Lake Magic

by Fisk, Kimberly

  He set the wallet on the counter and threw his beer bottle away. He told himself the only reason Jenny was still trying to keep the business going was out of some misguided loyalty to Steven. Jared knew Steven wouldn’t want Jenny struggling to hold on to something that was impossible for her to grasp. Soon—very soon, if Jared’s guess was correct (and it always was)—Jenny was going to fold up shop. It was obvious she’d just about reached her caving point. And when she did, Jared would be right here.

  Grabbing his duffel bag, he turned and headed up the stairs, deliberately ignoring the pinch of conscience every time he remembered the look in her eyes.

  SEVEN

  During the last nine months, sleep had become as elusive as an unbroken heart. Most nights, Jenny lay awake in bed, trying to avoid memories that somehow were more vivid in the ebony darkness. When her memories became too painful, she escaped outside to her front porch. There, cocooned in one of her nana’s quilts and curled up in a rocker, she let the sounds of Hidden Lake wash over her, soothing her. It had always been that way, she and this lake. They had a connection, one that defied explanation. No matter how hard life got or how bumpy the road ahead seemed, there was a peace to be found rocking gently in the dark night, listening to the sounds of the water.

  Except for last night.

  Last night, she’d felt like a prisoner in her own home—her own bedroom. With Jared prowling around in her house, she wasn’t about to venture out of her room for fear of running into him. Once a night was enough.

  Though she wasn’t even sure if he was prowling. Even though she told herself to ignore him, pretend he wasn’t downstairs, her effort proved futile. She found herself straining to hear his every movement. But no matter how hard she listened, silence was all she heard.

  As the minutes ticked into an hour, then two, she found herself becoming even more angry. Damn him. Damn him for doing this to her. Damn him for barging in where he so clearly wasn’t wanted. And damn her for not being able to ignore him.

  Her muscles grew tense, worrying that at any moment she would hear him right outside her bedroom door. The waiting strained her, made her body ache and her head throb. As the hours passed, she found herself wishing for rain. Wishing for the noise it would bring and obliterate the harsh quiet that permeated the house and free her from her unwanted vigil. But the dark sky remained quiet.

  Not hearing him was a worse kind of hell than hearing him.

  Close to dawn, she dozed, only to wake with a start. She lay there, disoriented, trying to figure out what had jarred her out of a fitful sleep. She glanced at her bedside clock. Six oh three.

  You’ve got to be kidding.

  She heard the noise again. Creaking on the stairs.

  Grabbing her robe, she hurried out of bed. She made it to the top of the stairs in time to see Jared’s tall outline disappear out the door. He had left. She leaned against the railing, waited for the expected flood of relief, but it never came. Because she knew without a doubt he’d be back.

  Where did he go?

  More importantly, why did she care?

  She turned away from the stairs and went back into her room. She shut her door, harder than she intended. Somehow she was going to get that man out of her mind and out of her house.

  She looked longingly at her bed. Right now, she’d like nothing better than to crawl back in and burrow under her thick, warm covers. But even as she had the thought, she knew she wouldn’t. Who knew how much time she had before Jared returned?

  She started for the bathroom, only to walk past it to the room Jared was staying in. Curiosity had her opening the door, peering inside.

  The room looked exactly as it always did. Not a thing was out of place. The bedside table held the old lamp and picture of her grandpa fishing, just as it always had. The top of the dresser was bare except for a few more photos and another lamp. But that was it. Not even so much as a book or a glass of water altered the space. Knowing she was being nosy but unable to stop herself, she peeked into the closet. Empty. Chest of drawers. Also empty. It was almost as if he hadn’t spent the night. And then she saw the bed. There was no mistaking that military precision.

  As she turned to leave, something in the corner caught her eye. She took a few steps closer and realized it was his duffel bag. His packed duffel bag.

  She couldn’t help but smile. If he wasn’t unpacking, he wasn’t planning on staying.

  All but humming, she left his room and headed to the bathroom.

  She was in and out of the shower in twenty minutes—a record for her. Back in her room, she dressed in her favorite old pair of jeans and a long-sleeved cotton top. As she made her way to the kitchen, she twisted her hair up and around and secured the thick bundle with a claw clip. Thank goodness she hadn’t needed to take the extra time to wash her hair.

  The house was chilly and dark; no surprise at this ungodly hour. She turned on the lights, cranked up the thermostat, and she put the teakettle on to boil. What was it with Jared and his obsession with the predawn hours? All right, predawn might be stretching it, but from her limited association with him, he seemed to be one of those obnoxiously early risers. She chalked up another fault on his ever-increasing list. Normally, she’d be generous and blame it on his military background, but she was feeling anything but generous this morning. Besides, it was Saturday. Even Steven had known how to relax on the weekend.

  The teakettle whistled. A few moments later, with a cup of tea, she leaned against the kitchen counter and stared out the large window. Light, misty rain fell from a bleak sky. She stared at the dark clouds, taking comfort in the fact that the weather matched her mood.

