by Shauna Allen
My mouth dropped open. “What in the world are you talking about? I just went to ask him about Daddy’s bike.”
“Uh huh. You’re welcome, by the way.”
I didn’t reply, not sure where all this was coming from. My best friend playing matchmaker? Since when?
“Soooo . . . how’d it go?”
“Fine.”
Baby Molly cooed in the background and I smiled automatically. I loved that baby. Well, I loved most kids, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit my biological clock was beginning to tick. Loudly.
“Just fine?”
“Yes. Fine.” I spun in my chair toward the window and took in the Texas summer sunshine. “I’d like to go back to the dancing thing. What was that all about?”
She sighed heavily as the baby started squawking. “Seriously?”
I waited, silent. That always seemed to work with guilty clients.
“Hold on a sec. Molly’s hungry.”
I waited patiently, knowing she was latching the baby to her breast, and hating that I felt like I was being cornered.
“Okay,” she finally said.
I remained quiet.
“Oh, come on!” she spouted. “We’ve been best friends forever. I always know when you’re into a guy, and you’re most definitely into Jesse. I’ve kinda always wondered why my ball-buster friend didn’t go for it a long time ago.”
“You mean when he was in prison?” I said without thinking, then cringed. I sounded like a real judgmental bitch.
“No,” she said without flinching. “Like in high school.” She paused. “I’ve never really understood why you didn’t try to keep up with him all these years. Then you ended up with that jerkface, Angelo, instead.”
“Whatever.” She’d made her feelings about Angelo very clear from the beginning, all the way through to the end, of that debacle.
“Rachel Anne Chaseman, you’re playing coy with me. What I don’t understand is why. We’ve always talked . . . ooooohhhh,” she said as something obviously dawned on her.
“Oh, what, great Obiwan?”
“Oh, it’s serious.”
I sat back until my leather chair creaked and I was facing the ceiling. “Serious? We hardly know each other.”
“I mean your crush. Why else would you be playing dumb?”
“I am not playing dumb and I do not . . .” I paused before saying I didn’t have a crush on him. That was a lie and I didn’t lie to my friends. Though ‘crush’ seemed such a tame word for how my body reacted to him like a live wire. “Okay, fine,” I relented, my voice barely above a whisper. “I might have a little, tiny, miniscule crush on him.”
“I knew it!”
“Don’t you dare say one word, Delilah, I mean it. I’m nearly thirty. Women my age aren’t supposed to have crushes.”
Her soft laughter filled the line. “Of course they do. It makes things interesting.”
Jesse’s ass bent over that SUV filled my mind. Interesting was one way to put it. “Well, either way, he’s only helping me with Dad’s motorcycle. That’s it. I’m sure he has other women—”
“Nope. No women. Not since he got out,” she handily supplied. “All you had to do was ask me. There are perks to your best friend’s husband being his closest friend. What else do you want to know?”
“I don’t want to know anything,” I muttered, wishing I could ask the thousands of questions that had been swirling inside me since I saw him again.
What did he love? His favorite foods, movies, color . . . anything. How had prison changed him? Did he regret his choice to defend his sister, Leta?
A weird part of me hoped not. Prison or not, I was a sucker for a strong man who was willing to fight for those he loved. There was a severe shortage of men willing to stand up for anything it seemed sometimes.
“Well, how about if I tell you he’s got a weakness for baked goods?”
“Baked goods?”
“Yes. You know, cakes, pies, cookies, that kind of thing. Well, and candy. Basically, any kind of junk or sugar.”
I thought of the muscles on him. “Really?”
“Really. Apparently, he’s making up for all the sugary shit he couldn’t get in prison. Blake says he’s gonna give himself diabetes.”
A laugh belted from low in my gut. I loved chocolate and cheeseburgers as much as the next girl, but she sounded so serious. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“Do that. You know what they say about the way to a man’s heart.”
If only it were that simple.
