Her Secret Love

by Paula Altenburg

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  Jess let herself into Damon’s kitchen. She had the photo album, wrapped in colorful paper, clutched in her arms.

  She’d taken her grandfather home. He’d been tipsy, and more gregarious than usual.

  He definitely had his suspicions about what she’d been doing with Damon. When she’d seen the two men speaking together, their expressions intent, she’d been afraid he’d said something to him. All he’d talked about in the car, however, was how Damon had a chip on his shoulder about charity all because of the circumstances his father’s sudden death had left his family in when he was a boy.

  “Nothing wrong with helping people out as long as they remember to help others out, too,” her grandfather said. “Don’t ever forget that, Bomb. There’s such a thing as too much pride.”

  She’d been too anxious with anticipation to pay any attention to lectures. She didn’t know how Damon would react to the photos. Personally, she loved them. Carrie was a genius with a camera.

  Damon was in the bedroom, stretched out partially clothed on the bed with his hands locked behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. He’d taken off the suit jacket, the tie, and the shirt, but he still wore the trousers. Without the belt they rode low on his hips, exposing a narrow vee of hair on his pelvis pointing to what lay hidden a few inches lower. His upstretched arms showed off the thick pecs in his chest and the flat abs of his stomach. The room was dark, but the light from the hall spilled over the bed.

  “If you’re trying to decide where to put that tattoo,” Jess said, “I have a suggestion.”

  “A man could take that two ways.” He sat up and swung his bare feet to the floor, running a hand over his face as if he’d been half asleep. “Watcha got there, princess? Something for me? Because I like presents.” He gave her a slow look from head to toe, then back to her eyes. Heat scorched every inch of her that he’d examined, both with his eyes and his imagination. “And I love to unwrap them.”

  “There you go with all that Montana sweet talk again.” How could she not have figured out before this that she loved him?

  Although she could see why it had scared her at eighteen. Damon packed a lot of intensity into a look. A girl would never mistake what he was thinking.

  Or how he felt.

  He snagged the skirt of her dress and pulled her toward him. “I’m not sure you’re giving Montana men the compliment they deserve when you say it like that.”

  She placed the gift in his lap and flipped on the bedside lamp, then watched with increasing nervousness as he tore off the paper. He opened the cover of the photo album. His eyes widened. “Holy sh—” He caught himself. “I mean…”

  “You’ve never seen boudoir photos before?”

  His stunned expression answered her question. “What are boudoir photos?”

  “Women give them to men so they’ll have something to remember them by.”

  “They’re, um…” His eyes narrowed. “Who took them?”

  “That’s what you’re wondering?” She was both angry and embarrassed. She’d thought it was a gift he would appreciate and enjoy. It was the same idea as the one he’d given her, only in photographs, not metal. Instead, he was worried some other man might have seen her undressed. “Carrie has a side business going. Lots of women come to her to have these taken. I thought they were beautiful and tastefully done.”

  “They are,” he assured her, flipping through a few more of the pages. He closed the album and set it aside. “Thank you. Sorry. I’m tired, that’s all.” He leaned over and kissed her.

  She waited for the little tingle of anticipation she usually got when he touched her.

  But something was wrong.

  “It’s been a long day for the both of us. I think I’ll run back to Carrie’s and spend the night there. That way we can both get a good night’s sleep.”

  “That’s not what I want, Jess.”

  It wasn’t what she wanted either, but her feelings were hurt. For the first time in…well, ever, Damon hadn’t gotten what she was trying to say.

  *

  Damon ran down to the diner to grab a coffee to go with the sandwich Jess had made him for lunch. It was Tuesday, and she had the afternoon off, so he only had a few minutes. The day was sunny and mild, but the temperatures had been dropping at night and there was a bite to the air. Summer was over and winter was coming.

  It had been a week. So far, Jess hadn’t mentioned the money to him. She wasn’t exactly talking to him about anything of real importance.

  He had no idea what to make of those photos. He liked them. He wasn’t dead. But what was their purpose? Were they a goodbye gift? Something for him to remember her by?

  And were women all over town giving them out to the men in their lives?

  It wasn’t a question guys asked each other. It wasn’t as if he wanted anyone to know he had them, either. They were his and they were private. And he’d jump off a cliff before he asked Carrie what the hell.

  The diner was quiet. With the days getting colder and the kids back in school, boating on the lake had died down. Tourism was done until the ski slopes opened in the mountains.

  He slid his travel mug across the counter. Sherry, the waitress, finished tying her apron on, then reached for the freshly brewed pot. Her golden-brown ponytail swung as she moved. The cook had the radio on in the kitchen. Ed Sheeran’s voice wafted in the air over the clang of pots and pans, singing of people falling in love in mysterious ways. He was all up with that since he couldn’t seem to get Jess to love him by any of the traditional methods.

  She hadn’t yet told him about the money her grandfather had given her. She’d given him a gift that felt suspiciously like a goodbye. She hadn’t mentioned when she was planning on leaving. The waiting was driving him nuts. Until they got it out in the open he couldn’t relax.

