Hot in Hellcat Canyon

by Julie Anne Long

  She was aware that pretty much everyone in the diner was watching them, if not overtly, then covertly, in the reflections in the sides of napkin holders and the backs of spoons and the like.

  “I’m not going to go out with him. I don’t want to go out with him. Do you really think I’m that fickle? Do you really think I can just be had that easily by any gorgeous man?” She was aware her voice was rising.

  He closed his eyes briefly. He drew in a breath that made it sound like he was trying to suck patience from the air. “No,” he said, evenly. “No, sweetheart. I know you can’t just be had. For God’s sake.” His voice almost cracked there. “I know how lucky I’ve been.”

  Oh, God. That word. It threatened to burn away the lovely, numbing righteous fog of anger.

  “Then why did you follow Franco here?” Her voice was threatening to crack.

  He pushed his hair out of his eyes. Struggling, again, for words.

  “I guess my instinct was just . . . from the moment I saw you, Britt, right here at the Misty Cat . . . to fight off all other contenders. And to just . . . be wherever you are.”

  He began to blur before her eyes. Because she was about to cry.

  “Britt . . .” he said urgently, softly. Stepping toward her. “Sweet—­”

  “Don’t call me sweetheart.” She swiped viciously at her traitorous eyes.

  He went still. As if she’d shoved a knife right in.

  And she saw something hard and resolute pass over his features.

  Before they went carefully neutral.

  “I’m leaving for Napa for Nicasio’s wedding this afternoon. I’ll be gone for a few days.”

  “I know,” she said. “Back to your world.”

  She could have sworn he was counting to ten silently in his head before he spoke.

  “There’s only one world, Britt. Some of us live in all of it instead of one tiny corner of it.”

  That was quite the swipe.

  “The three of you should have a wonderful time,” she said with a sort of savage sweetness. “I have to go, J. T.”

  “For a run?” he said brutally.

  She growled and whipped around again and stalked back to the grill.

  CHAPTER 19

  An hour later Britt was hurling her purse onto her sofa and plopping herself down in front of her laptop. She glared at the wall for a moment, and absently bent to pet Phillip for a while.

  And then she almost reflexively called her sister.

  Laine answered right away. Her familiar face filled the screen.

  “Are you okay, Bip? Shouldn’t you be working right now?”

  “Glenn sent me home.”

  “Yikes. Because of your eye infection?”

  “What the—­my eye infection?”

  “Remember when you used that five-­year-­old mascara when you shouldn’t have and got an infection and your eye swelled shut and was all oozy? That’s kind of what you look like right now.”

  Maybe she should have looked in the mirror before she called Laine.

  Glenn had sent her home out of pity and told her to sleep the rest of the day. She could pick up a night shift to make up the hours.

  “Wow. That’s pretty bad. I haven’t looked in the mirror yet today. ”

  And then a lightbulb appeared to go on in Laine’s head. Her eyes went wide.

  “Oh, shit. You’ve been crying. What happened?”

  She paused.

  “It’s over with J. T.”

  Laine literally clapped her hands to her face. “Nooooo! Whyyyyyy?”

  “We had a big fight. And he told me to just go.” Which was technically true, but it left out a whole lot of stuff. What she wanted right now was sympathy and vindication.

  “Oh, Bippy. I’m so sorry. I thought it might be just a fling, but look at you! You’re clearly torn up. Are you . . . were you . . . in love with him?”

  “In love with him?” she spat scornfully. “Don’t be ridiculous! He can go to hell!”

  “But are you in love with him?”

  “I don’t care what he does! Or who he does it to! Or when he does it!”

  “Soooo . . . in other words, you’re in love with him.”

  Britt moaned and dropped her face into her hands. “I didn’t know I was until it was over,” Britt all but wailed. “Or maybe I did and just didn’t want to think about it because I was scared of what would happen next.”