Jesse
I sucked it up and went on a jog with Micah the next morning, but I drew the line at one of his puke green smoothies. I stood at the kitchen counter, panting with a bottle of water, while he mixed up mysterious ingredients then chugged down the thick mixture.
I shifted away in disgust. “Dude. Can you drink something that doesn’t look like sewer water?”
He set his empty glass down with a hearty aah. “You should try it sometime. You might like it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Right.”
He headed toward the bathroom with a smartass grin. “I’m cooking an egg white omelet after my shower. You want one?”
I eyed the package of donuts on the counter. “Uh . . . sure.”
He laughed and padded away.
I swallowed the rest of my water, wishing it was a Coke, then moved to my room to find some clean clothes. Once I heard Micah’s shower die down, I grabbed my stuff and headed to my own bathroom for a shower. I closed the door and twisted the water faucet to hot.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of myself and I turned to study my face, somehow taken aback by the hardness there. I worked hard to hide the dark void deep within me. The one that threatened to eat me alive sometimes. It was the reason I’d avoided relationships. It wasn’t fair to stain someone else. Not fair at all.
I met my own eyes in my reflection as Rachel stormed into my mind. She was a breath of fresh air with her spunk, her confidence, her damn sunny disposition. Why couldn’t I shake her and find release in the arms of some other girl? I’d definitely had ample opportunity. Seemed there were plenty of girls looking to take a walk on the dangerous side with a felon. I just wasn’t up for being anyone’s roller coaster.
Being entirely honest with oneself is a good exercise.
Sigmund Freud was absolutely right on that one. Honesty was the best policy, and I may be too fucked up to even attempt a real relationship, but I wasn’t a charity case. Or an adventure.
I just hadn’t figured out what exactly I was.
With a sigh, I jumped in the shower and soaped the sweat from my body, wondering why in the hell I’d agreed to go running. About the dumbest sport ever invented.
By the time I got back to the kitchen, Micah was at the counter chopping up more vegetables. I plopped on a bar stool and watched him dice mushrooms, onions, green peppers and tomatoes like a pro. Without glancing up, he spoke. “So, you’re really gonna work on Rachel’s bike?”
I blinked. “Yeah. Why?”
He glanced up. “Just wondering. Will that be uncomfortable for you?”
I averted my eyes. “Why would I be uncomfortable? She’s just another customer.”
“Another customer, right.” He shook his head and began grating cheese.
Hurt welled up in me. “Look, man, I know she’s a little above my paygrade, but it’s not personal. It’s a job—”
His head snapped around. “What? I didn’t mean . . . Dude, I wasn’t implying anything.”
“No?”
He sighed as he cranked up the stove. “No. You’re a great guy, Rachel’s a great gal. I don’t see any reason she couldn’t be more than a client. God knows you deserve some happiness after these last years. It’s just . . . I’m not blind, man.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
From his post tending the stove, he shot me a look. “Dude. Anyone with eyes knows you’ve been into her for a while. I was
just thinking . . . she’s a lawyer . . .”
“And I’m on parole. I get it.” I paused as I thought of my parole officer. Lopez was about as round as he was tall and as intimidating as a Grizzly. Our next meeting was Friday morning and they were always so fun.
The egg mixture hissed in the pan as Micah poured. “No. I mean, yeah, there is that. I just thought maybe there was more to it.”
“Like what?” What could be more important than that?
He shrugged. “I dunno. You seem to keep your distance from chicks. Especially her. I thought maybe she’d shot you down or something? Maybe she has a problem with you being on parole? Maybe she’s still got a thing for what’s-his-name, her ex . . .?”
“Ex?” It shouldn’t surprise me, she was a beautiful woman. Of course, she would’ve had relationships in the past years.
Micah added veggies to the egg, his focus intent. “Yeah.” Once he flipped the perfectly golden omelet, he glanced at me. “She was engaged. Didn’t you know?”
