by A. J. Pine
“I’m trying to clean up everything,” she admitted. “And I like Dusty Springfield.” Geez, what was it about this guy? She was standing here, drowning in her own clothes and freezing to boot, and she just wanted to tell him things the second he asked…or even when he didn’t.
Like, Remember that gambling ex I told you about? Well, he’s also a hotshot attorney gunning for full partner in my parents’ firm. My parents love him because they have no idea what he did since he’s blackmailing me to keep my mouth shut. Oh, and he actually thinks I might take him back when he gets on another winning streak.
Mark was an addict, but Grace had been naive enough to believe that he’d finally gotten it under control. Lesson learned.
And as much as she felt a connection with Jeremy last night, she couldn’t tell him any of that. Forget bad timing. Grace was a mess with enough baggage to last her through her cleanse and then some. No guy in his right mind would get involved with her until she cleaned it all up.
Jeremy grinned. Good Lord, that smile. It did things to her she’d never admit even if he did ask.
“Buy you a cup of coffee?” he asked, then glanced to his right. He shoved his drenched umbrella under his arm—he was wearing a rain jacket, so he could do that without worry—and grabbed a travel-sized umbrella from a bin against the window. “And maybe one of these?”
Despite being chilled to the bone, heat radiated through her, and she couldn’t hold back a smile of her own.
“Thank you, but it’s really not necessary,” she said, rounding the end of the aisle so she could pay the attendant for her gas.
Step. Squish. Step. Squish. Step. Squish.
Jeremy maneuvered in front of her before she could reach the counter, dropping the umbrella in front of a mustachioed man at the cash register who wore a Packers T-shirt a size or two too small for his large frame.
“The umbrella and another coffee,” he said, and was swiping his debit card before she could protest. When the transaction was complete, he turned back toward her, brandishing his gift. She took it, unable to articulate a response. “You’re shivering,” he continued. “How about I get your coffee while you finish up here? Lemme guess—decaf?”
Grace nodded, the best she could do at the moment, because she was shivering, but it no longer had anything to do with being wet or cold.
His smile widened as he brushed past her and headed toward the coffee station at the other end of the small store. She willed her brain to delete the image of the darkened scruff on his jaw. Whatever he’d been up to this morning, he hadn’t shaved since she’d seen him last night. Just past noon on a day of no shaving was a hell of a good look on him.
“Michael Fassbender,” she mumbled to herself.
Physical attraction does not equate to emotional connection. Once your body understands this, you’ll be able to start connecting with potential partners on a deeper level.
This advice had worked for Suzanne Summerville, the author of the book. It had worked for thousands of readers. And it would work for her.
“Huh?” A gruff voice snapped her back into the moment.
Grace looked up to see Mr. Packer Fan eyeing her like she was not quite of sound mind. She was soaking wet, squeaking and squishing as she walked, and mumbling about Jeremy’s Hollywood doppelgänger. So yeah, maybe the guy was right.
She cleared her throat. “Pump five.”
The man grunted and then said, “Twenty-seven oh-one.”
She groaned. There was no rhyme or reason to it, but she hated when the gas price went a penny over the exact dollar amount. If it had been a clear day, she would have stayed out there watching the numbers roll by like a slot machine, her hand on the lever as the tank got close to full. There was a certain satisfaction in stopping it just as the numbers landed on that double zero. Or maybe it was just the illusion of being in control of something as mundane as what she paid to fill her gas tank.
She gave herself a downward glance and laughed quietly to herself. There was no illusion of control visible today.
She handed him her debit card, and he swiped it along the screen of his machine.
“Want the receipt?” he asked, and she nodded.
“Yes, please.”
Grace kept track of all travel expenses now that she drove out of state weekly for job number two. She wasn’t sure how it was going to work filing taxes with one income in Wisconsin and the other back home, but she was certain saving receipts would help. She could ask her sister for advice on the issue. Corporate law didn’t make her a CPA, but it would mean she knew a thing or two about taxes. But asking Sarah for her opinion would mean admitting why she needed the second job in the first place, and the last thing Grace could handle after losing her savings was an I told you so.
