by Tawna Fenske
“I had this great abacus,” I say slowly, not sure why I’m sharing with Dean. “It had painted wood beads—red and yellow and blue. They moved around on these curved steel wires painted green.”
“I had one like that,” Dean says, tilting his head fondly. “They’re for teaching kids to count, right?
“Yeah.” I swallow hard, trying to budge the lump in my throat. “I loved that thing so much.”
Dean frowns, catching the dark note in my voice. “What happened to it?”
I peel the label off my beer bottle, stalling for time. “I came home from school one day to find my mom cleaned out my room. She’d thrown out the abacus. Said math wasn’t a good vocation for girls. Gave me a doll and told me to ask Val to teach me to make clothes for it.”
“Damn.” Dean takes a sip of his beer. “I’m sorry. That’s really shitty.”
“Thanks.” Talking about this is giving me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I try to recall what we were talking about so I can steer the conversation back there. “Tell me about the rest of your family’s stuffed animals. What did Cooper have?”
Dean studies me for a split second, then takes his cue. “A cow. I’m positive Mom kept it.”
“Cooper had a plush cow?”
“Yep. Moorio.”
I laugh, but something about that snags in my brain. My expression must give something away because Dean gives me a sharp nod. “Yeah. Same thing crossed my mind.”
My heart stutters in my chest. How did he know what I was thinking?
“You mean your email hacker saying Cooper was going to do a movie about mooing competitions?”
“Exactly.” Dean’s brow furrows. “I mean…it could be a coincidence.”
But he doesn’t think it is. I can read that plain as day on his face. I take another sip of beer and remind myself to tread carefully. “Has anything else happened lately?” I ask. “Anything suspicious, I mean.”
He shrugs and lifts his beer again. “Remember that chef I told you about? Becca La Blanc, the one who asked about flying out early for next week’s interviews?”
I try to remember all the test footage we reviewed with Lauren. “The one from New Orleans? The gorgeous blonde who sent all the headshots with the box of macarons?”
“Yeah, her. She bowed out.”
“What? When?”
He scratches a thumbnail over a fleck of something on the table, not meeting my eyes. “A couple hours ago. Said she got a letter in the mail. Something suggesting she shouldn’t get mixed up with the Judson family. She wouldn’t tell us much, except that she wanted to withdraw her name.”
“But—that’s libel.” I think. I’m not up on all my legal terminology. “Did you ask for a copy of the letter?”
“Lauren’s the one who talked to her,” he says. “I guess Becca was pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing. Didn’t say too much. She wasn’t our top pick anyway, but still.”
“I can’t believe it.” But in a way, I can. It’s getting clearer someone doesn’t want Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge to get off the ground. “What does the PI say? Or the police—have you told them yet?”
“I left a message with Lieutenant Lovelin,” he says. “And emailed the PI. There’s not much to go on, though.”
I can tell Dean’s more worried about this than he’s letting on. I see it in his furrowed brow, in the set of his shoulders as he gazes out over the horizon. The sun’s sinking lower now, a glowing orange gumball gobbled up by jagged mountain teeth.
Dean drains his beer and stands up. “I should get home.”
“I’ll walk you out.” Roughneck lifts his head as I get to my feet, but he doesn’t move from his patch of fading sun.
Dean glances out at the open meadow, at the cinder path leading toward the lodge and the other banks of cabins. “I can walk from here. No need to trespass through your personal space.”
The laugh that slips out is tinny and self-conscious. “You afraid I’ll jump you if I get you in my house?”
He looks at me for a long, long time. “If you must know, yeah.”
I blink. “What?”
“Not that you’ll jump me.” He drags his hand through his hair, and there’s that sheepish look again. “But yeah, you and me being alone together in a private cabin after dark…that seems a little risky, doesn’t it?”
The question hangs there between us for a few beats. I think I stop breathing. “I can keep my hands off you, Dean.” I’m trying for cool and aloof, but even I hear the wobble in my voice.
“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m more worried about keeping my hands off you.”
“Oh.”
He’s studying my face again, eyes searching mine. “I almost kissed you in a public pool in front of my brother and sister. How reckless is that?”
“A little?” Okay, it’s out in the open now. We’re talking about this instead of pretending it didn’t happen. “But we didn’t. Kiss, I mean.”
“Barely.” He glances back into the house. “But we should probably keep it from happening.”
Odd how his voice tilted up at the end. Something about that makes me bold. “Was that a question or a statement?”
He looks at me. “What?”
“It almost sounded like a question.”
“You mean whether or not we should kiss?” His smile is halfway between amusement and a grimace. “We’d have to be idiots.”
“Stupid,” I agree, trying to sound like I mean it.
“Next-level morons.”
“Yep.” I nod, pretty sure I’ve convinced myself. “I mean, we’ve both sworn off relationships.”
“Right? There’s that.” He glances at the mountains again as a cloud passes over his face. “So we can just be grownups about this—this—whatever this is between us.”
He waves a hand, and I don’t know if the word he’s looking for is “chemistry” or something else. Something neither of us could describe, but both of us are feeling. I’m not the only one; I can see it in his eyes.
