Until the woman repeated her demand in a shrill voice.
See, Jen told herself. You don’t even know his name and he’s messing up your game. Don’t even go there. He’s leaving and you’ll never see him again.
And that’s a good thing.
Really.
* * *
Zach suddenly felt as if he couldn’t breathe. Two references to his father in rapid succession, however unwitting, were two reminders he didn’t need. He was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that his father—Judge Robert Coxwell—had blown his own brains out in his study, immediately after Zach had called for assistance from a jail cell in New Orleans.
He’d spent his whole life trying to get his father’s attention, and it wasn’t much consolation that completely getting that man’s attention had led to the result it had.
The beer seemed to curdle in his gut, which beer technically couldn’t do, but Zach felt like he was going to hurl after all. He had to get out of there, get some fresh air, walk it off.
Out of the corner of his eye, Zach saw Murray settle a heavy elbow on the table. “So, it’s none of my business,” that man said, “but if you’re thinking of hitting on Jen, you think about this. You mess up that girl and you have to answer to me.”
“Mess her up?”
“Break her heart, leave her pregnant, stand her up, crack her fingernail. Doesn’t matter if the crime is big or small. I’ll collect the due. Got it?”
“You’re protective of her.”
“I like ’em smart.”
“Why? Is she your daughter?”
Murray snorted. “So, a man is only allowed to be protective of his own blood? Where are you from, kid? She’s a fighter and she deserves a break, not some hotshot stomping all over her heart.”
“You don’t even know me…”
“I don’t have to. I know your kind with your confident walk and big talk. Your kind come in here every day, thinking you own the world. And maybe you will. Maybe you do. Maybe you are entitled to everything you think you want.” He wagged a finger. “But not Jen. Understand?”
“Yeah, I think I do.” Zach held the older man’s gaze for a charged moment.
He was suddenly tired of people and their assumptions. What difference did it really make whether he made a waitress smile or not?
Lucy dropped her tray on the bar and exhaled in disgust. “My dogs are killing me. Where’re my two 7-Ups?”
“Coming up, sweetheart,” Murray said.
Lucy raised a brow at Zach. “Now, I’m in trouble. When he starts calling me sweetheart, I know something’s gonna hit the fan.”
Zach smiled because she seemed to expect it. He sure didn’t feel like smiling. “Maybe you could give me my bill when you have a chance.”
Murray glanced pointedly at Jen. “I thought you were here for the duration.”
“No, I gotta go. The world is kind of high maintenance these days.”
That won him a grudging smile from the bartender. His bill appeared immediately and Zach pulled a fifty out of his wallet.
He handed it back to Murray. “Give the change to Jen.”
Lucy whistled.
Murray looked skeptical. “What? It’s got your number on it?”
“No. My friends are cheap tippers and she worked hard. Tell her to keep it.”
Murray regarded him with doubt. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Ciao.”
Zach scooped his leather jacket off the back of the stool and headed for the door. He didn’t even look for Jen, didn’t think beyond getting out of this place. He needed a better plan than winning a waitress’s smile, or finding reassurance from a past that was long gone.
It was starting to snow, the first flakes swirling out of a gray sky. Zach wasn’t the kind of person who got the blues but he felt a major funk coming on.
He could walk, walk and think, and see what came of it.
* * *
Jen was shocked by the sight of the crisp fifty dollar bill. “But his tab was less than twenty bucks,” she protested. “Even with a good tip.”
“Half is mine,” Lucy said. “We’re pooling, remember?”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Murray advised.
Jen shook her head. “I can’t accept this, not in good conscience.”
“A conscience is what gets people into trouble,” Murray said, but Jen didn’t hear him.
She strode across the pub and leaned out the door, certain that Trust Fund Boy couldn’t have gotten far. He was tall enough that she’d be able to see him.
And she did: he was already half a block away, moving quickly with his head down and the collar up on his leather jacket. It was snowing, big pretty flakes that looked playful but might add up to something serious.
“Hey! Wait! You forgot your change!” Jen shouted, but the hunk kept walking. He was moving fast and not listening to her. She glanced back to her section, then took another step out the door. “Wait! You, who left the fifty!”
He glanced back then, briefly, just long enough to wave her off before he turned and strode away. Jen swore, looked back one last time, then ran after him.
She would not take pity money.
At least not from him.
It was colder than she’d thought and her shoes slipped on the snow underfoot. Her white shirt was too thin for the weather and the change in her apron jingled as she ran.
“Stop!” she shouted. “Wait!”
People in the streets paused, then stepped aside to watch. They probably thought she was after a thief. They probably expected cheap entertainment.
At least they moved out of the way.
Jen knew she looked like a lunatic running down the street waving a fifty, but she couldn’t let him leave so much. “Stop! Wait! It’s too much.”
He turned a corner, apparently oblivious to her shouts. Jen ran faster, certain she’d lose him. She raced around the corner, slipped on the sidewalk and collided with something that nearly knocked her off her feet.