  “I hear you had an art show in Missoula,” Sherry said, filling his mug. “Congratulations. Everyone’s talking about how great it is for the community to have someone local who’s famous.”

  Talk of fame made him uncomfortable. “I’m not sure I’d go so far as to call me famous. But thanks. It’s nice to know people are so supportive of my work.”

  “You’re being modest.” Sherry dimpled. “Nate Jackson donated a cherry tree you made to the library. It’s in three pieces, and it’s hanging on the wall in the foyer, near the circulation desk. It’s beautiful.”

  “He did?”

  Damon hadn’t sold a cherry tree sectional at the gallery showing. The only one he’d made—the one he hadn’t wanted to part with, but sold to pay for Jess’s tires—had gone to an anonymous…

  Of course. The light dawned. He tried not to be angry. But if Nate had thought Damon needed more of his charity to help sell his work, he now knew he was mistaken. The show had proved that.

  “I saw it just now, when I took my daughter to Story Time on my way to work,” Sherry was saying. “Jess is amazing, by the way. The children love her.” His confusion was now on two levels, and must have communicated itself. “Story Time?” she prompted him. “At the library? Jess took over from Lil when school started up again. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  But it was hard to remember something he’d known nothing about. She’d asked for Tuesday afternoons off a few weeks ago. He’d thought nothing of it at the time, other than to feel guilty that she’d needed a break because he’d taken advantage of her willingness to work such long hours. He’d assumed she’d like spending time with him.

  Because he was that awesome.

  He paid for his coffee, slipping the change in his pocket. Jess, children, and reading. Those were three things that didn’t go at all hand in hand.

  Then again, she’d had fun with the kids at the carwash. He’d been too busy staring at her t-shirt at the time to pay attention to much else going on.

  He wished he could dash down to the library and check out Story Time for himself. Instead, he had to get back to the gas station. />
  Tony was hanging around the front door when he arrived.

  “Make yourself useful,” Damon said, unlocking the door. “You know how to work the pumps. If anyone tries to pay inside, tell them the debit machine is down. And don’t open the till. I’ll be back in less than an hour.” Nothing was going to fall apart in that short length of time.

  He left Tony gaping after him.

  He parked at the library.

  Inside, right where Sherry said it would be, was his sculpture. On an easel sat a sign reading STORY TIME, with an arrow beneath it indicating one of the meeting rooms.

  He stopped outside the meeting room door, peering through the crack, keeping well out of sight.

  Jess held a large picture book in her hands. A gaggle of kids and mothers sat at her feet. She pointed to one of the drawings, making up a story so outrageous even the kids knew she was lying. They were giggling and guessing how many of the words she got right.

  Okay, that was adorable. She struggled with reading. It didn’t mean she couldn’t read well enough to entertain preschoolers. And leave it to Jess to have fun with it, too. He couldn’t believe how much he loved her. The best moment of his life had been the day she drove back into town.

  What bothered him was that she’d been doing this for a few weeks now and hadn’t mentioned it to him. When was the last time they’d really talked? When had she stopped telling him things?

  And whose fault was it that she had?

  *

  He smelled chicken cooking when he got home that evening.

  The table was set with placemats and tea lights. She stood at the counter chopping vegetables for a salad, an open bottle of white wine and a half-empty glass beside her. She’d knotted her thick curls in a long braid that hung over one shoulder to keep it out of her way while she worked. Her pink-tipped toes were bare. She wore black yoga pants and a stretchy, long-sleeved pink top.

  She was so pretty, and looked so at home in his house, that the sight of her made his throat ache. He had so little to offer her, at least for the next few years. But if she stayed it would have to be because she wanted to be with him, not because her grandfather had paid for her to be here.

  She looked up and smiled as he came through the door. “Hi, honey. You’re home. Dinner’s almost ready. Your slippers are by the fire. I’ll get cracking on that martini.”

  She’d finally forgiven him. The past week had been tense.

  He slid an arm around her waist and dropped a kiss on her nose. “Cute. But just so you know, I’m okay with the whole 50s housewife routine. I’ll take a glass of that wine rather than a martini, though.”

  “I figured you would.” Her eyes turned very green, rimmed in brushed gold. She winked at him and his brain bungee-jumped off a cliff. “Wait until you see what’s for dessert.”

  “It better be pie.”

  “That’s it. The romance is officially dead.”

  He didn’t think it was without a pulse yet, but worried it might be getting thready. She was trying too hard to live up to what she believed were his expectations, or what she thought he somehow deserved.

  All he’d ever wanted was Jess. He wasn’t sure he’d ever deserve her. Or be able to give her the things she was used to. He hoped to, someday. But there were no guarantees.

  His brain hit the end of the cord and bungeed back where it belonged. “We need to talk.”

  The gold in her eyes expanded, swallowing the green. She eased away from his arm, withdrawing both physically and mentally, and returned to her task at the cutting board. “No thanks. Nothing good ever comes of a conversation started that way.”

  He went ahead anyway. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been volunteering for Story Time at the library?”

  She laid the knife down and stared at it for a second. “You never asked.”

  “I didn’t know I had to.”

  “You don’t. But you’ve been so busy with more important things that I didn’t want to bother you with something so little. You’d have asked if it mattered.”