Receipt and debit card back in hand, she slid the items into her wet jacket pocket and squished on over to the coffee station.
Jeremy held out a steaming cup, still lid-free.
“I wasn’t sure if you put anything in it.”
She wrapped both palms around the cup and breathed in the aroma. Then she set it down on the counter and reached for a small shaker next to the white, blue, yellow, and pink packets of various sweeteners.
“Just some cinnamon,” she said, shaking the spice into the coffee. She stirred it and added a lid, then looked up at Jeremy. “Thank you,” she added. “For the coffee and—” She held up her other hand where her new umbrella hung from her wrist. “I always seem to lose these.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the edges dark where his hood had left him uncovered.
“Happy to be your knight in shining Gore-Tex,” he said, and something in her gut twisted.
Her hands had been in that hair less than twenty-four hours ago. In a professional manner, of course. But now she wanted to touch it again, unprofessionally, which meant it was time to leave.
“It’s a nice…coat. Looks like it keeps you dry,” she said, and was immediately sure those were the dumbest two sentences she’d uttered in years.
“Perceptive.” He flashed her a knowing smile, and she felt almost naked for a second. “I run,” he said. “And I do enjoy staying dry.”
“You run in the rain?”
He nodded toward the window behind her. “I mean, not in what’s going on out there. But if it’s just right, light enough so I can see where I’m going but heavy enough to drown out all the other white noise, I kind of prefer it.”
She pictured him pounding the pavement on one of those perfect rainy days, the kind where she could snuggle under her afghan on the couch with a cup of coffee and a good book. When was the last time she’d done that—just unwound and appreciated her surroundings? She was always running from one client to the next, from home to Madison. What she wouldn’t give to just stay still.
“I should go,” she said when she knew she’d paused too long, even though she had all the time in the world to make it home. No appointments until Monday morning. Plus he’d bought her coffee…and a freaking umbrella, probably the sweetest thing anyone had done for her in quite some time. But what would be the point in getting to know him for even a few more minutes at a gas station coffee counter? Even if this was someone she could connect with on a platonic level, they were both obviously on their way somewhere that wasn’t here.
Baggage, trust issues, and bad fucking timing. Grace had it all. And yes. She thought an F-bomb, but if ever there was a moment that required such a word, this was one of them. Hell, she wasn’t going to clean up her language in her inner monologue. Sorry, Suzanne Summerville. That was pushing it.
“Okay,” Jeremy said. “Yeah. I should go, too. This weather is going to add an hour to my trip, and I have to work tonight. I just— I’m glad I bumped into you again, Grace.”
She smiled, a pang of sadness ebbing in her chest. Because she was glad she’d bumped into him, too, yet had resigned herself to never seeing him again after last night. This was like some cosmic tease—the universe reminding her th
at she was, in fact, giving something up in order to trust herself again.
“Feeling better today?” she asked.
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Much,” he said. “I drank two more bottles of water before I fell asleep last night. And another this morning, just to be safe.”
Had he been up as late as she was? Had he thought about her after he went back to his room? These were pointless questions to ask herself, yet she asked them just the same.
“I’m glad,” she told him.
His smile grew, and his blue eyes softened. “Thank you for taking care of m…my situation.”
She held up the umbrella again. “I guess we’re even now, huh?”
He grabbed his own umbrella off the counter and nodded.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess we are.”
She slid her coffee cup toward his, nudging it as she’d done the night before with her kale smoothie against his water bottle. “How about we drink to safe driving today?”
“To safe driving,” he echoed, and they both drank.
Maybe they’d have better luck on the road than with timing.
“It was good meeting you, Jeremy,” she said, backing up a step, yet anything but ready to turn toward the door.