That something was Trust Fund Boy. He caught her by the upper arms and steadied her so she didn’t fall. His hands were warm and his grip was strong and she told herself that it was only sensible that she liked that he didn’t let go. After all, she was just hanging on to him because he wasn’t slipping and she was.
That didn’t even sound plausible to her.
“Easy! Where’s the fire?”
She looked up to find his eyes twinkling. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not.” He frowned deeply, pretending to be serious. “I’m a profoundly solemn individual. Ask anyone.”
“I don’t think so.” Jen wagged the fifty at him. “Look, you can’t leave this much.”
“Why not? It’s my money and I can do what I want with it.”
“But it’s too much.”
He shrugged. “It’s a tip, Jen. Just keep it.”
“No. It’s too much.”
“I don’t think so. Trevor was a jerk.”
“Not that much of a jerk.” She pushed the money toward him. “Really. You must have a twenty instead.”
“Nope. No luck. Hey, you’re going to get cold.” He gave her upper arms a quick rub, spun her around, then lifted his hands away. “Get back there before Murray comes after me.”
Jen turned back to face him and blinked. “What?”
What had Murray said to this guy about her?
“Don’t worry about it.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “I gotta go. Take care.” He turned and started to walk away, leaving a cold Jen with a fifty in her hand.
She had a definite feeling that she wouldn’t see him again.
He was hurting, she didn’t know why, but she knew it was somehow partly her own fault. It just wasn’t in Jen to let him walk away, not like this.
Even if it was a mistake. She took a deep breath and said the words on impulse. “Hey, do you want to come to my Gran’s for Thanksgiving dinner?”
It sounded weird, just blurted out like that, but once it was said, it was said. Jen wasn’t usually impetuous and she regretted the words almost as soon as she’d said them.
He stopped, then pivoted slowly. His expression was—big surprise!—confused. “Excuse me?”
Jen straightened with a confidence she didn’t quite feel. She bolstered herself with the memory of the guy at the natural food store, with the sad puppy eyes. “I just invited you to Thanksgiving dinner at my grandmother’s. Next Thursday. Four o’clock. No jeans, but no tie.”
He looked away, looked back at her, then walked back to face her. It could have been said that he approached her with some caution.
As one approaches a wild animal.
Or an insane person. Jen wondered which he considered her to be. In a strange way, it was reassuring that he found this invitation as odd as she did.
Not that they could have anything in common.
He stopped in front of her, his gaze searching her expression. “You don’t have me confused with someone else, do you?”
“No, I’m not that particular flavor of nitwit.”
He grinned. “What flavor of nitwit are you, then?”
She was relieved when he smiled, as if she’d made something better. “You’ll have to figure that out yourself.”
“At Thanksgiving?” He sounded as skeptical as she had about the brain store. “Surrounded by your family?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“Between the candied yams and the mashed potatoes?”
Jen considered telling him that their Thanksgiving dinner was mostly vegetarian but—given that he’d had a burger for lunch—concluded that the tofu probably wouldn’t be a temptation. He might actually like candied yams, while refined sugar was an illegal commodity in her mother’s household.
Might as well keep it simple.
Jen met his gaze steadily. “Exactly.”
He watched her for a long moment. He had green eyes. They seemed lighter when the wind played with his hair, making it look more blond. He cleared his throat. “You don’t think that maybe we should get to know each other a little bit first?” He half-smiled and Jen’s mouth went dry. “Like maybe you should know my name?”
“Good idea. It would make introductions easier.” Jen kept her expression deadpan. She was good at that. “What’s your name?”
“Zach Coxwell.”
“Good. Great. Zach. Hi, Zach.” Jen forced herself to say his name, which was a bit tougher than it would have been if she hadn’t been hyperventilating.
“And do you have a surname, Jen?”
“Maitland. Jen Maitland.”
“Nice to meet you, Jen.” Zach smiled a crooked little smile that made her sucker heart clench and shook her hand. His skin was warm, his grip was firm, and the glint in his eyes was definitely trouble with a capital T.
“Ditto, I’m sure,” she said, taking an icy breath of air. Zach didn’t let go of her hand right away and Jen didn’t pull it away. She was sinking fast, a very bad sign.
It was time to plan an act of extreme vengeance upon her sister.
Unless, of course, this worked.
Chapter Three
“So, Thursday then?” Jen asked brightly.
Zach looked at her for a long moment, then straightened. “You don’t think that maybe we should have just one date before I meet your family? Even coffee?”
Jen took a deep breath and made something up. She hoped it sounded plausible to Zach, even if it sounded nuts to her. In fact, she had a voice of dissent right between her ears. “I understand why you’re surprised.”
Hoo boy, did she ever.
“My family is a bit different, you see.”
There was an understatement, maybe the understatement of the century.
Zach watched and waited, clearly unconvinced so far.
“It’s a family tradition.” Liar! “My grandmother insists upon meeting any guy herself before any of us are allowed to go out for a date.”
“Us?”
“My sister and I. My brothers are somehow exempt from the rule.” She wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “We’re kind of protective of each other that way.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
Zach looked into her eyes so directly that Jen jumped. “So, what you’re really doing here is asking me out, providing your grandmother approves?”
