The Pursuit of Jesse

by Helen Brenna

  Jesse?

  She tiptoed closer. It was him. Lying on his back and his head tilted to one side, he was sleeping like the dead. What was he doing here? She should sneak out and make some noise in the living area to wake him, but what could be the harm in admiring him for a moment?

  He wasn’t wearing a shirt and his arms hung outside the sleeping bag, baring a large part of his upper body. Dark, springy hair splashed the middle of his chest and ran the length of his forearms. His biceps and shoulders were perfectly contoured, and he looked so strong, but it was his tattoo that held her mesmerized. The bold flowing Chinese script ran in a line from his left pec, down what she could see of his abs, only to disappear beneath the edge of the sleeping bag.

  How far down his torso did that tat go? It was all she could do not to inch the sleeping bag lower—

  “Morning, Sarah.”

  Jesse’s voice startled her and she jumped.

  “Like what you see?”

  Oh, hell. Sarah straightened and glanced into Jesse’s very open and smiling eyes.

  “If not, I can pull the sleeping bag down a little farther?” he said, grinning.

  “I was looking at your tattoo,” she said, trying to cover for her lapse in judgment.

  “Sure you were.” Lazily, he threw his hands up behind his head to reveal a smattering of dark hair under each chiseled arm.

  He looked warm and relaxed and all Sarah wanted to do was strip naked and climb inside that bag with him. She cleared her throat and backed away. “Seriously, what does it mean?”

  For a moment, he looked as if he wasn’t going to tell her. Then softly, he said, “There is no wave without wind.”

  “That’s it? All that drama for that simple saying?”

  Still smiling, he nodded. “The guy who did it was a tattoo artist. Fond of drama. My cellmate. He was constantly working on other guys, but he never mentioned a tat to me. Then one day, he showed me a design he’d been working on. When I saw it and he told me what it meant, I knew.”

  “What does it mean?”

  His expression turned serious. “If you want a calm pool, no waves, don’t cause a wind.”

  “And what if you surf and happen to like waves? Big ones.”

  “That’s good.” He held her gaze. “The point is that I won’t ever go back to prison, but I don’t ever want to forget, either.” Then, as if the moment had gotten too serious, he grinned. “Want to see the rest?” He pushed the sleeping bag down to reveal that the script did, indeed, continue over the nicely defined muscles of his abdomen.

  But, now, instead of the tattoo holding her attention, it was the line of dark hair that traveled from his belly button and down that had her swallowing back a sudden surge of desire.

  He slowly pushed the sleeping bag lower. Lower still.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t do that.”

  “Just getting up to put on some clothes,” he said. “So if you don’t want an eyeful—”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” She spun around, closing the door on her way out.

  A moment later, he came out of the room wearing a pair of low-slung jeans that barely hung on his hips and pulling a black T-shirt over his head.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked.

  The moment his head poked through the neck of the T-shirt, his smile disappeared. “I was having a hard time sleeping at Garrett’s. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No. That’s fine. Did you two argue or something?”

  “Or something.” He went into the kitchen and filled the coffeepot with water. “It’s nothing. Really.”

  “Then there’s no reason not to tell me.”

  He seemed to be debating as he went about prepping the coffeemaker. “Let’s just say Garrett and Erica have…a…very healthy relationship.”

  “A healthy rel—?” Sex. He was talking about sex. “Oh.”

  “Sometimes they’re pretty verbal about it.” He glanced back at her, his eyes dark. “Enough said?”

  She nodded. “Feel free to stay here whenever you’d like.”

  “Thank you.” He flipped the lid down on the coffeepot, pressed his hands on the countertop as if to hold himself up and stared out the window. “I’m happy for him, you know. That he’s found someone he loves. Someone who loves him back. Not many people are lucky enough to find that.”

  “No. Not many.” For the first time in a very long while, she wondered if she’d been wrong to close the possibility of love so firmly out of her life. Maybe love wasn’t such a bad thing. Falling in love with Jesse, though, that was a problem.