It felt like someone had hacked into my chest. “No,” I croaked. “I didn’t.”
“Hey.” He sat next to me with steaming plates of food. “It was a long time ago.”
Stupid, unreasonable jealousy slid through me. “Who was it?”
By Micah’s quick glance away, I figured my hunch was right. Someone we knew.
“Angelo Moretti.”
I sat back. “What the . . . that little Italian weasel she works with?”
“The very one.”
I shot him a glare. “You fucking with me?”
Hands held up in innocence, he grimaced. “I shit you not. I think it was about the time she graduated law school. They met there maybe? Anyway, one day, she shows up with a huge chunk of ice on her finger and announces they’re going into practice together.”
“They’re not together now?” I knew I sounded like a jealous prick, but I didn’t care.
“No. Not sure what happened though. By the next year’s Christmas party at Trace’s, the bling was gone.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “I do remember she seemed awfully sad that year.”
A mix of relief that she was single, along with frustration that her heart had been broken and I’d been locked up, unable to do a thing about it, nearly crumpled me. I could deny it all I wanted, avoid it, fight it, lie about it . . . but I had it bad for Rachel Chaseman. She had been the single thing that had gotten me through those years in prison. Dreams of what it would feel like to hold her in my arms. What that fiery red hair would smell like. Those eyes darkening with desire for me.
Fantasies so real, I got lost in them like a drug addict in the midst of a high. And I’d never even had a taste.
I knocked on Rachel’s front door Friday night, fighting the nerves that wanted to crowd my throat. Everything Micah had told me was still fresh on my mind and I couldn’t shake it, no matter what I did to quiet the noise. Who else had touched her? Had they hurt her?
I may never have a shot in hell, but it killed me to think of someone else taking up the space in her heart that she seemed to already hold in mine.
I’d almost resigned myself to the longing that would always be with me when the door swung open and the decadent scent of dark chocolate greeted me, along with her sexy smile. “Hiya.”
I let my eyes track her from the loose ponytail that barely contained her riotous curls, down to the faded Texas A&M T-shirt that clung to her chest, teeny weeny white shorts, all the way down to her bare feet with lime green polish. Definitely not the power suit from the other day.
“Hey.”
She opened the door wider. “Wanna come in?”
“Sure.” I followed her inside and was slammed by what I could only describe as an explosion of Rachel Chaseman. Colors. Colors everywhere, on every surface, in every texture, decorated the small room, making it look like a living rainbow. Swirly contemporary paintings hung on bright yellow walls. Comfortable clutter. Like someone lived and loved here. “Nice house.”
She smiled as she closed the door and faced me. “Thanks. I’ve been working on it and I’ve almost got it how I want it.”
“Needs more color?”
She paused, then her smile grew as she realized I was joking. “Something like that.”
We walked further into the living room and the scents of vanilla and something spicy wafted around me. Suddenly, our solitude hit me in the gut. She had lived with Delilah’s cousin, Jewel, for a time, but had moved on. “You like living alone?”
She gave me a questioning look. “I guess. Jewel was a great roomie for a while, but she wanted a place of her own after she got hired by the police station, so she took over the lease on our apartment while I searched for something a little bigger, more my own.”
“Your own?” I smiled, indicating her melee of color.
She smiled. “My own.”
I swallowed and moved to her bookshelf, bending to look at the titles there. My eyes caught on a sculpture tucked neatly between stacks of books. As I realized what I was looking at, I was overwhelmed by the blatant sensuality.
“Eternal Idol by Rodin,” she said in a soft, reverent voice behind me. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
I wanted to touch, but kept my hands fisted in my pockets as I looked closer. God, what I wouldn’t give to worship Rachel’s body in that same way. On my knees, my face buried in the weight of her perfect breasts. I faced her, seeing the pink staining her cheeks. “Yes. It is.”
Her dark eyes stayed on mine. Swallowed me whole. “Jesse . . .”