  The sex had been all crashing cymbals and crescendos, it nearly obscured the reason for it: the humble, intimate little offerings of a broken house in the woods surrounded by blue-­eyed Mary’s, a fixed porch, a half-­dead azalea. One soul striving to be worthy of another. Longing to give to each other what they needed most. A coded way of saying, “I know you. Your happiness is mine.”

  They’d been falling in love from the moment he’d walked into the Misty Cat.

  Although J. T. likely didn’t know it, wouldn’t say it, and probably didn’t believe it. And she didn’t know how on earth that would ever change.

  “Did you tell him you were in in love with him? Is that what ended it?” Laine wanted to know.

  “No,” she said sullenly. “Of course I didn’t say that. How stupid would that be?”

  “Yeah, love is super dumb,” Laine mocked. Albeit gently.

  Britt snorted.

  Her sister’s brow furrowed. “But you have to catch me up, Bip. Is that what the argument was about? The fact that he’s not in love with you? You know he’s supposedly never said that word to anyone.”

  “I’ve read the articles, too,” Britt said testily. “All he said was, and I quote, ‘I like what we have. I don’t want it to end.’ ”

  “Well, who wouldn’t like no-­strings sex! I think that’s man-­speak for I don’t want to think about the future ever and don’t make me talk about my feelings but I want to keep doing you until I don’t want to anymore.”

  “Right?” Britt lapped up the vindication. “And while we were arguing about this outside his house, you know who was inside?”

  “Who?”

  She paused strategically. “Rebecca Corday.”

  Laine’s mouth dropped open. “Hold the phone! Rebecca freaking Corday? His ex?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “She just showed up out of the blue yesterday and she spent the night at his house.”

  Laine was frozen. She was clearly impressed with the awfulness of this. “Whoa. That’s pretty bad.”

  “Right?”

  “She’s going to that wedding in Napa, too. Is she his date?”

  Holy shit. That was a horrible thought.

  “I don’t know,” Britt whispered. “He said he was going alone so . . . I don’t think so.”

  “But . . . wait, Bip. Hasn’t he been staying with you? Where were you when she was staying the night at his house?”

  She hesitated. “At my house.”

  Damn.

  Laine was pretty smart and she knew Britt all too well. She’d pick up on that hesitation.

  Laine tipped her head and studied Britt in silence.

  And then:

  “Were you being pigheaded, Bip?” she said suspiciously.

  “Way to be supportive, Lainie.”

  “But you are. You’re pigheaded. I mean, it’s a good thing, too. You never quit. You also weren’t always the best at bending. Or admitting when you were wrong. Super obnoxious quality, by the way.”

  Britt opened her mouth. A dry squeak of indignation emerged.

  “I have a hunch you’re being pigheaded somewhere in this situation. I think you’re leaving a bunch of stuff out. Did he invite her to stay with him?”

  “No, she just showed up out of the blue with a script of a movie that she wants J. T. for, and she’s on her way to Napa, but—­”

 
“Did he apologize to you for the unscheduled interruption in your, I dunno, fling? Affair? Sex-­a-­thon?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Did he try to explain what she was doing there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  She hesitated. “Mostly,” Britt hedged. “Okay, I think I do.”

  “Pigheaded,” Laine said triumphantly.

  Maybe it had been a mistake to call Laine.

  “But she’s his ex. And how the hell can I compete with Rebecca Corday, Laine?”

  Laine, the celebrity lover, was clearly struggling with this concept, too. “Frankly, I don’t know how you could resist competing with her, because that’s who you are. Is that what you and J. T. were fighting about? Do you think he wants her back?”

  “He says no. But I mean, she is who she is. There’s a freaking billboard of her on the highway right here. And I think she wants him back. She’s dangling a part he really, really wants. And Franco Francone says—­”

  Laine held up her hand. “Tell me you did not just say the name Franco Francone in that offhand fashion.”

  “He showed up in Hellcat Canyon, too, and he said Rebecca always gets what she wants. He has a little experience with her, as I’m sure you know.”