  He hated that she thought she might be a bother to him. She was the most important thing in his life. He’d waited ten years for her to come home. And she was worth every second.

  “I’m never too busy for you. I’m sorry if I haven’t made that more clear.”

  Her gaze was steady on him. “I know you believe that. But if you aren’t at the gas station you’re out in your workshop. If I didn’t work at the gas station with you, I’d see you sometimes for dinner and maybe at bedtime. And eventually, that novelty’s going to wear off.”

  Panic settled under his ribs, squeezing the air from his lungs. He really had been busy, but only because he had his eye on a better life a few years down the road. What if she wasn’t willing to wait a few years for things to get better?

  “Is that why you never told me your grandfather gave you your money? Because you aren’t happy with where things are headed between us and you needed an escape route? The novelty’s already wearing off?” The words felt like shards of broken glass dragged from his throat.

  “No, you ass.” She shoved at his chest with the heel of her palm. “Not the novelty for me. I meant for you. I’m not the most useful person in the world. I have no education to speak of. I’m a poor reader and a terrible student. Acting turned out to be a lot harder than I expected. Commercials are the best I can hope for. I’m pretty. That’s it. And as people like to point out, my looks won’t last forever. That’s why I gave you those photos. So when I’m old and wrinkled you can look back at them and remember me the way I look now.” She suddenly seemed lost. “I never told you about the money because I hoped you’d ask me to stay. What am I supposed to do in another ten years if you don’t?”

  “That’s what those photos are for?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Well, what did you think?”

  “I thought they might be a goodbye. That you had your money and were trying to tell me that you’re leaving,” he confessed.

  “Because women always give half-naked photos of themselves to men they plan on dumping.” She stabbed him with her finger. “And I thought you were the smart one in this relationship.”

  “Well, I guess you thought wrong.” The pressure on his lungs eased, pried free by relief. She wanted to stay.

  But she was so full of energy—she had such an ability to motivate and inspire others when she put her mind to it—that it was easy, sometimes, to forget how deep her personal insecurities ran.

  “You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit, princess. You can read as long as you aren’t under any pressure. And the fact that you can read at all is through your own hard work, no one else’s. If you hadn’t been with me at that art exhibit, I would have fallen flat on my face. You made me wear the right clothes. Knowing you were there made me feel a whole lot more confident. Galleries are investing in the artist as much as the art. You made me look good. You’ve got the gas station looking like a real business, too. Soap and water and a little paint worked wonders. You saw what it needed. When it comes to business, outward appearances really do matter. Inner beauty is another matter entirely. Whoever told you that your looks won’t last forever doesn’t understand your true value. You are going to be as beautiful to me when you’re seventy as you are now, or when you were seventeen. I don’t need photos. Although I’m not giving them back now that I know what they’re for.” He took her face in his hands. “I love you, Jess. With all my heart. I’ll try to play more, if that’s what you want me to do. I’ll make more time for us. But in the end I want to be my own man and earn my own way. The next few years are going to be rough ones. If you can’t live that way, if it’s too much of a gamble for you, then I’ll understand.”

  “Don’t try and make me out to be the materialistic one. I have no problem cleaning toilets. You’re the one who’s obsessed with success.”

  He already knew there was more substance to her. More strength. He wasn’t sure if she knew it, too. “Correct
me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but wasn’t your car loaded down with designer clothes when you rolled into town?”

  “Need I remind you that I had a dead squirrel in the trunk of that same car?” she fired back. “Which, by the way, is making a funny noise when I start the engine. Kind of a tick, tick, ticking.”

  He held her a little closer. Relief had his heart thumping hard against his ribs. “Don’t park it too close to the pumps. Someone’s planted a bomb.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. I’ve been getting Aaron to start it for me, just in case.” She rested her chin on his chest and looked up at him, her hazel eyes more green now than brown. “There’s something else you should know. I never took the money from my grandfather. I told him I needed the full six months to come up with a real plan for the future. And I think I’ve come up with a few different options.”

  He couldn’t care less what she did as long as she was with him, but he never again wanted her to feel as if he had no time to listen. “Run them by me. This should be good.”

  “I’ve already taken over Story Time for Lil. I also volunteered to organize the art exhibit at the cherry festival again next year. I figure if I play my cards right, I could become mayor.”

  “You’re getting ahead of yourself. Your car’s already been rigged. You might be a few elections away from winning the popular vote.”

  “Okay, forget mayor. Let’s move on to plan B. I’ve got my eye on a local gas station owner slash metal works artist who could use a good partner.”

  “You mean a customer service representative.”

  “Business manager,” she said.

  He had to fight to hold back a smile. “I’m assuming you know there’s no pay hike involved no matter what title we come up with?”

  She poked his chest again. “Then you’d better offer me a title that money can’t buy.”

  “This isn’t how I’d planned this moment,” he said. “I’d wanted to do something more romantic.”

  “I can’t imagine anything more romantic than the man I love proposing to me.”

  “There you go, getting ahead of yourself again. Maybe I was going to suggest we move in together. You’re practically living here, anyway.”