“Yeah,” he said. “It was good meeting you, too.”
There was a finality in his tone, one that made that stupid pang grow stronger, so she turned on her puddle-filled heel and strode toward the door. The rain was still coming down in buckets, so she opened her new umbrella and ran to her car. Once she’d replaced the gas nozzle and closed the tank, she collapsed into the driver’s seat, shaking off her umbrella before closing it and dropping it on the passenger seat floor.
She laughed as she finally saw the design on her gas station gift. The umbrella was sky blue, peppered with small cartoon cats and dogs. She laughed harder, a deep belly laugh that brought tears to her eyes. She may never see Jeremy Denning again, but whenever it was raining cats and dogs, she’d be reminded of the man with the feather tattoo on his back and deep blue eyes that told her she had his full attention when he looked at her.
She turned the key in the ignition and flipped on her windshield wipers. The rain had died down along with her laughter, but a smile still spread across her face.
She’d make it a point not to lose this umbrella.
Chapter Five
“What did you learn?” Jamie asked. “And I swear, Denning, if you tell me a girl’s name or make up a phrase for a new position—because I know there is no such thing as ‘the reverse Jenga’—I am canceling the appointment I have with my lawyer to draft a contract.”
It was late Monday afternoon, and Jeremy was exhausted after driving home yesterday, working last night, and then coming back in for a ten-hour shift today. He barely had it in him to wipe down the bar from the lunch rush. And though it was the first he’d seen Jamie since his trip to Madison, he was just too damned tired to defend himself or his creative names for sexual positions. But then his eyes widened.
“Did you say lawyer, Kingston, or are you fucking with me? I thought sending me for these classes was some kind of test.”
Jamie shrugged. “Tell me what you learned.”
“You mean other than my ass prefers something more than a plastic chair for an eight-hour stretch?” Jamie narrowed his eyes. “What? Do you want to discuss which percentage of humulene in which variety of hops is used for aroma versus bittering or both? Because I could go on all day. Eight hours if you like.”
Jamie crossed his arms and grinned.
“Consider your test passed, Denning. If you still want to invest—financially and, you know, time-wise—we should have a contract ready before we leave for the honeymoon.”
Jeremy dropped the rag on top of the bar and wiped his hands on his jeans.
“Are you shittin’ me? Just like that, I’m in?”
Jamie held out his hand, and Jeremy gripped it firmly in his own. They shook.
“Kinda always hoped you’d stay on, Jer. I just wasn’t sure if or when you’d be ready to commit. Are you sure this is what you want?”
Huh. He hadn’t really thought about it over the weekend. He was too busy complaining to himself about sitting through the lecture. The lab yesterday had been interesting enough, though. Jeremy had seen this weekend as just the beginning in a series of tests. He’d imagined the possibility of a contract as way off down the line, even though he knew the wedding was in three months and Jamie wanted the partner search wrapped up by then. Plus there was the distraction of a woman who’d touched nearly every part of his body yet was off-limits in every way, especially since he’d never see her again. It was good luck, really. Because he didn’t know what to do with his urge to see her again. It worried him, and he didn’t do worry.
In fact, Jeremy was so used to not really worrying about anything that he hadn’t dwelled on the contract being real at all.
Until now.
“I—uh—” Jeremy said, but Jamie cut in.
“You—uh—hesitated.”
Jeremy shook his head. “I contemplated,” he said. “There’s a difference.”
Jamie’s shoulders sagged. “Look, man. I want to bring in a partner I trust. Brynn and I are getting married. We’re going to start a family, eventually.” He paused to shake his head as a dopey grin took over his expression. Jesus, it seemed like he was surrounded by lovesick grins and lifelong commitments, and he was the proverbial teen rebelling against the establishment.
The only problem? He wasn’t a teen anymore. He’d fallen into that whole dreamy-eyed, lovesick trap before everyone else around him had. But Jeremy had learned the hard way that rainbows and puppy dogs and all that bullshit wasn’t in the cards for him.