  Now Laine’s eyes were narrowed. “Franco Francone? I’m starting to think you’re making all of this up.”

  “I swear I’m not! Franco’s a bit player in this story, so pay attention, Laine.”

  “Fine. Okay, think of all the exes you’d never want back, Britt. Do you think J. T. would play you? Or is he a good guy?”

  Britt drew in a breath. J. T., the porch fixer, the cat feeder, red hot lover, the tender, funny honest guy—­

  “Yeah,” she said thickly. “He’s a good guy.”

  Totally inadequate words to describe J. T.

  “Then . . . I mean . . . okay, what’s really bugging you, Bip?”

  Nervousness made Britt’s fingertips go icy. She felt like a tree forced to suddenly grow a new branch. There was no precedent in their relationship for what she wanted to say to Laine. But she needed to say it because she wanted to hear what Laine had to say.

  She cleared her throat. “When we were arguing he said . . .” She pulled in a fortifying breath. “. . . he said he didn’t think Rebecca was the problem. He said I was looking for a convenient excuse. To run. Because . . . because you know . . .” She swallowed. And then she got the words out with admirable steadiness. “. . . because of . . . Jeff. What happened with Jeff.”

  Laine went still.

  Her breath seemed to be held.

  “Are you?” Laine said tentatively, her voice a near whisper, so gently. And Laine was never gentle with her. It was like she was trying not to spook a forest creature. “Looking for an excuse to run?”

  Britt swiped at tears that were now streaming. “I don’t know. Maybe? Probably, yeah. It’s hard, Laine. It’s been hard. Being scared is not normal for me.”

  “I know, Bip. You were always fearless. The bravest person I know.”

  “I’m starting to wonder, though, Laine, about my definition of brave. I was able to talk myself into this thing with J. T. to begin with because I knew he wouldn’t be around for long. And now it’s like . . . if I catch a whiff of pain I want to head it off at the pass. I want to get it before it gets me. And this feels like the most scared I’ve ever been, somehow. More scared than with Jeff.”

  Laine took this in thoughtfully.

  “I think I get it,” Laine said after a moment. “But I think maybe fear as a concept is your enemy. Not J. T. And maybe you’re this scared because he means that much to you.”

  Britt liked the sound of this. But she had no idea what to do about it.

  Laine inhaled and swiped her hands over her face in frustration. “Argh. I hate it when you cry.”

  “Me, too!” Britt said.

  They both laughed sniffly laughs, and Laine swiped tears out of her eyes.

  They were quiet together again.

  “I have to say, though, that it sounds like J. T. knows you pretty well. Do you think he’s hurting, too?”

  “Maybe,” she said begrudgingly. “Probably,” she allowed a second later, more faintly, and guiltily, because the idea of him hurting brought with it a fresh wave of pain. “His mom died when he was ten. I’m beginning to think we’re both bad pickers when it comes to relationships. He picked someone who’d bail on him again.”

  “Poor J. T.” Laine almost whispered this.

  “And you know what he said? He said his impulse was to be wherever I was.”

  “Oh my God.” Laine’s hand went up to her mouth. “That is about the sweetest thing I ever heard, Britt.”

  “I know. He said it while Rebecca Corday waited for him outside the diner.”

  Laine sighed in great resignation. “Have to tell you, I don’t know what to make of that. I wouldn’t want to be him right now, that’s for sure. I like things to be pretty simple. His life sounds like it’s never not complicated.”

  “He says I can either believe him or not about Rebecca.”

  Laine snorted. “Easy for him to say.”

  “Yeah, well. I think once he’s back in his own milieu at that wedding in Napa he’ll realize he’s just been in a sort of dream world here. So as of now . . . the thing with us . . . pretty sure it’s over.”

  Saying these words aloud felt like flagellating herself. And to give Laine a chance to dismiss them as hogwash.

  Laine was thoughtfully quiet while Britt sniffled.

  And then Laine sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, except . . . you’ll probably survive.”