“Rachel.”
She took a couple deep breaths and I watched as she visibly composed herself before speaking again. “Do you want to see the bike?”
I nodded and breathed out in relief. I’d been too close to ripping the heart out of my chest and putting it in her hand. And all from one look. God, I was sunk.
Well, the Indian was a bit of a POS, but it was such a classic, I had a hard time judging her for being rode hard and put up wet. Literally, it seemed.
I tinkered around for a good hour, checking every nook and cranny and making copious notes of the parts she’d need and how many hours of labor it would likely take. But I could definitely envision how sexy it’d be when it was finished. Especially if she got a nice deep red paint job. Maybe black.
“How’s it going out here?”
I spun at Rachel’s voice and wondered how I hadn’t felt her glide in that close. “Uh . . . good.”
Her eyes caressed the bike in a way that made me jealous. “I love this old thing.” Her gaze met mine again. “What do you think? How much to get it up and running?”
I tapped the notepad against my thigh, doing a rough calculation. “You sure you wanna know?”
She wrinkled her nose adorably. “I know it won’t be cheap. Come on, hit me.”
I did a double-take just as she seemed to realize what she’d said. “Jesse, I didn’t . . . shit, I’m sorry. That was an inconsiderate slip of the tongue.”
“Why was that inconsiderate? No need to dance around the truth. I went to prison for nearly beating a guy to death.”
“I know, but—”
“’An unbelieved truth can hurt a man much more than a lie.’”
She blinked up at me, her eyes wide and confused.
“Steinbeck? East of Eden?”
As realization dawned on her face, I mentally kicked myself for looking like a nerd. I did not advertise that I’d spent my five years behind bars pumping iron because there wasn’t anything better to do during rec time, and reading because I enjoyed it. I read everything I could get my hands on, and over time I’d slowly felt my world expanding. Fiction. Non-fiction. Biographies. Textbooks. You name it, I read it.
A slow grin spread across her face and I shifted uncomfortably. “You read East of Eden?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled and turned back to the bike, pretending to check something.
It was silent for several moments until I finally peered back at her.
“
You, Jesse Joyner, are an enigma.”
I lifted a brow in question.
“There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.” She bit her lip against a smile. “Not that what meets the eye is all that bad.”
My eyes widened in surprise. I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off.
“How about some chocolate cake?”
Rachel
Jesse Joyner read. Talk about sexy. Not that I didn’t think he was smart enough or anything, I just hadn’t thought about his hobbies. When he came to mind, he was always under the hood of a car, riding the motorcycle I’d seen him on occasionally, and well, there were some X-rated versions, too. But, damn, knowing he read . . . and heavy, serious stuff I’d never read . . . made him all the hotter.
I cleared my throat as he followed me into the house, beckoned with the promise of cake. I hope I hadn’t screwed it up, but Betty Crocker never got it wrong. I had faith the old girl could help me inch into Jesse’s world via his sweet tooth.
“Have a seat,” I said over my shoulder as I made my way over to the covered cake dish. I could still feel a tad of the heated blush on my cheeks and I just couldn’t face him yet.
I cut two slices, one hunk for him, a smaller one for myself. I turned to him, my thumb between my lips as I licked off rogue icing. “You want milk with this?”
His pale blue eyes honed in on the finger in my mouth. “Sure.”
I let my finger pop loose as I studied him. “What?” I finally asked. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No.” His voice was low, gruff.
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
I swallowed, sure my hormone-addled brain was messing with me. There was no way that feral gleam in his eyes was for anything besides the cake. “Nothing. Never mind.”
I poured his milk and served him. Before I could spin away, he caught my wrist in his warm grip. “Rachel.”
Slowly, I let my eyes meet his. I hated that I suddenly felt so off balance. “Yeah?”
His thumb brushed the inside of my arm where the skin was ultra-sensitive and I wondered if he could feel my pulse pounding madly. “Thanks.”