Lucky For You

by Jayne Denker

  When he drew back, but only a fraction, his eyes were glazed, his breathing heavy, apparently as stunned by what had just happened as Jordan was. And she was almost speechless. Almost, but not quite.

  “Well, that was unexpected,” she said, working hard to keep the tremor out of her voice. “But, you know, surprises are good—”

  “Jordan?” He was staring at her mouth.

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up.”

  And he was on her again, with more of his hungry kisses, seeking, devouring. This time she was ready, and she opened to him, matching him touch for touch, reaching, pressing in, until they were a frenzied, jumbled match of limbs and lips . . . and wills. Teeth colliding, lips bruising, tongues tangling. Will’s hands were on her cheeks, then her neck, reaching for her waist. Jordan wanted more. He was still too far away. She wiggled her arms downward between them, her elbows knocking into his. Tucking her fingers into his belt, she yanked him toward her until he stumbled into her. Instead of pulling away, he pushed into her even more, rocking his hips against hers. She pressed her body to Will’s until she drew a groan from him, so deep it seemed to vibrate through his entire body, outward, and into hers.

  “Good golly, Officer Nash,” Jordan stammered when she could speak again. “Where have you been all my life?”

  “I . . .” His eyes closed, he pressed his forehead against hers, his hands hot on her lower back. “I don’t know why I did that.”

  Jordan couldn’t stop the grin stealing across her lips. “Well, you know . . .” Will pulled back a fraction to look at her tentatively. “You don’t need a reason. But I’m going to go out on a limb here and say . . . because you wanted to.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.”

  “Felt pretty right to me.” At his continued hesitation, she sighed, losing patience already. “Look.” She pointed downward. He resisted. She rolled her eyes. “I’m not trying to get you to look at my boobs again, I swear.” He fidgeted, embarrassed at the memory. “Look,” she insisted, kicking him gently on the side of his leg. “No monitor. I’m no longer in custody. And not your responsibility anymore either. Get it?”

  Will stared at her ankle, then looked back up at her. “True.”

  “So relax, okay?”

  Oh no. There was that look. He was thinking. She resisted the urge to shake him and insist he just go with his gut for once.

  “Technically,” he eventually said, slowly, “there’s nothing wrong with . . . this. What just happened.”

  “Good morning.”

  “And technically, we can do whatever we want.”

  “He finally gets it. So . . . what exactly do you want to do?” she added in a sultry voice, pulling him in for another kiss.

  Whatever he said was drowned out suddenly by an ear-splitting squawk from his radio. He straightened up, lowered the volume, and listened closely. The only words she could make out in all the dispatcher’s warbling were “intoxicated” and “Main Street.” Will grabbed the mic at his shoulder and responded in police jargon, then turned back to Jordan reluctantly.

  “I’ve gotta take this.”

  “You said you were off duty.”

  “Only just. And I’m closest. It’s what we do.”

  Trying to ignore the huge lump of disappointment in her stomach, she said, doing her best to sound chipper, “Okay, come to the house after you’re done.”

  “This might take a while.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Will hesitated, and the lump of disappointment got bigger and heavier. Was he suddenly regretting this? Changing his mind?

  “I don’t think I should.”

  Jordan growled with frustration. “You’re overthinking this—” but she stopped when she saw the corner of his mouth curl up in a smile. “What?”

  “You don’t get it. We’re going to do this right.”

  What was he talking about, “right”? How much more “right” could this get? It was just something you did or you didn’t do, but if he walked away now it was probably going to be the latter and she didn’t think she was going to be able to take another minute of—

  “Tomorrow,” he declared, straightening his uniform.

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “I’ve got the day off tomorrow; I’ll pick you up. We’re going to have a real date.”

  A what? The lump of disappointment froze into a giant block of trepidation. She wanted to jump him. Right now. That’s where her head was. But she could see it in his eager look—he was talking dressing up and going out and dinner and holding hands and a goodnight kiss at the door and there was no way she was going to . . .

  But she only smiled back, nodded, and said, “You’d better get going. I don’t think the criminals wait around for the police—not even in Marsden.”

  Chapter 12

  November in the Catskills meant cold. Low, heavy clouds. Biting winds. Icy rain. The threat of snow—whirling flurries sometimes, even if nothing stuck just yet. Between the end of October, which had taken a surprisingly balmy turn for a while, and mid-November, the temperature had dropped forty degrees.

  When Will saw Jordan on the street corner by the post office, he almost didn’t recognize her, all bundled up as she was in a wool coat, knit hat, and voluminous scarf. And her precious Uggs that she could wear now that her ankle monitor wasn’t in the way. It didn’t help that she was actually talking to . . . was that Missy Preston? And without raised voices?

  A closer look confirmed it was definitely Jordan standing there. Which made him want to turn around and head back the way he’d come. Unfortunately, his squad car was straight ahead, and he kind of needed it to for his job. So he squared his shoulders, trying—and failing—to ignore his roiling stomach and his thundering heart, his skyrocketing blood pressure. It had been happening frequently—whenever he thought of Jordan, and not in a good way—over the past in two weeks. No, nineteen days. Nineteen and a half. Which was how long it had been since he’d last seen her, on Halloween.