  Britt was silent. “Wow. That is one stirring speech, Patton.”

  “Listen to me.” Laine was a little pissed off. “Britt, you’re really freaking smart, but you’re so proud and you shut people out when you’re hurt and scared and sometimes you need a little outside perspective. Not everything is in your control and life is not a test that comes with a Scantron and a number-­two pencil. It’s okay to feel a whole bunch of feelings. All that means is you have feelings. Feelings are good. Remember in cheerleading practice? You kind of just learn how to fall. And falling gets easier every time. You survived Jeff. You’ll survive this. Maybe you have to fall over and over again in order to master it. Maybe that’s all life is. Maybe that’s all this is.”

  Britt was astonished.

  “That’s a much better speech,” she allowed after a moment.

  And Laine actually sounded a little like J. T., but Britt wasn’t going to tell her that.

  Laine laughed.

  “I don’t want you to be hurt or scared, Bippy. It kills me. But I also don’t want you to think this is the end of the world. And if you really do love him, maybe you should try to get him back. I’ve never known you to run away from a challenge, and I can’t imagine you can’t take Rebecca Corday with one hand tied behind your back, blindfolded.”

  “I totally could.”

  “But if you’re still too scared, then maybe that’s something you just have to wait out. Maybe you’re not ready. And if it’s really over, you’ll probably survive to get back up on another horse one day. That’s all I’m sayin’.” She swiveled her head and bellowed, “MUFFIN!”

  Britt gave a start.

  “Crap! Gotta go, Britt! The cat is tearing around the house. I think he has a dingleberry. I have to grab him before he gets up on our comforter. Love you! Alley-­oop!”

  The screen went black.

  Britt couldn’t bring herself to say Alley-­oop back. She didn’t feel like she had the right anymore.

  CHAPTER 20

  A brilliant scarlet-­and-­purple sunset hung like bunting over a scene out of a fairy tale—­or out of a Hollywood movie. Same difference this time, J. T. though
t. And this particular movie had a cast of hundreds. Fairy lights twinkled in the trees surrounding them; laughing, lounging, cuddling guests clustered at tables covered in white umbrellas that bloomed like little toadstools all over the sprawling green Napa grounds. The ones who weren’t at the tables were dancing or doing deals or mingling or drinking way, way too much or possibly sleeping with someone they shouldn’t in one of the myriad guest cottages.

  Speaking of drinking too much, Rebecca was out on the dance floor and she was drunker than he’d ever seen her. She was wearing an astonishing purple dress, very short at the hem, high in the front, scooped so low in the back the teensiest hint of butt cleavage showed. He wouldn’t be surprised if half the men in the place were walking around with involuntary boners thanks to that dress.

  He’d asked her to take the wheel of his truck and drive the whole way from Hellcat Canyon to San Francisco, where he’d left her to find her own way to Napa. And on that drive his wedding toast finally poured out of him. He was suddenly fucking Shakespeare. And he’d tapped it all into a draft e-­mail to himself in his phone.

  Rebecca wasn’t happy about that at all.

  And now J. T., after a lot of aggressive and mostly agreeable socializing, had finally found a spot alone at a table on the outskirts of the party. He wanted to be alone.

  Guests kept finding him anyway, to pay homage.

  Clyde Gordimer, an actor, said, “J. T., my man, that wedding toast . . .” He mimed a knife to the heart. “You’re setting the bar too high for the rest of us.”

  “Ah, c’mon, Gordimer. You never met a bar you didn’t love.”

  Gordimer laughed and fist-­bumped him and strolled on.

  A few minutes later, the esteemed multi-­Oscared actress Dame Naomi Nivens knelt next to him and said on a hush, “J. T., I want you to know . . . that toast . . .” She clasped her hands. “The stuff of legends. If only all men thought the way you do.”

  “Maybe they do,” J. T. told her, “and they just can’t say it.”

  She nodded as if he was a sage and drifted off again.