I try to step back, to put a bit more space between us.
But my feet hear the message wrong and move toward him instead. I’m inches away now, close enough to smell the grassy shampoo and something else. Something uniquely Dean Judson that sets my blood bubbling and my breath hitching in my throat.
“We’re both adults.” I lick my lips, pretty sure this isn’t what he meant by being grownups. “If we did kiss—hypothetically, I mean—we’d just be getting it out of our systems.”
He stares at me like he’s waiting for the laugh track. “What, like one time?”
I nod, even though this is the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. “Maybe that’s all this is. Just sexual tension that’ll go away if we let the air out.”
“Like a balloon,” he says, and I wince. “Okay, no balloons. One of those float rings at the waterpark. Like stabbing a knife in one or something.”
“Yeah, this is good.” I nod, conscious of how close we are. How I could stretch up and kiss him so easily. “Talking about balloons and stabbing is turning me off already.”
But Dean’s turning me on. Standing this close to him, breathing in his scent, sharing the same space.
I don’t know who steps forward first, him or me. All I know is that we collide like bumper cars, our bodies connecting with an invisible splash of sparks. As his lips touch mine, I hear myself gasp.
Then we’re kissing, and this is nothing at all like letting the air out. If anything, I’m filled to bursting, the seams of my skin prickling under pressure. I slide my fingers into his hair, gripping tighter than I mean to. Instead of pulling back, Dean deepens the kiss, his tongue brushing mine as I arch tight against him.
I know we should stop. Somewhere in the back of my brain, there’s the frantic ding of a warning bell. But it clangs to the beat of my throbbing pulse, urging me on instead of pushing me away. I kiss him back, hungry to make the most of this.
We can’t do this again, we both k
now that. Maybe that’s why we’re so frantic, so starving for each other’s touch. Dean’s got his hand on my ass, and I’m conscious of how big it is, how the rest of him matches. His arms, his chest, the hardness in his jeans that I know I shouldn’t keep rubbing against, but I can’t seem to help it.
Dean groans but doesn’t break the kiss. His fingers are tangled up in my hair, his kisses more urgent with each heartbeat. I’m conscious of my fingers clutching the front of his shirt, conscious of how little it would take to rip the thin cotton off his body and run my tongue between those perfect pecs I’ve already touched. Would this be so different?
“Vanessa.” He breaks the kiss, breathless, like he’s tearing off a limb. “We should—” He breaks off and glances at the door.
I lick my lips. “We should what?”
Stop? Go inside and have wild monkey sex on the table?
How can both things sound so wrong and so right?
Dean’s still holding me, and I move against him. A small movement, so tiny. But my hip grazes the bulge in his jeans, and he groans and closes his eyes.
“You’re killing me.” It’s like the words are being dragged from his throat.
I swallow hard, trying to get a grip. “You seem pretty alive to me.”
He laughs, but it’s a choked sound. When he opens his eyes, the intensity in those silvery depths nearly steals my breath away. “We either need to go inside or stop this right now.”
I’m honestly not sure which choice is the right one. “Okay.”
There I go again, letting the guy call the shots. But I truly don’t know the right move here.
As smooth and in-command as Dean has always seemed, I’m not sure he knows, either.
“So…yeah.” I swallow hard, willing myself to step back. To stop myself from doing something I’ll regret.
But my body’s edging toward the door, hungry to keep going. To see where this leads.
A sharp bark stops me in my tracks. I whip around to see Roughneck on his feet, growling into the distance. I follow his gaze to a trio of coyotes trotting across the meadow. They’re too far away to pose a threat, but Roughneck growls anyway, protecting his turf.
Something about it breaks the spell between Dean and me. He steps back, dragging a hand down his face. “We shouldn’t.”
It’s the exact opposite of what he said only a minute ago, but it’s just as true.
We should. We shouldn’t.
Both are facts, and neither is particularly convenient.
I edge toward the back door, reminding myself to breathe. To remember the cycle I’ve been through again and again with men I have no business dating.
“You’re right,” I say, even though I’m not sure at all what he meant to say. “Um, this was fun, but—”
“Right, totally. We shouldn’t do it again.”
“Agreed.”
“Glad that’s out of our system.”
I nod, even though I’m nowhere near having anything out of my system. If anything, I’m burning hotter and fiercer for Dean than I was ten minutes ago.
But I can’t say that out loud. Can he read it in my eyes as I take another step back and shove my hands in the back pockets of my jeans to keep from reaching for him?
“Right, so I’ll go now.” Dean moves toward the steps, already out of reach.
At the edge of the deck, Roughneck whines and pulls at his leash.
I know the feeling, boy.
That’s the thought racing through my mind as I watch Dean walk off into the last, fading embers of sunset.
Chapter 9
CONFESSIONAL 301
Judson, Dean (CEO: Juniper Ridge)
Look, I’m not saying I always know the best way to do everything. Just that I’ve been making decisions for thirty-two years and mostly I’ve gotten them right. [clenches jaw] Mostly right. Yeah, I’ve had some fuckups in my personal life. Who hasn’t?
