by Mindy Klasky
“It doesn’t seem like he cares very much about meeting you,” Nick said. She knew he meant to sound concerned. She read the little frown on his face, the dip of his eyebrows. But she also heard the laughter beneath his words. “What time was he supposed to be here?”
“Seven,” she admitted. “But there are lots of reasons he could be running late.”
He glanced toward her phone. “Sure,” he agreed. But she heard what he didn’t say. Lots of reasons, but he could at least give you a call to say he’s on his way.
Wild horses would tear her apart before she’d admit she didn’t have RoadWarrior’s phone number. Didn’t even have his name.
As if Nick had read her mind, he said, “Why don’t you give him a call? Make sure everything’s okay?”
She took a slug of wine, and then she was able to smile as she said, “I can manage my social life just fine, thank you.”
He shrugged. “Where’s Olivia tonight?”
She bristled. Now he was saying she was a bad mother for being out on a Friday night? But even as her hackles rose, she forced herself to listen to the tone of his question. He wasn’t accusing her. He just sounded curious. He was allowed to ask about her daughter. Their daughter. “She’s with Ashley.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I try not to impose too often. It was a lot easier up in New York, when I had babysitters on call every night.”
“You did good work there, Jamie,” he said, and she was surprised by the fierceness of his declaration. “Made some great pictures. I kept track of everything you posted online.”
And there it was, that flash of instant heat. Her mind knew that she was never going to fall for Nick Durban again, that she was doing everything in her power to build a romantic life completely separate from her college love. But her body wasn’t with the program.
He was talking about her photography—that was her work. But his eyes never left hers. His gaze seared down to her marrow. Old responses died hard—Nick had believed in her years ago. He’d encouraged her to follow her unconventional path. He’d made her into the photographer she was today.
Right before he’d ripped her heart out, stomping on it for good measure.
He smiled as if he didn’t remember that part of their past, and he offered up a single shoulder in a half-apologetic shrug. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
“I’m meeting someone for dinner,” she said pointedly. But she was hungry—for food and for something more. RoadWarrior had awakened that hunger in her with his teasing Wednesday night. The entire time she’d brought herself closer to release, she’d known her touch was nothing compared to what a man could give her. What RoadWarrior could do. What Nick had done, so many times, in so many ways.
Don’t be an idiot, she told herself. You’re only reacting to Nick because you know him and he’s here. He’s familiar. Safe.
But he wasn’t the right man for her, hadn’t been since he left her for California and his career.
RoadWarrior was a new opportunity, a new beginning. RoadWarrior was the chance to finally settle in Raleigh, in the life she was building for herself and for Olivia.
“Sure,” he said, as if she’d actually admitted to the gnawing in her belly. “But we can get something light. Appetizers. Who knows? Your mystery man will probably be here before the food comes.”
“Fine,” she said. Because the thought of ordering made her realize she was starving. And she was beginning to be truly annoyed by RoadWarrior. If he had to be late, he should at least reach her through the dating app. And she was certain her phone hadn’t issued any triple buzz in the past half hour.
Nick snagged the bartender’s attention. “We’ll have a shrimp cocktail,” he said. “And an order of calamari. And can you bring a bottle of Tabasco, too, please?”
“You remembered,” she said, ridiculously pleased.
“I remember everything,” he said. And there was that look again, that intensity, the one that was hotter than any pepper sauce. He knew how she liked her seafood. He knew everything about her—how she loved being kissed on the side of her neck, how she was unbearably ticklish behind the backs of her knees. She was suddenly excruciatingly aware of her lace panties against the seam of her thighs, the silk burning like a hot wire.
“Nick—” she said, pushing back from the bar. “This is a bad idea. I’m just going to take my book and—”
“Don’t go.” His hand closed over hers. The heat from his fingers melted her veins; it swooped through her body and set up a steady throbbing deep inside her belly. No, that was just being polite. The throbbing was distinctly lower than her belly. “Please,” he said.
She sat down again.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
She was spared the need to reply because the bartender brought their food. She’d never been so grateful for cold shrimp and hot squid. She laughed like a child discovering cotton candy for the first time, and she chased her first chilled curl of seafood with a healthy swallow of wine. She grabbed for a ring of calamari and dipped it into the marinara sauce on the side, spiced it up with a dash of Tabasco.
And she tried to convince herself that her lips were only tingling because of the spicy peppers. Even after Nick reached out with his thumb to catch a stray drop of tomato sauce from the corner of her mouth. He held it in front of her lips and waited for her to lick it clean.
She did.
If she’d been eating with RoadWarrior, she would have been mortified. Instead, she threw back her head and laughed. Because what was a stray dollop of marinara sauce between friends? Nick laughed with her, breaking the sultry air between them. Suddenly, everything was simple again. They were friends, old friends, sharing drinks and hors-d’oeuvres.
Everything was easy until the plates were cleared away. Until their glasses were empty. Until the bartender nodded and asked if they wanted another round. Until Jamie picked up her phone, held it close enough that Nick couldn’t see the screen, tapped the TrueLove icon and saw the empty heart, the empty mailbox.