  A FEW HOURS LATER, with an upbeat, light rock song playing softly on the radio, Jesse watched Sarah painting Brian’s bedroom navy blue. Dark colors were much harder to work with than light, but she was nothing if not methodical and meticulous. The roller went into the paint. Swinging her hips a bit to the music, she evened out the layer of color on the roller. One, two, three rolls, every time. Then up the roller went diagonally across the top half of a small section of wall. Up and down, over and over, she covered the wall efficiently. Beautifully. Even managed to teach him a thing or two with her technique.

  As she finished out the last section, something in her every stroke resonated deep within him. At first, he couldn’t put his finger on it, but the more he watched, the more he understood. There was life and feeling in her every motion. As if this house was alive to her and instead of merely painting a wall, she was petting a favored pet or brushing a child’s hair.

  She took her last stroke and, as if sensing his eyes on her, glanced back. “What?” She looked over the section she’d just painted. “Did I miss something?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?” She put her roller down.

  “This house is pretty important to you, isn’t it?”

  “It’s my first house.” She smiled, wiping her hands on the rag sticking out of her pocket. “That’s a big deal for anyone.”

  “I don’t think that’s all there is to it. This means so much more to you. Why?”

  “Brian and I have been in an apartment since we moved here. Don’t get me wrong. The rent was reasonable and we’ve managed, but I want a yard. A porch. A garden. Know what I mean?”

  “I know those are all the surface reasons, but this is deeper for you.”

  The smile disappeared from her face and she looked away. “You’re right, I suppose.”

  “Your parents ever own a house?”

  “No. Poor, remember?” Glancing at him, she shook her head. “We lived in an apartment, but my parents always dreamed of buying this old place outside of town with some acreage. The house had been abandoned for years so the paint was peeling and the roof needed work. It was two stories and there was a barn and some equipment. Us kids used to ride our bikes out there and pretend it was ours. If you moved the knob on the back door just right it would open. I remember going through the rooms and picking out my bedroom.” She paused. “But it never happened.”

  “How are they doing now?”

  “My dad died when I was about Brian’s age.”

  “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. My mom remarried a couple years later and we moved into my stepdad’s house.”

  “How did you end up on Mirabelle?”

  “Fate.” She laughed, soft and low. “That’s the only answer.”

  “Come on.”

  “All right, then what would you call it? I opened a bride magazine and found an advertisement for destination weddings at the Mirabelle Island Inn. It looked like the perfect place to raise a child. When I called and found out there was no wedding planner on the island that was it. Brian and I came up here for a long weekend to check it out. I knew from the moment I stepped off the ferry that I wanted to live here. I couldn’t afford a down payment on a house, so we rented the apartment above my shop from the Setterbergs.

  “When this house went up for sale, I knew it was meant to be mine. I used to come
up here sometimes, lie in the grass in the backyard and dream of owning this place.”

  She crossed over to the window and pointed. “In no time, those two big, beautiful bridal-veil spirea bushes will bloom so gorgeous and full they’ll put any of the wedding bouquets I design to shame. Same with the lilacs along the side yard. Soon the irises will be blooming in the front yard. And on the north side of the house, around the corner, is a long patch of lilies of the valley growing by the downspout.

  “The maple in front and the old oak in the back don’t look all that special now, but just wait until they’re all leafed out. They’re nothing short of majestic. And when I got sick of looking at the plants, I’d look up at the house and I’d imagine it with all new paint.”

  That’s when she closed her eyes and he felt himself right there with her. He could see the picture she began to paint as clear as day.

  “A pale gray home,” she softly said. “With black shutters and trim and a red front door. Full, lush Boston ferns hanging from the porch. Flower boxes filled with petunias and vinca vines. Pots of geraniums lining the steps. White gingerbread trim glistening in the sunlight.” She paused. “Gingerbread is atrociously expensive, so I can’t afford it.”