“Sorry,” Jamie said, unaware of Jeremy’s inner angst. “I sometimes still don’t believe that Brynn and I finally made this work. I get a little…” He paused and cleared his throat.
Shit, was the guy getting all emotional on him? Because Jeremy didn’t do emotional. Not anymore. This seemed like the perfect escape route from the entire conversation.
“You know what?” Jeremy said. “I’m gonna give you a minute. You look like you could use one.”
Jamie nodded. “How about checking to see if the night crew has made it upstairs yet to clear away the tables from the dartboard area?”
Jeremy’s brows drew together. “What’s going on in the dartboard area?”
Jamie lifted his Sox cap off his head, ran a hand through his hair, then resituated the ever-present homage to his favorite team. “I know I’ve been distracted lately with all the wedding stuff. So I’m surprising the staff with a little gift before the evening rush.”
Jeremy stepped out from behind the bar. “As your most likely future partner, do I get in on the surprise?”
Jamie shook his head and crossed his arms. “Drop that most likely and commit, and I’ll consider it.”
Now Jeremy was the one with something seemingly lodged in his throat. “Right,” he said, clearing away whatever it was and sidestepping toward the stairs. “I’ll go check and make sure the tables are cleared.”
He didn’t wait for Jamie to say anything else but instead found a sudden burst of energy that propelled him to the upper level. When he reached the top, he groaned. Not only had nothing been moved, but no one was even up there. Rather than risk another interaction with Jamie that would be cause for hesitation, he decided to clear the area himself, even though he had no idea how many tables needed to be moved.
“If you weren’t such an asshole, you could just go back down there and find help—and talk about the fucking contract,” he mumbled to himself. “But you are an asshole, so looks like you’re on your own.”
He started carelessly stacking chairs, pinching his fingers between two as he did.
“Shit!” he yelled, shaking his hand and sucking at the small trickle of blood.
“Excuse me?”
The voice came from behind him, and he turne
d toward it.
“What?” he snapped, then froze as caramel eyes blazed into him. For the second time in ten minutes, he was speechless.
“Jeremy?” she asked, not that it was a question.
Because of course he was himself. Yet like an idiot, he nodded.
He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the fact that she flustered him enough to do so.
“Grace,” he said, a feigned picture of calm. He wondered if she bought it, wondered why he wanted her to. But mostly, he wondered what the hell she was doing here and how he could keep from saying good-bye to her a third time.
“You’re the only one who hasn’t gone up there, you know.”
Brynn, Jamie’s fiancée, swiveled back and forth on a barstool across from Jeremy as he poured from the tap with her namesake, Chandler’s Witbier.
He shrugged. “I’m alone behind the bar until the next shift starts. Plus I’m not big on the whole massage thing,” he lied.
Brynn snort-laughed as he slid the pint to her side of the bar. “Right. Because Jeremy Denning is so averse to beautiful women touching him.”
He winced at the comment. Jesus, was he that much of a cliché?
“You think she’s beautiful? The masseuse?” he asked, realizing this wasn’t helping his case at all. Nor was beelining it for the stairs when he first saw Grace, mumbling, “Let me grab Jamie for you,” as he brushed past her and back to the lower level.
Brynn slapped both palms down on the bar.
“Did you see her? She’s got boho chic down to an art, yet you can tell she’s not even trying, you know? That’s even hotter.”
Yeah. He’d seen her, those amber waves pulled into a loose braid that hung over her right shoulder and onto a cream top. What was it called—a peasant shirt or something? It hung loose over her lithe frame, but it was sheer enough to see the same-color camisole she wore underneath. And then there were her jeans. Almost more maddening than seeing her bare legs the other night was noting how the snug denim hugged her curves all the way down to her knees before flaring out over her clogs.
“You know what’s hot, B? You talking about another woman being hot.”