  All the details of that night, and those of the following day, came back to him yet again—as if he hadn’t been trying to force them from his memory this whole time. The brain-shredding kiss at the party. How he’d shown up at Holly’s the next morning, bright and early—but not too early, so he wouldn’t look like an overeager schmo—with coffee and doughnuts in hand, ready to embark on a new adventure with Jordan Leigh.

  The empty house. The empty driveway. The locked door, the blank windows.

  The initial thought that she’d gone out early, but then realizing this was Jordan Leigh, so . . . no. The thought that maybe she hadn’t come home at all, which left him unclear about whether he was angry that she might have hooked up with someone else after he’d left her at his brother’s party, or concerned, in case something had happened to her.

  Bedelia calling to him from her porch with information, like a good nosy—er, observant—Marsden resident. She’d seen Jordan loading up her car early in the morning, apparently taking with her everything she’d brought to town. As if she were moving away for good. Then Bedelia had thrust Fred at him. Jordan had decided to overlook her distrust of Bedelia enough to ask her to take care of the cat until someone claimed him.

  Naturally he’d called Jordan’s cell immediately, but he’d only gotten her voice mail. Texted, but never received an answer. And he hadn’t seen or heard from her again. Not until this moment.

  He’d tried to contact her on a regular basis the entire time she was gone, cautiously (and casually, he hoped) asking what was up, how was she, where was she. She’d never answered. And the longer he’d waited in between calls and texts, the more he’d shifted from worried to hurt to downright pissed off, because it became apparent she’d cut and run. As Jordan did.

  And now she was back—just like that. She didn’t even have the nerve to . . . what? Make a bigger deal out of her return? Yeah, that was it. If she was going to come back, she shouldn’t have simply appeared on the street corner.
It should have been an event. Something specific he could have been self-righteously pissed off about.

  As it was, all he could do was march past her and not even acknowledge she was there, but that didn’t work either.

  “Will, honey,” Missy Preston cooed, reaching out a hand to him, despite his brisk pace.

  He had to stop. What if she needed him on police business? “Hi, Mrs. P,” he said, hoping his voice was level and not strained. Sliding his gaze to Jordan, he just nodded at her. It was the best he could do. She stared back at him, and before he looked away, he detected a little extra color high on her cheekbones. Yeah, she should be uncomfortable. He focused his attention on Mrs. P. “What can I help you with?”

  “I hate to be a bother, but . . . well, it is that time of year.”

  He sighed. “They’ve started again, haven’t they?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Who fired the first volley this time?”

  “Ray.”

  “Of course he did.”

  “He’s been in an awful state most of this year. I just don’t understand it. Honestly, he’s been quite an ass lately.” She whispered the offending word, looking around guiltily as she did so.

  Will knew. And he agreed, even though he didn’t feel it was his place to express his opinion. Nate Carroll, owner of a prefab housing company, and Ray had been in an ongoing feud for decades. Things had come to a head over the summer, when Nate’s daughter, Brianna, participated in Ray’s singing competition against her father’s wishes. The men had fought in front of the whole town (actually, it had been a pretty sorry slap-fest), and had been forced to hug it out in front of the whole town as well, but everybody knew there was no way the truce was going to stick, and it hadn’t. Not when the Christmas Wars loomed.

  Although Will still refused to look directly at Jordan, out of the corner of his eye he could see her paying close attention to this conversation. He refused to elaborate, but Missy Preston, never one to pass up a good gossip sesh, filled her in.

  “Nate and Ray hate each other,” she explained. “They got into some fight in high school and have been at it ever since.”

  “You mean it’s been going on for, like, fifty years?”

  “Well,” Mrs. P sniffed, offended, “not that long . . .” Missy Preston was even older than the men, although she’d never admit it. She turned to Will again. “Honey, we have got to find Ray a girlfriend. I think that’s his problem, you know. He needs to get his—”

  “Okay, thanks for the tip, Mrs. P,” Will said in a rush. “I’ll make a note of it—the Christmas Wars, I mean. Not the . . . other thing. I’ve, uh, gotta go.”

  Will gave Jordan another brief nod, not meeting her eyes, and continued up the sidewalk. But by the time he got to the next block, Jordan was by his side, double-stepping to keep up.

  “Hey.”

  “Do you need something, Jordan?”

  “What’s . . . what’s up?”

  “The sky, sleet, Mrs. P’s hairdo, taxes but not my salary . . . Why are you here?”

  “What do you mean, why am I here? I live here.”

  This made him stop walking and stare at her. “Since when?”

  Jordan rolled her eyes at him like a bored teenager, which stopped the rant he was ready to unleash. What would be the point? Jordan didn’t care. She didn’t seem to care about anything. Or anyone. She treated Marsden like a stopover point, convenient for her when she needed it, but never taking it seriously. Insulting the place the entire time. Laughing at its residents. Had she been laughing at him Halloween night too?

  All he said was, “You know what? Forget it. Enjoy your stay—for however long it is this time.”