“I should go,” she said.
Nick stood up when she did. She reached for her clutch with one hand and for the check with the other.
“I’ve got it,” Nick said, slipping his wallet out of his pocket and tossing a couple of bills onto the bar.
“Thanks,” she said. She picked up her stupid book and tucked it under her arm. She thought about leaning in and kissing Nick on the cheek; she wondered how that beard would feel against her lips.
She told herself not to be absurd.
“Thanks,” she said again and turned toward the door.
“Hey,” Nick called, before she was three steps away. “He’s an idiot, Twelve.”
She fought her lips until she managed a smile. “Sure,” she said. She didn’t look back as she stumbled toward the parking lot.
~~~
Nick waved off the change that the bartender tried to give him. “Keep it,” he said, knowing he was leaving a massive tip so he wouldn’t feel quite as much of a dick. What the hell had gotten into him, teasing her like that? He could have just accepted her explanation that she was waiting for someone; he didn’t have to goad her into checking her phone for messages half a dozen times. It was like he had to push on, had to pretend, had to prove to himself he really didn’t have any other choice.
It was like he had to drive away the fear that she’d find out RoadWarrior was him, that she’d reject him, flat, cold, the way she had every right to do. Christ, he was a mess.
Now, he thought about going into the back room, hanging out with whoever was there from the team. But the last thing he wanted was to sit down to a monstrous steak, to tell bullshit stories about his past, to act like everything was easy and normal and fun.
Instead, he pushed off from the bar and headed out to the parking lot. He was halfway to his car, reaching for his keys, when he saw her.
She was sitting inside her beat-up sedan. Her head rested against her steering wheel. Her f
ingers were curled into a fist, and she pounded on the dashboard, slowly, steadily, like a woman worn down by fate. As he stared, she slumped back in the driver’s seat, collapsing against the headrest with a look of total defeat.
He crossed the lot before he knew his feet were moving. She startled like a rabbit when he tapped on her window. “Sorry,” he said, after she’d opened her door a crack. “Everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay,” she snapped. “My piece of crap car won’t start. I can’t even roll down the window on this stupid thing. I can’t even—” She cut herself off and pounded on the steering wheel with her closed fist, a cry of frustration squealing at the back of her throat.
Guilt sliced through him. If he’d been paying child support, Jamie could have afforded a decent car, a safe and reliable vehicle for their daughter. But there was no way he could say that to her now. Not when she was raw, hurting from the TrueLove disaster at the bar. He’d have to wait before he could even make the offer. For now, he pitched his voice low, trying to sound casual. “Let me give you a ride home.”
“No,” she said. “I’ll call Ashley.”
“She must have put Olivia to bed already.” He tried to sound perfectly reasonable. “I can drive you home, and you can get a tow truck in the morning.”
“I’ll call Robert.”
“Jamie,” he said. “It’s just a ride.”
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and he saw a tumble of emotions cross her face. There was the reflex of stubbornness, a long-simmering frustration, a fresh blush of embarrassment. He saw anger there—with him or with the car or with a million different challenges in her life.
And then he saw resignation.
“Fine,” she said. “Just a ride.”
The car added insult to injury, fighting her efforts to extract her key. He knew better than to offer to help. Instead, he waited patiently, pretending that he hadn’t just scored a massive victory, hadn’t just been given the one thing he wanted more than anything else in the world.
She finally tugged the key loose, and she swore as she locked the doors. “Not like anyone could actually steal it,” she said. “I’d be better off if they tried.”
He gestured toward his Mercedes, fighting a wince as she glared at the car. She transferred that attitude to her hips as she walked, swaying with more than a hint of independence, of raw, untapped anger. Not that he was looking at her hips. Not that he was mesmerized by the steel links of that belt, by the soft leather that cupped her ass.
He opened the passenger door of his car and waited for her to get settled. No, he wasn’t staring at her legs as she pulled them inside the vehicle. He wasn’t imagining how her thighs felt, cased in black. He wasn’t checking out the tight stretch of her T-shirt, the crimson cloth boldly announcing something lacy underneath.
He closed her door and walked behind the car to his own side, all the while telling his libido to shut the fuck up. If he’d wanted to go home with Jamie, he’d had his chance the second he walked into Artie’s. For half a minute, he could have gone up to her in the bar. He could have held out his hand and introduced himself as RoadWarrior. He could have told her the truth, and they could have laughed together, and he could have broached the idea that had been unfolding inside his mind from the moment he first saw her at Rockets Field.
They should try again.
He’d been an idiot, back at graduation. He never should have taken Ep’s advice. Now that he saw what she’d done with her life, the steady determination that had built a safe world for herself, for their daughter… He wanted to wind back the years. He was drowning in second thoughts. He knew he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, and he hoped she’d have the courage and the grace to forgive him.
But he hadn’t said any of that. He’d missed the moment back there in Artie’s because he’d been afraid she’d reject him, and now it was gone forever. Because he was a jackass, because he was afraid of admitting to his feelings, because he was a goddamn fucking idiot, he’d kept his mouth shut.
