Worth the Trouble (St. James #2)

by Jamie Beck

  A very special thank-you to my friend Ramona, who opened up her heart to me about her past experience so that I could portray elements of Cat’s reaction to her infertility in a realistic way.

  As always, my Beta Babes (Christie, Siri, Katherine, Suzanne, Tami, and Shelley) provided invaluable input on various drafts of this manuscript.

  And I can’t leave out the wonderful members of my CTRWA chapter (especially my MTBs), who provide endless hours of support, feedback, and guidance. I love and thank them for it as well.

  Finally, thank you, readers (especially those who wrote to me asking for Cat and Jackson’s stories), for making my work worthwhile. With so many available options, I’m honored by your choice to spend your time with me.

  AN EXCERPT FROM

  Worth the Risk

  Editor’s Note: This is an uncorrected excerpt and may not reflect the finished book.

  Jackson St. James hadn’t prayed for anything since he’d sprinkled dirt on his mother’s casket almost three years ago. At that moment, he’d decided God didn’t give a shit about him or his prayers. Everything that had happened to him since then had only confirmed his hunch. But just now, when another crack of thunder shook his SUV, he considered sending up a Hail Mary.

  A coal-colored sky spewed rain onto the mountain road that wound its way toward Winhall, Vermont. Autumnal leaves blew about, pasting themselves on his windshield. Trees bowed—bent to the point of breaking—as they fought to hold their ground while straining against unrelenting winds. Though battle-scarred and broken-limbed, the trees with the deepest roots would survive this storm. Weaker ones wouldn’t, which posed a serious threat.

  A superstitious person might take the weather as a sign of an ill-conceived journey and reconsider. Fortunately, Jackson wasn’t superstitious. And while he didn’t much appreciate God’s twisted sense of humor today, he wouldn’t give Him the satisfaction of that Hail Mary, either.

  Irritated by the satellite radio’s cutting out for the umpteenth time in twenty minutes, Jackson punched it off. Only the rapid thumping of his wipers—sounding oddly like a sturdy heartbeat—offered a distraction from his gloomy thoughts.

  If the berm of the road were wider, he’d pull over and wait out the heaviest part of the storm. Instead, he flicked on his hazard lights, eased up his speed, and squinted at the few feet of centerline that were still visible.

  He hugged close to those double yellows—the lifeline literally pulling him through the dark to safety. Had he not been so far to the left of his lane, he’d have crashed into the idiot who not only failed to park a massive Chevy pickup truck away from the road’s edge, but who also leapt out and ran to the truck’s rear.

  Was help needed?

  For a split second, Jackson thought to keep going. He had his own problems to sort out, after all.

  Of course his conscience kicked in, reminding him that he’d never ignored a person in need, not even a stranger. Apparently not even a stupid one who just might get them both killed.

  He steered his Jeep as far to the right side of the shoulder as possible while avoiding the drop-off to the river on its other side. Twisting to the right, he considered reaching for his umbrella. Then the howling wind shifted, and rain began to pummel the car sideways. Cursing, he left the umbrella under the passenger seat and stepped out of his car.

  Within three seconds, his clothes were soaked through as if he’d been tossed into the swollen river ten yards away.

  Muttering to himself, he jogged back to where the pickup remained precariously parked, trying to ignore the way his jeans had transformed into some kind of Chinese finger trap, tightening with each step.

  Just then a small figure circled around from behind the truck bed. A woman—a young woman—stopped in her tracks, wide-eyed, teeth chattering. “Oh!”

  Like him, her soggy clothes dripped. Long brown hair adhered to her cheeks, neck, and shoulders. Raindrops bounced off the thick lashes framing her impossibly round, pale eyes.

  Unlike him, however, she didn’t look particularly miserable. In fact, she looked kind of cute in her little jean jacket, with the skirt of her multi-colored, floral print dress clinging to her legs, which were slim and long despite her short stature. Like a rookie schoolboy with a first crush, he felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth.

  “Looks like you need help,” he shouted above the din of another peal of thunder. “Flat tire?”

  “Yes.” The young woman stepped back slowly. She flashed a brave yet tight smile and took another step away from him. “But don’t trouble yourself. I’ll be okay, thanks.”

  The rain made it difficult to see her face clearly now that she’d put distance between them, yet a spark of attraction charged through him. Attraction he hadn’t felt in a long time. Attraction he had no business indulging for many reasons, not the least of which being the fact that she looked like a college co-ed.

  Too young and innocent for a guy like him.

  “Your jack probably weighs more than you do.” He took a cautious step toward the back of the car so she wouldn’t be alarmed. “Have you ever changed a tire?”

  “Please don’t bother.” She held up one hand. “You can’t help, anyway. There’s no spare.”

  Jackson frowned, noticing the flat front tire. He stooped to take a closer look at the gash. No sealant would fix that tear, and his compact spare wouldn’t fit this huge wheel rim. He glanced at the decal on the side door: Gabby’s Gardens.

  Gabby. Cute name, too.

  “Did you call for help?” He stood, his hands tucked under his armpits, water sluicing off every inch of his body.

  “No service.” She shivered.