  Jordan gave him a sarcastic slow clap—several thuds, muted by her mittens. “Marvelous pout. Really stellar.”

  “Jordan, I’m on the clock, here. If you don’t have any police business, I’ve got to get going, okay?”

  “I just thought . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s been, you know, a little while, and—”

  “Nineteen days.”

  She nearly smiled. “You counted?”

  He just sighed, grinding his teeth, and glared at her.

  “Okay, yeah, I’ve been gone nineteen days,” she said in a goofy voice, making a dramatic face. “But I’m, you know, back.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I just thought maybe we could hang out.”

  Wow. He thought he knew her pretty well by now, but she’d just shocked him again. Did she really think he wouldn’t care she’d just taken off without a reason, or at least without saying goodbye? “Wh—no, we cannot ‘hang out’! What are you, fifteen?”

  “All right! Sheesh. Chill.”

  Despite his best efforts to control his temper, his rant came on anyway. “I called you. I texted you. I didn’t know where you were, if you were all right, or anything.” God, he didn’t want to be that guy, freaking out, showing he had been worried, but he just couldn’t keep it inside. “You could have answered once.”

  She shrugged uneasily. “I was busy.”

  “And you had no problem taking off without another word.”

  “You needed one?”

  Will’s mouth worked for several seconds before anything came out. “It would have been the normal thing to do—to let me know where you were. But I guess when you don’t need Marsden anymore,”—or me, he thought—“you just forget all about it. I get it. Okay, whatever.” God, now he was talking like her. “I’ll see you around, maybe.”

  Not like he’d go out of his way to make that happen.

  Will knew, however, that seeing Jordan “around” was only partially under his control. He knew it wouldn’t be easy to avoid her. But he never thought he wouldn’t be safe in his own parents’ house.

  Thanksgiving at the Nash home was always the biggest of deals. Annie and John prepared for days, cooked a million dishes and made room for guests’ contributions, set up table after table, decorated with real leaves and pinecones, and invited the world. Will never knew who was going to show up; he’d become adept at adapting quickly, shuffling conversation topics, political views, and behavior modes in his mental playlist as soon as he identified who was at the dinner table each year.

  As he crossed the backyard, he caught glimpses of the guests in the long, narrow windows that looked out over the lawn—his family members and others he couldn’t quite recognize yet, backlit by a warm glow. His niece and nephew sprinted through the kitchen, probably already hopped up on whatever chocolate they could steal out of the bowls of bridge mix in the living room and the den. His brothers were, naturally, grouped around the galvanized tub of beers, most likely debating whether the pumpkin ale had been worth the wait this year.

  The minute he pulled open the back door and rounded the corner from the mudroom into the kitchen, Will nearly beat a hasty retreat. Because right in front of him, already seated at the end of the long, narrow farmhouse table that took up so much of the room, was Holly. She was talking with his Aunt Tilly, and a tall but stooped, frail-looking gentleman stood near them—Mac Wrobel, Holly’s boyfriend.

  One deep breath later, Will reasoned that just because Holly was there didn’t mean Jordan was. His parents probably decided, if they were having Tilly over for dinner, they might as well invite some other residents of the senior home as well. Sure, that’s all it was.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Cam pushed the freezing, damp bottom edge of a bottle of beer against the back of Will’s neck above his collar, and Will flinched. “Takes me longer to cross the backyard than it does for you to come downstairs from your childhood bedroom.”

  “Won’t hear me complaining, brother. Mom’s doing my laundry, feeding me—”

  “Reading you a story before bed too? Gosh, you’re lucky. I guess good things really do happen to guys who get busted by their wives for trashing the house on Halloween and making out with chicks in slutty-nurse costumes.”
>
  “Hey, if I’m going to get the boot from the wife, I might as well enjoy myself at home.”

  “Then why is she here too?” Will nodded toward Summer, a tall, pretty, slim blonde who was puttering around the kitchen, acting cheerful, although Annie was watching her carefully for any sign Summer was going to crack and fling the squash casserole at her estranged other half.

  Cam shrugged. “You know Mom.”

  “Family’s family until they’re not?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Yeah, she’s going to stick you two back together if she has to use crazy glue. She wants more grandchildren.”

  “What?” Cam yelped, suddenly panicked at the perfectly timed sight of his wife holding Jesse’s baby girl in her arms, bouncing and cooing at the infant.

  “How did Mom get Veronica to give up the kid on a holiday?”

  “She didn’t,” Jesse said, coming up and handing Will another beer even though he was only half finished with his first one. “Ronnie’s here too.”

  “Let me guess—she’s in the living room, so you’re hiding here in the kitchen.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Coward. Oh, shit.”

  Cam and Jesse burst out laughing as Will practically ducked behind them. So much for making fun of Jesse, because he suddenly felt the need to hide as well. Only steps away, Jordan was delivering a scotch on the rocks to her grandmother. He caught himself at the last minute and squared his shoulders, trying to retain what was left of his dignity. Because of course Jordan had seen him. Once she delivered the drink to her grandmother, Jordan kissed her on the cheek and moved past her to approach the three Nash brothers.