He’d seen true hurt in her eyes when she realized her date wasn’t showing up. It was the same expression he’d planted there seven years ago. And he was just man enough to admit he couldn’t keep saying he loved a woman if all he did was hurt her.
He set his teeth before he opened his car door. He told himself not to look at her red shirt, not to pay any attention to those black leather pants. He insisted that he didn’t remember what her body looked like beneath those clothes, that he didn’t feel the raging pressure of his hard-on.
He tested his voice in his head, making sure it was steady before he asked. “Where to? Where are you living these days?” He almost sounded like dropping her off and driving away was something he wanted to do.
CHAPTER 7
Jamie stared out the window as Nick negotiated the quiet Raleigh streets. She knew she should be chatting. She should at least pretend to be light-hearted, amused at being stood up. After all, what did she have invested in RoadWarrior? Why did she care if the jerk decided not to keep their plans?
But she did care. She cared, because she’d begun to think there might be something real between them. RoadWarrior had given her good advice; he’d seemed to pay sincere attention as she worked out her problem with Nick. She’d looked forward to his messages, to the way he made her smile. And she’d revealed a lot of herself—far too much—on Wednesday night, when she’d described how he made her feel, when she’d told him about slipping out of her panties and putting her fingers…
She stopped that line of thinking with a solid shudder.
God, she’d been desperate. It must have been because she was seeing Nick again, because working with him at Rockets Field made her relive, over and over, those heart-shattering moments when he’d walked out of her dorm room. With RoadWarrior, she’d told herself she’d found a guy who really understood her, who was worth reshaping her life, who was important enough to shift the balance of her professional life, and her family life, and the life she shared with her friends.
Friends like Ashley. Thank God Ashley had taken Olivia for the evening. It would be too hard to come home after this embarrassing defeat, to be smiling and cheerful for her daughter, to pretend that she’d had a wonderful time and everything was right in the world. For just one night, Jamie was looking forward to collapsing on her couch. She could open a bottle of wine and drink as much as she wanted. She could go to bed without brushing her teeth. She didn’t need to set a good example for anyone.
She steeled herself with a deep breath, then gave Nick the directions for the last few turns to her house. He drove the way he did everything else—with calm competence. His hands were relaxed on the wheel; he was quietly in charge, in control. He didn’t try to rush through an intersection on a yellow light; instead, he braked to a smooth, easy stop.
She glanced at his profile, at the familiar lines made more exotic by the addition of that beard. The facial hair made him look wild, like a man who might throw caution to the winds. She thought about how those rough curls would feel against the palm of her hand, and she tightened her fingers in reflex.
“There,” she said, nodding toward her small clapboard house. “Third one on the right.”
He pulled into the driveway and slipped the car into Park. Before he could go through the charade of walking around, of opening her door, she let herself out. “Thanks,” she said, barely leaning over to catch his gaze.
He licked his lips and ran a spread-fingered hand through his hair. Her belly tightened. That was what he’d done, just before he’d dumped her. Licked his lips and pressed them together. Left tracks in the tangles of his hair.
She didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say. Didn’t want an apology. Didn’t want to paste on a smile, to assure him she’d been better off on her own, that she and Olivia were fine now, happy, alone.
“Thanks,” she said again, and she slammed the door, only a little harder than was necessary.
Her
hands were shaking as she reached inside her clutch for her house key. How could the damn thing be lost? The little clutch only held her phone, a couple of twenties folded in half, and a tube of lipstick.
There, the key was wedged into the seam. She plucked it out and fitted it into her lock. She glanced over her shoulder. Nick was still there, waiting to see that she got safely inside.
She turned her back on him and jiggled the key. Why was everything in her life on the verge of breaking down? Her car, her key, her bank account…
The tumblers finally caught, and she worked the lock, shoving the door open with her shoulder. She used a little more force than she needed to, and she was surprised to feel tears prick at the corners of her eyes. That was ridiculous. Her shoulder didn’t hurt that much. She was being a drama queen.
She yanked her key out of the door and was about to escape, when Nick sprang out of the car. “Twelve!” he called.
That idiotic nickname. She hesitated, wondering if she could pretend she hadn’t heard him, but it was too late. He jumped up the two steps to her porch and held out his hand.
“You forgot this,” he said.
You Can’t Go Home Again. She reached for it by reflex, at the same time Nick moved toward her. Their hands met around the book, slipped against each other, fumbled in mid-air. He laughed as the novel hit the porch, and then he said, “Let’s try this again.”
He was obviously talking about the book. He didn’t mean anything about their relationship, about all the good things they’d had together, all the ways they’d been right for each other, before he decided to walk away.
But she couldn’t help herself. She sucked in her breath and looked away, just as fresh tears sparked in her eyes.
Stupid RoadWarrior. Stupid date. Stupid Raleigh, North Carolina, and stupid every last thing in her life.
~~~
What an idiot! Nick told himself. He could execute a double-play as a runner barreled down the base path, but handing over a simple paperback book turned him into a clown? He brushed off the cover and held it out to Jamie. Only when he looked up from the book did he realize she was crying.