen, three microwavable mashed-potato cups, and a half empty box of Pop-Tarts, her mom’s pantry was always full. She also stocked vanilla wafers and Oreos. Within seconds of putting down her book, Taylor had a handful of each.
Good cookies always made the weekly Sunday afternoon visit more bearable. Earlier she’d also made herself a roast beef and provolone sandwich, which was basically breakfast and lunch combined.
“You know, if you can’t afford food, you can always move home,” her mom suggested. She leaned a jean-clad hip against the center island, her short-sleeve kaftan rustling. “Live here and get three squares a day.”
“I’m good,” Taylor mumbled through an overstuffed mouthful of chocolate and cream filling. She sighed as the delicious goodness rolled over her taste buds. Store brands certainly couldn’t compete with the real thing. She set her uneaten cookies on the countertop and reached into an overhead cabinet for a glass.
Anticipating, her mother opened the refrigerator door and passed over a fresh half gallon of milk.
“Thanks.” Taylor poured herself a large glass and drank most down in one gulp. Then she refilled.
Her mom’s brow creased with worry. “If you’re hungry, I can lend you money for groceries, you know. I don’t like that you’re not eating.”
“I eat. Last night I went to Dressel’s. I just don’t buy cookies. Bad for my figure. Good because it gives me a reason to come see you.” Hunger slightly abated, Taylor dunked an Oreo before taking a bite. She wiped her sticky fingers on her jean shorts. “I’m turning in the calendar shoot Tuesday and I’ll get paid then. It’ll tide me over for a while.”
“I just wish you’d let me help. Move back home and save some money. Just for a little while. Maybe being here would help you focus on your project. How’s that going?”
“Fine.”
Her mom didn’t buy her fib. “Honey, I thought you’d have it done by now. I hate that you’re spending all this money on a master’s. Webster isn’t cheap.”
“I’ve got it handled, Mom,” Taylor replied stubbornly, as the chocolaty cream temptation on her tongue seemed to say, “Move home and you can eat me every day.” She ignored the inner voice and ate a vanilla wafer. “Things are about to break wide open. I’ve got a new client.”
“You need tons of new clients. Charlene knows a person who’s got a friend who works at St. Louis Magazine. I can find out if they’re hiring.”
“They aren’t. I checked. And I’ve got this.”
“I was only trying to help you network.” Her mom crossed her arms. Gave her the concerned look Taylor had been seeing for as long as she could remember. “Baby, I don’t like seeing you struggle.”
“I’m okay, Mom. What’s that about it being ninety-nine percent persistence?”
Her mom shook her head, disbelieving. “It’s ‘perspiration.’”
“Same idea.”
“You’ve always been so stubborn.”
Taylor’s chin jutted forward. “Well, I get it from you. You know you should sell the house and get a condo. Move where there are more people.”
Her mom shook her head again. “We’ve been through this. The house is not too big. And it’s paid for. It’s centrally located. I can get everywhere in ten minutes.”
The one-story, three-bedroom Kirkwood ranch had been the only home Taylor had ever known. The kitchen doorframe had permanent inked lines that marked how tall she and her sister had been on each birthday. Perhaps the memories made her mother lonely, which was why she kept pestering Taylor to move home.
“Yes, but now that Evelyn and I have moved out, it’s too much upkeep.” Taylor pressed. “You could travel and—”
“The house is not the issue. You’ll be taking me out of here in a cardboard box.”
“Okay, okay,” Taylor replied, backing down. She knew that entrenched tone. “Keep the house. It was Evelyn’s idea anyway.”
Her mom patted Taylor’s arm. “I know you worry, as I do about you. But I’m fine.” She reached to wipe some cookie crumbs from the corner of Taylor’s lips. “I’ve got bridge tonight. Oh, I need you to take care of Yin and Yang for me next week.”
As if on cue, two fluffy white Himalayans trotted into the kitchen and made figure eights between Taylor’s legs, tickling her with their fuzzy tails. “You can stay here while I’m gone. Take care of my babies. It’ll only be two days. I’m helping Charlene move her daughter to Topeka. We’re taking the car and she’s driving the U-Haul.”
“Who? Charlene?”
Charlene was even scarier than her mother when it came to driving. Taylor couldn’t imagine her behind the wheel of a U-Haul.