  “Yet, you mean. It’ll come.” He smiled, so glad he’d already started work on the intricate trim. He realized then that no matter how much cash he’d accumulated, he wouldn’t be leaving Mirabelle until he was finished with Sarah’s house. “How ’bout a swing? On the porch.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Perfect.”

  “It’s almost yours.”

  She opened her eyes. “Thanks to you.”

  “No.” He shook his head and brushed at a spot of paint on her forehead. “You did the hard stuff before I ever got here, saving the down payment and making up the plans. It’s yours. All yours.”

  As a slow country song about a broken road leading two lovers to each other sifted through the air, her eyes were filled with dreams, her smile with hope, and Jesse knew right then and there that he was falling in love with this woman. He was already slipping down that devastating slope.

  He’d never felt this way before, had never believed he would, and maybe that’s how these feelings had blind-sided him so easily. Before he’d known to try and fight the emotions, there they were, full-blown and rooted as deeply inside him as the roots of an old oak spread into the earth. How had he ever lived without Sarah?

  “Come here,” he murmured, stepping toward her.

  Looking slightly dazed, she glanced up into his face, but she came to him easily and he drew her into his arms. Inevitably, they began moving slowly in time with the soft guitar sounding over the radio.

  The moment he felt her warmth, Jesse realized his mistake. It’d been years since he’d held a woman in his arms. Several long years since he’d held a woman’s hands. Or buried his face in a woman’s hair. Years since he’d sensed a woman’s want.

  And Sarah did want him. He could almost taste the subtle change in her body as she’d stepped in closer and rested her cheek against his shoulder. Then her lips were at his throat, her quiet breath in his ear.

  “Sarah—”

  She wrapped a hand around his neck and kissed him, slanted her mouth over his, dipped her eager tongue inside his mouth. Warm woman. Sweet and wet. As if he was fourteen all over again and this was the first time he’d ever kissed a girl, Jesse’s knees nearly buckled. He backed up against the door for support, drawing her with him, kissing her.

  Groaning, she ran her hands through his hair, down his chest and then under his shirt and up along his sides, her touch licking over his skin like fire. He slid to the floor, taking her with him. She grabbed his shirt and dragged it over his head. Then she was straddling him, her hands on his chest, tugging at his hair. Her mouth was on his nipple, her tongue licking back and forth. She looked drugged as if she didn’t know what she was doing, but what she was doing was driving him crazy.

  “I want to see you,” he whispered, slowly drawing her T-shirt up, giving her every chance to stop him. Instead, she took the shirt out of his hands and yanked it off herself. Reaching up, he cupped her beautifully rounded breasts, ran his fingers over the pink lace of her bra and felt her nipples harden under his hand.

  God help him, but he couldn’t help reacting it’d been so long. Need tightened in his groin and he had to feel her against him. Cupping her backside, he pulled her to him, kissed her deeply and pulsed against her. For a moment, she was right there with him, moving with him, turning him rock-hard with need.

  Then suddenly she tensed. Before she’d uttered a sound, he knew they’d gone too far.

  “This can’t happen,” she whispered against his lips.

  “I know,” he groaned.

  “You are the worst thing in the world for me.”

  “I know that, too.”

  She scrambled back, looking as dazed and devastated as he felt. Her lips were swollen and kiss-reddened, her neck marked by his rough cheeks, as if she belonged to him. But she didn’t. Never would.

  She stood and balled her shirt up in front of her. “All you want from me is a good time. A party. A little romp under the sheets. Fun. And then you’ll move on as if I never existed.”

  Now there she was wrong, as wrong as a woman could ever be, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to enlighten her. “I’m falling in love with you” wasn’t exactly something she was going to want to hear. Not from him.

  Still, a small part of him, the part that still held a scrap of self-respect, came to life. He dragged his shirt back over his head and stood. “You kissed me first, remember?”