  Oddly, the chilly rain hadn’t cooled him off. In fact, his body temperature had only increased since he first set eyes on her, despite the gusty weather.

  A truck honked as it zoomed by, simultaneously hurling a gritty spray at them and causing Gabby’s pickup to quake. Jackson swiped his bangs from his eyes, slinging a handful of water from his face.

  “Why don’t we get off the side of the road before we both end up dead?” He gestured over his shoulder. “Hop in my car and I’ll drive you to the nearest dry spot with cell service.”

  Presuming common sense would force her to agree, he started back toward his car. When she didn’t catch up to him, he glanced back at her. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I don’t think so, but thank you.” She darted for the door of her vehicle. “If you wouldn’t mind calling a tow truck when you reach an area with service, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Miss, you’re parked right at the edge of the road. I’m afraid you’ll get hit.” When that failed to persuade her, he added, “If I were going to hurt you, I could’ve done so already.”

  “All the same, I’ll take my chances here. Not much traffic at this time of day.” She waved before ducking into her truck with a quick “Bye!”

  He heard her car doors lock. For three seconds, Jackson stood there, dumbfounded . . . and a little insulted. No one had ever refused his help or considered him a danger. Then again, a small woman like her probably shouldn’t take chances with any stranger.

  Another heavy rumble overhead forced him to shrug and return to his Jeep. He knew the Stratton resort area wasn’t too far ahead, so he flicked the hazards back on and drove away.

  Leaving her alone didn’t sit well with him, but it made no sense for both of them to indefinitely park there, wedged between the road and the engorged river. He couldn’t very well have tossed her over his shoulder and thrown her in his car.

  That idea, however, looped a thick curl of desire through his gut.

  Obviously it had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Shaking his head to erase the image, he refocused on the road. Of course, it only took seconds before his mind began racing ahead of his car, mulling over why he was even on this road in the first place.

  He hadn’t come to Vermont for pleasure, and he sure shouldn’t become sidetracked by a woman. Not even
an adorably drenched kitten of a girl like Gabby—no matter how bright her eyes or sweet her dimples.

  He’d allotted himself six weeks to get his shit together. His business demanded it—his family, too. Hell, according to them, his very life depended on it.

  Following the surprise intervention his older brother, David, had sprung on him, he’d remained completely sober these past several weeks while making arrangements for this hiatus. Of course, the stress of temporarily handing over the reins of his residential construction projects to his friend Hank had made it difficult. Made him crave the slow burn of whiskey sliding down his throat. Made him yearn for numbness to wind its way through his limbs and mind.

  He’d resisted the impulse—barely.

  Pride had kept him from surrendering to the siren call of Glenfiddich. He remained determined to prove to everyone that he could stop whenever he wanted. To confirm that he didn’t have an addiction—he’d merely fallen into some bad habits.

  Neither David nor his sister, Cat, understood. Unlike him, they took after their reserved father. Jackson, on the other hand, had always reverberated feeling, temper, passion. He’d merely learned to hide it in recent years, after getting burned too many times.

  Concealing pain, however, didn’t mean insults no longer hurt or that slights merely skimmed the surface. No. Those things buried themselves deep inside, like a bullet in bone. Even if plucked out, there would always be a scar.

  Whiskey had helped him soften the jagged edges of bitterness. The fact that he hankered for the smell and taste of it didn’t mean a damned thing. Everyone drank, some even more than him.

  Now that he’d arrived in Vermont, it’d be easier. He’d be relaxed. Outdoors. Active. Without work-site stress—and away from his family’s microscope—he’d reclaim his peace of mind without booze.

  If only that damned lawsuit weren’t hanging over his head.

  Somehow he’d failed to peg Doug as a bad guy when he’d hired him. Huge mistake. How that guy convinced some lawyer to file a bullshit claim for wrongful termination and a bunch of other bogus claims boggled Jackson’s mind.

  At least he could rely on David’s law firm to secure him the best defense possible. Jackson’s only real regret about the whole incident involved Hank’s accidental wrist injury. He prayed he hadn’t permanently sidelined Hank from being able to build furniture or work as a carpenter. If Jackson didn’t find some way to compensate his friend, his sister would make damned sure he did.

  Cat and Hank—a couple now. A couple more unlikely than David and Vivi, which had been about as big of a surprise as he could’ve envisioned at the time.

  Never in a gazillion years would Jackson have thought he’d be the lone St. James still single in his thirties. Hell, he’d been the most romantic of his siblings. He’d flung himself into every relationship, no holds barred. At a time when most guys had run away from commitment, he’d run straight at it, just like a lacrosse attackman racing downfield toward the goal.

  Until Alison bodychecked his soul.

  Her name may as well have been a hunting knife for the way hearing it still carved his heart into ribbons. Without whiskey to blunt the pain, he’d need to find some other way to forget her betrayal. Forget the loss. Moving on might’ve been easier if she weren’t the only one who’d let him down.

  His text message chime jerked him from his mental meandering and brought to mind the girl he’d left stranded a few miles back.

  He yanked the steering wheel and drove into a nearby empty lot, then searched Google for a local tow service. After he ended the call, he made a U-turn and returned to Gabby and her truck.