  She stood in her kitchen, drinking her tea and fighting down the feeling of trepidation that had plagued her ever since she’d come home last night and found Jared in her house. Knowing her unwanted guest (and she used that word in the loosest way possible) could come and go as he pleased was just plain unsettling.

  He had to go. It was as simple as that. But knowing it and making it happen were two completely different things.

  The old avocado green clock that had hung in her grandmother’s kitchen for as long as Jenny could remember ticked away. She mentally groaned, thinking about the long day that stretched out before her.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten much yesterday, even last night at her dad’s birthday party. Somehow, the hundred and one questions her family had pelted her with had killed any appetite she might have had. All anyone had wanted to talk about was Jared. A conversation Jenny was so not having. After an hour or so, her family got the hint, but even though his name hadn’t been brought up again, she couldn’t keep thoughts of him out of her mind.

  She opened the fridge and saw the Tupperware container her mom had sent home. She didn’t remember putting it in the fridge, but then, she pretty much didn’t remember anything about last night except finding Jared in her family room.

  Ignoring the leftovers—eating them would remind her of an evening of interrogation she’d rather forget—she reached for the carton of eggs. She got out a skillet from one of the bottom cabinets and set it on the stove.

  Her breakfast was just about finished when the front door opened.

  Jared walked into the kitchen like he owned the place. “Mornin’.” He flashed her a grin that should be illegal in all fifty states.

  She tried not to stare; honest to God she did. But ignoring Jared was like ignoring the Sistine Chapel. Except while he might be pure perfection on the outside, his rotten heart was another matter entirely.

  Dark stubble shadowed his face, and raindrops glistened off his black hair. Rain molded his navy blue T-shirt to his chest like a second skin, revealing defined muscles and a hard, flat stomach. A pair of black shorts revealed long, toned, muscular legs. He smelled like a fresh rain shower, crisp morning air, and clean, hard-won sweat. She felt a pull in the pit of her stomach.

  Damn him for waltzing into her kitchen half-dressed and making her re
member sensations she’d buried long ago.

  He snagged the clean kitchen towel off the counter, wiped his face, then ran the towel back and forth over his short hair.

  “That’s a kitchen towel,” she snapped, trying hard to ignore him. And failing miserably.

  The towel paused at the back of his head. “Do you mind?” He flashed her one of his boyishly charming grins that didn’t fool her for one second.

  Yes, her mind screamed. I mind everything you do. But arguing about a stupid towel was the least of her problems right now. She had bigger fish . . . bigger flyboys . . . to fry. “No, of course not.” She tried to sound like she meant it.

  And then it dawned on her just what he’d been doing up at this early hour. “You were running?” The way she said it was more of an accusation than a question.

  “Only a quick jog. Didn’t have time for my usual seven miles.”

  She choked. Seven miles? Chalk up another of his faults: compulsive exerciser. In her book, that ranked right up there with puppy haters and serial killers.

  She was about to let him know how crazy she thought he was when the smell of something burning had her hurrying to the stove.

  She grabbed the pan off the burner and popped the toast up. One of these days she was going to have to get a toaster that actually worked. She looked down at the food. Burned toast and overdone eggs. She placed the blame for this latest culinary disaster exactly where it belonged: on a wide, muscled chest and a wolfish grin that sent a tingle of awareness straight through her.

  She pulled a plate out of the cupboard and tried to slide the eggs out of the pan and onto the plate. They weren’t budging. It took several hard scrapes with the spatula to unstick them. Nonstick spray my foot.

  She eyed the eggs suspiciously. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like there were still a few bits of eggshells mixed in. Darn it, she thought she’d picked them all out. Oh well, she’d just make sure to be extra careful when she ate.

  Her toast was another matter. She thought about making a couple more pieces but then abandoned the idea. She’d learned a long time ago that enough butter could cover a multitude of cooking blunders.

  With her breakfast in one hand, she turned and came face-to-face with Jared. Well, face-to-chest.

  How did he always manage to sneak up on her?

  Her heart stuttered then kicked into overdrive. He was close. Too close. It had been hard enough to ignore him when they’d been separated by the peninsula, but now that he was mere inches from her . . .

  How long had it been since she’d stood this close to a man who wasn’t her father or brother?

  “Somethin’ sure smells good.”

  Him. He smelled good. Like fresh raindrops, crisp morning air, and everything forbidden.

  “Thanks,” he said, reaching for the plate between them. “I’m starved.”

  Embarrassed at where her mind had been and embarrassed at her horrible cooking, she was about to tell him to get his own breakfast, when she remembered the burned toast and ruined eggs. At that moment, all of her grievances toward Jared piled up between them. He’d barged into her life, into her business, into her housewithout so much as an ounce of remorse. It was no secret what he thought of her or how she ran her business, while she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes or thoughts off of him. It took less than five seconds for all of those thoughts to converge into a good old solid fury.

  She looked down once more to the plate between them and had never been more proud of her cooking skills. One taste, and he’d be gagging and running for the phone book, desperately seeking a new bed-and-breakfast—one where he’d get the kind of melt-in-your-mouth home-cooked meals Mrs. Murphy was famous for.