  “I know. I did.” She glanced away as if she couldn’t bear to hold his gaze. “But every time you look at me, it’s as if you’re touching me. Your eyes skate over my face, my lips, my skin like a featherlight touch. Whether you’re inches away or across a room, I can…feel you. Undressing me. Wanting me.”

  The way he wanted her now.

  “Just finish my house, Jesse, okay? That’s all I need from you,” she whispered as she walked out the door. “All I will ever let myself want from you.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ONE OF THE BENEFITS to living in the Midwest as far as Jesse was concerned was the change of the season, and spring had long been his favorite. The island had completely come back to life after the long, cold winter, and Jesse finally understood why the residents so loved this little chunk of rock, as he’d once thought of it.

  The scent of lilacs and Russian olive trees in the air. Cool breezes coming in off Lake Superior. The quaintness of horse-drawn carriages clip-clopping over cobblestone. Most importantly, there was a certain comfort in knowing—not necessarily liking—every person he met on the street. Somehow the judgmental glares from people like Shirley Gilbert and Mary Miller were easier to tolerate given the welcoming conversation of the likes of Bob and Marsha Henderson and Charlotte Day.

  As soon as it got warm enough, Jesse enlisted Garrett’s help and they replaced Sarah’s roof before the spring rains had a chance to set in. Then, given the interior of Sarah’s house was nearly finished, he helped Garrett put in a large deck spanning the entire lakeshore side of Duffy’s Pub.

  One increasingly warmer day flowed into the next and before Jesse knew it, all he had left to do was the fireplace and finish the drywall and molding in one of the bedrooms before he could move on to the exterior, replacing a few windows and painting.

  As his stash of traveling cash grew, he realized he’d reached the point that he could leave Mirabelle and never look back. He had enough money banked to get far, far away from this island and start a new life someplace else. As soon as he finished Sarah’s house, that’s exactly what he was going to do.

  Oddly enough, Sarah had taken to bringing him dinner at her house on a relatively regular basis. It wasn’t Erica fare, by any means, but it meant something to him, something he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand. He had no clue what was going on between the two of them, but he wa
s doing his utmost best to keep a distance.

  Sarah, on the other hand, seemed confused. One minute she could be as cold as ice and the next as warm as sunshine. One minute she’d be standing next to him, talking and laughing as they worked together, and the next she wouldn’t come within three feet of him.

  Today was one of those good nights, one of those times when sharing her company was as easy as slipping off to sleep after a fifteen-hour workday. They’d been taping the drywall in the last bedroom and sanding to finish.

  “That’s pretty good,” Jesse said, reaching over her shoulder and running his hand across the surface. “But you need to remember that a coat of paint has a way of bringing out every imperfection in the surface of a wall. You want it as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

  Sarah laughed as she turned to look up at him. “You touch that wall as if it was alive.”

  “Maybe it is, in a way.” He looked down at her and wasn’t sure he’d ever seen a more beautiful sight. Her hair. Her cheeks. Her shoulders. She was covered in drywall dust and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to lay her back and make love to her. “Like a woman.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” Laughing, she spun away from him. “We still have a lot of work to—”

  A knock sounded on the front door.

  “I wonder who that is,” she said, walking down the hall. “Brian’s at Zach’s.”

  Jesse got ready to sand the next sections. He heard Sarah’s footsteps come back down the hall.

  “Jesse?” she said. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  “I’m right in the middle of this.” Not to mention covered head to toe in plaster dust. “Who is it?”

  “I think you just need to come.”

  At the odd sound of her voice, he turned. A shadow of concern had passed over her features. “What’s the matter?” He shut off the sander and climbed down the ladder. Then he removed his mask and walked into the hall. Garrett was at the front door, standing next to—

  Jesse stopped in his tracks. He swallowed, then felt the back of his neck twinge with foreboding. “Hello, Jesse.”