Her mother shook her head, her short white hair barely budging. “No. Her daughter. I’m riding shotgun in Charlene’s car. We leave Friday. Sheila’s accepted an associate job at a legal firm there. Very promising. She can make partner.”
Taylor didn’t touch that comment, lest she somehow inadvertently direct the conversation back toward her own current shortcomings. “I can be here.”
“So you’ll stay over? I don’t want them to be alone. I know it’s the weekend, but …”
Taylor sighed. She’d walked right into this one. “As long as this isn’t a ploy to get me to move home, I’m happy to house sit Yin and Yang.”
Her mother feigned innocence. “Never. Although, you may like being home. I’ll leave you some homemade meals in the refrigerator.”
Taylor resisted rolling her eyes. “Text me the details. I can get to work just as easily from here as I can from my apartment.”
“Which is why you should stay here for a while. Save up some money. If the commute’s the same—”
“Mom.” Taylor rinsed her empty glass and put it in the sink. She washed her hands. “I’d love to discuss this more but I’ve got photos to process, so I need to get going. I also have another job to plan.”
Her mom knew when she’d pushed enough. She opened her arms for a hug and drew Taylor in. “Well, I’m glad you stopped by. I needed a break from being in the garden and I’ll need to clean up before bridge.”
“One day I should learn that game.”
Her mom nodded, leaned back. “You should. I can teach you.”
With that, Taylor’s mom drew her in for another jasmine-scented hug. As Taylor drove home, her phone rang, and she put it to her ear. “This is Taylor.”
“It’s Joe.”
Joe. His deep sexy voice sent a thrill to her toes, as it had last night. “Hey,” she said, her heart racing. Distracted by his call, she failed to notice when a car came into her lane. Belated, she honked.
“Are your hands free?”
She frowned, picturing his scowl. “No, but I’m good.”
“Do you know how many accidents I work that are caused by driver inattention? Hang up and call me when you’re safely parked with the engine off. You’ve got my number.”
With that, he hung up on her. Thoroughly scolded, she tossed the iPhone on the passenger seat and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Really. The man was impossible. Talking on her phone was perfectly legal and she’d never even had so much as a speeding ticket, much less a fender bender.
She pulled into her assigned parking space, the one building amenity she appreciated at four a.m., and walked up three flights of hot stairs. She stepped into her one-bedroom and immediately turned on the window air-conditioning unit. The art deco building in Richmond Heights wasn’t centrally cooled, and in the winter the radiators banged and hissed but did a decent job. Still, she loved her space. Her artistic na
ture had been drawn to large windows that let in copious amounts of natural light. She also loved the high ceilings, the plaster millwork, and the aged wood floors. She flopped onto the couch, letting the cool air blow over her and called Joe back.
“I’m home,” she said when he answered, figuring he’d read the caller ID.
“Good. Sorry. Pet peeve. And you’re a dangerous driver.”
The hair on the back of her neck rose. “I am not.”
He laughed, a deep, robust chuckle that did little to reduce her hackles. “You forget I rode with you twice. The first time you had an excuse. The second time not so much.”
He let the silence fall, as if picturing her fuming. She refused to dignify him with an answer. “I spoke to my mother,” he finally said. “She’d love to have family photos done. We’re a go. Also, I want to set up the first of the burn book shoots.”
“You move fast.”
“In my line of work, you make decisions quickly. No need to waste time. When I see something I want, I go for it, and you are something I want.”
She didn’t know how to respond to that either. Her skin heated despite being under a direct blast of AC. “Well, okay,” she mumbled. “Let me grab my calendar.”
She rose, went to the kitchen table, and tugged the Humane Society pocket calendar out of her purse. Having a thing for cats, she’d donated five dollars in response to the direct mailing. The plastic protective cover rustled. “Okay, I just need a pen.”
“You don’t just use your phone? You scrolled through it last night.”
“I do, but only after I write it down on hard copy. I always know where my calendar is. I misplace my phone all the time. It’s a comedy as I try to find it. Okay, I’m ready.” She heard muffled voices in the background, then silence. “Are you there?”
Nothing. No answer.
“Hello? Hello? Are you there?” She checked her phone screen. All five circles were full, so she had more than enough signal. “Hello?”
Burning for You Page 6