Next subject, please.
I shuffle the pages in front of me, skimming the words at the top of Bill Brandywine’s resume. “Tell me what you liked best about your last position. You were the Assistant Manager for Horington National Bank?”
The bespectacled man across the table sits straighter in his chair, glancing between Vanessa and me. “It was a very rewarding job,” he says. “Very rewarding. I led a team of thirty-five employees to become one of the top-performing branches in the United States.”
At the other end of the table—so far away we may as well be on other continents—Vanessa marks something on a notepad. “And you were there for nearly fifteen years,” she says. “That’s impressive dedication.”
“Yes, well, I love my work.”
Vanessa glances at me, and I try to read her mind. About the interview, not anything else. Not whether she’s spent the last few days like I have, replaying that kiss over and over until it’s like a movie I’ve watched enough to recite each word.
A faint flush darkens her cheeks as her gaze skitters away. “Tell us about why you want to be part of the show,” she says to Bill. “What interests you about Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge?”
Bill’s smile dims just a little. He folds his hands on the table and directs his response to the empty space between Vanessa and me. “I’ve had a really tough time since my divorce. Really tough.” He clears his throat. “When I read about the idea for starting over again, I thought—” He falters a bit here, fishing for words.
Vanessa gives him an encouraging smile. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”
There is actually a rush, since our next candidate arrives in less than an hour. But her soothing words put Bill at ease, and he presses on.
“I’m just looking for something different, you know? A chance to start my life again. To make better choices, if that makes sense.”
“It does.” Vanessa nods and marks something on her notepad.
I take a sip from my water glass, aware that the movement puts my hand that much closer to Vanessa. At some point I need to stop being aware of every molecule of her body and its proximity to every atom of mine.
That kiss was supposed to deflate the tension between us. If anything, it’s grown bigger, floating between us like a bright, hot balloon.
I direct my attention back to Bill. “You mentioned choices,” I say. “Tell me about a particularly good choice you’ve made in your career. Something that produced a positive outcome.”
He beams, relieved at being back on neutral ground. “My decision to intern with Horington National was a big turning point,” he says. “I learned about integrated sales and securities transactions and really the whole banking industry. Also, that’s where I met Lydia.”
“Lydia?” Vanessa glances down at her notes, like the information might be there somewhere. “Was she your mentor?”
“My wife,” he replies, and I can tell from the response that he’s not over her. Not even close. “We were so young and so in love. We used to stand by the water cooler for hours, just talking about what we did over the weekend or what TV shows we’d been watching. It took me months to get up the guts to ask her out.”
I glance at Vanessa, thinking it’s probably not a great sign the guy admitted to hours-long breaks in his workday. But maybe I’m being judgmental. Vanessa’s not meeting my eyes. Hasn’t met them for a while, actually.
She smiles again at Bill. “Let’s stick with that theme about choices, shall we? Can you tell us about a bad choice you might have made, and what you were able to learn from it?”
I notice she didn’t specify it had to be a career choice. Deliberate, or an oversight? Either way, I sense what’s coming.
“That would be marrying Lydia.” Bill leans back in his chair, tugging at his tie. “Not at first. We were so in love. This one time we went to Hawaii, and we made love on the beach beside the—”
“Right,” she says, cutting him off as she scribbles something else in her notepad. I squint to see if the words are “embarrassing oversharer,” but I can’t make the
m out.
In reality TV performers, oversharing can be a selling point. With bankers, however—
“Let’s stick with workplace details for now,” I tell him. “We can keep the focus on your career trajectory.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Bill smiles and plants his palms on the table. “Sorry, I think it’s the table throwing me off.”
“The table?” I glance down at the smooth lacquered surface, not sure I’m following. “What about it?”
“It’s funny, actually.” Bill’s brittle laugh ensures what’s coming next won’t be at all funny. “We picked it out together, Lydia and me. The bank put us in charge of redesigning the conference room, so we got to choose everything. Chairs, table, even the pictures on the wall.”
Vanessa offers an encouraging smile. “That’s great. They must have really trusted your taste.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” Bill’s staring down at the table now, his eyebrows knitting together. “It was juniper, just like this one. Sturdy, too. This one time after hours, Lydia and I were working late. We were the only two people in the office, so I laid her back on the table and she pulled up her skirt and we—”
“Okay.” I rap my palms on the table, the drumbeat cutting off the story. “I think we have all the info we need. Vanessa?”
She nods, jaw twitching as she fights back a smile. “Absolutely. Bill, did you have any questions for us?”
Ugh. I know she has to ask, but—
“Am I understanding right that part of the show’s premise involves putting a bunch of single people together and seeing if they pair off?” Bill is achingly earnest as he looks from Vanessa to me.
I relax a little, grateful the question is an easy one. “More or less,” I say. “We won’t be doing any matchmaking, per se, but if things just happen between two people…” I trail off there, hoping he can put two and two together.
But it’s Vanessa who jumps in to fill in the blank. “Or not,” she says. “If someone’s not looking for a relationship or not interested in being paired up, that’s absolutely not a requirement. Right, Dean?”