  Gabby’s Gardens.

  A gardener. Landscaping or vegetables, he wondered? Then he frowned. Gabby and her gardens weren’t the answer to his problems. If anything, she’d only unleash new ones.

  When he passed by her truck this time around, she appeared to be reading in the front seat. He pulled up behind her and killed the engine. Through her rear window, he watched her twist around to look at him. She was too far away for him to tell whether his arrival caused alarm or relief.

  He got out of the car, thankful the rain had slowed to a steady drizzle. He popped open the rear hatch, dug around in his emergency kit, and retrieved two reflective emergency road triangles. Jogging about two car lengths, he placed one in the berm and then, about halfway back to his car, he placed the other slightly inside the roadway. Satisfied with his handiwork, he returned to his truck.

  Wet jeans on a damp seat—damned uncomfortable. Cold denim, clinging to him like an unwanted second skin that didn’t fit right. Still, he’d sit and wait until the tow truck arrived and he could be sure she was safe.

  His stomach gurgled, reminding him it had been several hours since he’d eaten. He noticed Gabby turn around another time or two, either in discomfort or confusion. Had she really thought he’d just leave her stranded and defenseless in the middle of nowhere?

  When her truck door opened, he straightened up, curious about what she’d do next. Clearly, she no longer feared him. As he waited for her next move, something deep inside whispered in his ear, You’re the one in danger.

  Reckless. That’s what she’d always been—plain old reckless when it came to men. She’d thought having Luc would wise her up, but apparently her toddler hadn’t yet knocked common sense into her brain. Boundless love, enormous responsibility, and a long spate of chastity: Yes. Wisdom? Not so much.

  Nothing else could explain why she’d risk her safety to go trade words with the crazy man playing white knight in a thunderstorm. Then again, recent weeks of meditation—her last-ditch effort to cope with the demands of parenting—were teaching her to experience everything openly and without judgment. To be present. Mindful. And right now, curious.

  She jumped down from the cab and began her approach. That’s when she saw Connecticut plates on the front of his car. A tourist. Hopefully not a cunning rapist or murderer, too. To her knowledge, murderers didn’t usually draw attention to themselves with reflective roadside emergency gear. Then again, she’d never known any violent criminals.

  Whether habit or nerves took over, she didn’t know, but one of those two caused her to smooth her wet hair. Like that would help.

  Resolved, more or less, she trotted to the passenger side of his car and motioned for him to roll down his window. He donned a pleasant expression but remained seated, making no attempt to approach her or the passenger door. She guessed he froze in place to keep her from getting jumpy.

  When she stepped close enough to peer through the open window, she noticed the spotless interior. No wadded-up wrappers or napkins, no stray sippy cups, no scuff marks on the seats. Either this guy was a neat freak or he didn’t have kids. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing?”

  “Making sure you don’t end up as roadkill.” He grinned. A heart-stopping, full-lipped grin surrounding stark white teeth that contrasted with his olive-toned complexion.

  Growing up in this rural, tiny town of eight hundred residents, she hadn’t seen men who looked like him except in magazines. Around here, clean shaven was a bonus, let alone this guy’s level of H-O-T. She’d been right to think him deadly, just wrong about the why of it.

  “Oh.” Her heart began pumping as hard as it might during a hike up Mount Equinox. “Well, thanks, but I’m sure the tow truck will be here soon. I told you, not many cars pass this way on Tuesday afternoons. You really don’t need to stay. I’m fine.”

  She swiped her palm across her face to wipe away the water. Darn rain. Surely she had mascara streaks streaming down her cheeks.

  “I’m fine, too.” His gaze strayed to the raindrops coming in through the open window. Tilting his head, he said, “You’re welcome to take a seat if you’d rather continue your interrogation someplace dry.”

  Gabby stepped back and shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Do I look like some kind of murderer?”

  “Frankly, I’ve
got no idea. I’ve never met a murderer.” His wide-eyed reaction spurred her to tease him. “But Ted Bundy was good-looking, so for all I know, you’re a serial killer.”

  Instead of arguing, his devilish smile emerged, which set free a thousand butterflies in her stomach. A magical, brightening sensation she hadn’t felt in years and now wished she could capture in a box to take home to experience again and again and again.

  His lethal smile expanded. “You think I’m good-looking?”

  As if he didn’t already know. Every woman on the planet would consider him handsome . . . and sexy. She could only imagine how fine his dark, curly hair would look when it dried. Fistfuls of it, she knew that much. Broad shoulders—very broad—and a square jaw. Amber-colored eyes set deeply beneath dark, heavy brows, although those eyes looked quite melancholy for someone wearing that smile.

  She crossed her arms and chuckled. “That’s all you heard?”

  “I’ve got a talent for homing in on the most important point.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2013 Lorah Haskins

  Jamie Beck is a former attorney with a passion for inventing stories about love and redemption. In addition to writing novels, she also enjoys dancing around the kitchen while cooking, and hitting the slopes in Vermont and Utah. Above all, she is a grateful wife and mother to a very patient, supportive family.

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