  With a smile as bright as a July sun, she relinquished her breakfast, even going so far as to get him a napkin and fork from the drawer.

  “Thanks,” he said again, pulling out a kitchen stool and sitting down. He’d forked up a bite of eggs, then paused. “Is that orange juice?”

  She looked at the hand-squeezed juice she’d made from two of the puniest oranges ever. She’d been going to throw it out. All that work, and all she’d gotten was a couple of sips of juice, seeds, and globs of pulp. She slid the glass across the counter toward him. “Have at it,” she said with another bright smile.

  He took a bite.

  She held her breath as gleeful anticipation ran through her. Briefly she wondered how he’d manage to choke the rubbery eggs down. Of course, on further thought, she didn’t want him dying—just gone. She thought back to when she’d learned the Heimlich maneuver and ran the process through her head. Yes, she could do it. She could save this miserable lout when he choked on eggs that he’d insisted on eating. She would save him (unfortunately), but then, with his gratitude overflowing, he would ask her what he could do to repay her. Leave, she’d say with a serene smile.

  Lost in her fantasy, it took her a moment to realize he was talking.

  “Great breakfast. Best eggs I’ve had in a long time.”

  “What?”

  “Great scrambled eggs.”

  Was he for real? “They’re fried.”

  He shot her a smile, one that had undoubtedly been charming women of all ages since he was two. He polished off the OJ. “Fresh-squeezed. My favorite.”

  She stared at his plate—his empty plate. Not a rubbery bit of egg left. Or a partially eaten piece of burned toast.

  He set his glass down on the counter and wiped his hands off on his napkin. “You sure can cook. After that meal, I can’t wait for lunch and dinner.”

  She couldn’t cook. Everyone knew that. Even she admitted it most the time. And lunch and dinner? Just who did he think he was?

  “Hope you’ve eaten.” He wadded up his napkin and dropped it onto his plate.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  Who was he, her mother?

  “Besides,” he continued, “you’ll need to keep your strength up. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

  “I don’t know what your day consists of, but I already have my schedule, thank you very much.”

  He ignored her. “I’ve spoken to Zeke.”

  Zeke? How did he know how to get in touch with Zeke?

  She hadn’t realized she asked the question out loud until he answered it.

  “I met him the first day I arrived. When you were at lunch.”

  The way he said lunchmade her cringe. Like she was blowing off work for some frivolous girl thing. Believe you me, if she could get out of lunch with her mother, she would. “How?”

  “How what?”

  “How did you know how to get in touch with my pilot?”

  “Our pilot’s number is on the side of your fridge.”

  She shot her fridge and the large sunflower magnet that held the list of numbers a furious look. She even had her parents’ and Paul’s and Anna’s. Though why, she couldn’t say. It wasn’t like she didn’t know them by heart.

  “Why did you need to contact my pilot?” There was no ours, now or ever.

  “I’ve called a meeting.” Jared looked at his watch. “He’ll be here in thirty minutes. Don’t be late.”

  “It’s Saturday.” Not that she had any intention of attending his so-called meeting, no matter what day of the week it was.

  “So?”

  “So Zeke has the day off.”

  “He’s been more off than on since I got here.”

  “Zeke sets his own hours.”

  “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me? Either of you ever heard of a work schedule?”

  His superior attitude was really starting to piss her off. “You are not going to barge in here and start changing anything. Zeke and I have a system.”

  “Not an effective one.”

  “You are not the boss.”

  “No,” he said with a barely there patience that reminded her of a harassed parent. “I’m your partner, and we’re having a meeting in half an hour.
Changes need to be made.” He picked up the towel he’d used earlier and ran it back through his nearly dry hair, dismissing her as clearly as if he’d said the words.

  “We don’t need any changes.”

  He looped the towel around his neck, holding on to the ends. “Plan, brief, execute.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Plan.” He said it with infinite slowness. “Brief.” Another infuriating pause. “Execute.” He gave her that look she was fast growing to hate. “First, I devise a plan how to turn this train wreck around. Second, I brief you on the plan. Third, I direct you on its execution.”

  “You are insane.” It was fast becoming her favorite saying around him. She turned to leave. No way was she staying around and listening to any more of this, and no way was she walking out of here without letting him know exactly where his place was around here.

  “I cooked,” she told him. “You clean. Dish soap is under the sink.”

  “KP isn’t my specialty.”

  “Don’t worry. It doesn’t take much skill. You should be able to handle it just fine.” She thought she heard a chuckle, but when she whipped back around, his face was a blank slate.

  “Don’t you want to know what my specialty is?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Debriefing.” A wolfish grin appeared that did funny things to her insides. “I’m nothing if not thorough.”

  His comment left her frozen in her tracks, blushing clear down to her toes.

  He began to walk out of the kitchen but paused when he reached her. “Oh eight hundred. Don’t be late.”

  Moments later she heard him heading up the staircase. From the sounds of it, he was taking them two at a time.

  Jenny looked at the messy kitchen and wondered what had just happened. She eyed his empty plate, wanting nothing better than to throw it at his gorgeous, arrogant head.