Jen found herself blushing. That he was smiling at her like that didn’t help much. “Well, yes. Um. Pretty much.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire…
“I don’t believe you.” He took the fifty, folded it and put it into her apron. “But you should still keep the change.”
“That’s not why…”
“Of course not. Just so you know, though—” he leaned closer to whisper and she shivered when she felt his breath against her temple “—I can’t go out with you.”
“Even Thanksgiving?”
“Especially Thanksgiving. Murray promised to thump me if I made a move on you.”
Jen put a hand on her hip and scoffed, because it seemed the safest option. “Wait a minute. I just asked out a guy who’s afraid of Murray? He punches like a girl.”
Zach laughed. “Okay, then, you’re on. Thursday. Four o’clock. See you there.” Jen’s relief was short-lived, because he turned to walk away.
“But you don’t know where!” He hadn’t changed his mind: he was teasing her, that much was clear. He wasn’t really accepting—how could he be when he didn’t even ask where her Gran lived?
Zach, however, was the image of confidence. “I’ll find out.”
“But…”
“Tick tock, Jen. As I understand it, you’ve only got until two to make your tips and your section was full.”
“Oh, God, my section…” Jen paused to look back at him. “You actually listened to what I said.”
Now, he looked embarrassed. “Well, duh. Hey, you’d better hurry. And I’ve got to go anyway. Roxanne’s waiting on me.” With one more flash of that cocksure grin, he pivoted and strode away.
Roxanne.
Roxanne!
Jen had just asked a guy to Thanksgiving dinner who had a girlfriend. How smooth was that? She fingered the fifty, stared after him, and felt stupid. She should have asked if he was seeing someone. There was her inexperience screaming loud and clear.
No, the real problem was that she shouldn’t have believed Cin’s plan could work for her. And, she shouldn’t have been so easily charmed by this guy. Her heart shouldn’t be leaping and she shouldn’t be watching him walk away, much less checking out his butt (it was a good one). She shouldn’t have been having fun matching wits with him.
Nope. None of the above.
Zach Coxwell was totally not her type. That was, after all, the point to Cin’s plan. So, it was a good thing that Zach had been just putting her on, that he wouldn’t be coming to dinner, that she wouldn’t see him again, even that Roxanne—who must be gorgeous and rich and endowed with two perfect breasts—was tapping her toe, waiting impatiently for him. Right?
Wrong. There was no arguing with the fact that Jen was disappointed.
Obviously, she was losing her mind as fast as she was losing her tips.
* * *
Women were a mystery. Zach could think of no other explanation for what had just happened. Here he’d been sure that he was striking out, that Jen wouldn’t have given him the time of the day, and she’d been interested in him all along.
Who would have guessed? No matter how old he got and how many women he talked to, Zach knew that he’d never be able to read their responses with 100% certainty.
Maybe that was a good thing.
Maybe mystery—or inscrutability—added a little chemistry. There certainly was chemistry with Jen. He hadn’t wanted to let go of her hand. He certainly hadn’t wanted to walk away, at least not just yet.
He’d been thinking about scoring a
kiss.
No doubt about it, the day was looking up. Zach was interested in Jen, in how quick she was, and curious about how serious she was, and the idea of spending a bit of time with her suited him just fine.
Even if she had some weird ideas. He could live with a bit of quirkiness. It kept things interesting.
In fact, he felt a lot more purposeful now than he had just a few minutes before.
He’d go back tomorrow and get the details straight. Right now, Roxie needed him. It had been four hours and he knew his dog well enough to know her maximum bladder capacity. He headed for his small condo in Cambridge and a large Bernese mountain dog with all four paws crossed.
His mistake, he decided later, was using that alley short-cut to get home sooner.
* * *
Zach was only a dozen steps down its trash-strewn length when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“Hey, Zach, man, long time no see.”
Zach looked up to find Snake-Eyes beside him, as twitchy as ever. The guy made as much noise as a shadow and always had given Zach the creeps. Tall, thin and wasted—in both the colloquial and literal sense of the word—Snake-Eyes wasn’t the kind of guy anyone wanted to spend a lot of time with. He’d been a customer of Zach’s for years, one who Zach had insisted pay cash. Snake-Eyes had always looked as if he wouldn’t last much longer.
Zach hadn’t seen Snake-Eyes in a while, and the other man was looking a bit the worse for wear. That was saying something. He appeared to be more edgy than usual, and not in a good way. His gaze darted from one side to the other and his hands were shaking. Zach speculated that his indulgences had graduated to harder substances—he’d seen that happen a thousand times, always to the detriment of the user.
Which was why Zach had always kept his own indulgences modest: a beer once in a while and the occasional cigarette were his current sins. He’d always limited himself to a single joint, at most, and hadn’t had one since that fateful night in New Orleans. He doubted he’d ever have another.
That chapter of his life was done.
“Hey, Snake-Eyes, what’s going on?” Zach asked the question rhetorically, in a friendly tone even though he wasn’t particularly interested in the answer. Nothing was ever going on with Snake-Eyes: he was either high or working on getting high.
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