“No, a menu would be great,” I say stiffly. “Is Dottie here?”
“She stepped out for a moment.” She leans over to grab a couple of menus from the counter and hands them to me. “But I’ll send her by as soon as she gets back.”
That’s not ideal. In fact, it’s very far from ideal, but I can’t exactly ask her not to send Dottie over. Dottie wouldn’t listen anyway.
“So,” she says, conversationally, “Is Platonic Man hot?”
It’s then that I see him, stepping through the door. And I’m not the only one. Every woman in the place seems to turn toward the door as if pulled by a magnetic force. Is this what happens to him all the time? Is his life one constant stream of letting women down easy?
Tina turns around, totally obvious, and whistles. “If that’s Platonic Man, you really need to do some soul searching, my friend. I recommend the matcha tea for clarity of mind.”
“Sure,” I say, the quicker to get her away.
“I see what you’re doing,” she says. “But I’ll allow it. You don’t need to tell Handsome you know me.”
Given that he’s looking at us, those eyes zeroing in on me, making the world seem to condense down to this table, this moment, it’s pretty unlikely he hasn’t noticed. But I can’t summon words right now.
She steps away, whistling “O Christmas Tree,” and I get shakily to my feet as Jace approaches me. We’ve only met once, so a nod would do, but I have a weird need to touch him, even if it’s for the last time, and I reach my hand out for a shake as if this were some sort of business meeting. Which it is, I guess.
He doesn’t hesitate to take my hand, his long, capable fingers engulfing mine, shocking me with their calluses and strength. Two thoughts occur to me at once: Glenn’s hands weren’t like this. Every man’s hands should be like this.
Blood is pounding in my ears as I sit down and gesture for him to do the same.
He lowers himself, looking at me with a kind of sorrow in his unfairly gorgeous eyes.
Does he care this much about letting me down easy?
Spending time with Aidan means a lot to Jace because he lost his nephew. That’s the only reason he cares about you.
“I know why you’re here, Jace,” I say as he sits down across from me. I’m not sure what compelled me to say such a thing, except…no, I do know. It’s the old urge for control, for the ability to make sense of things and wrap them up in pretty bows.
“Oh?” he asks, cocking his brow. There’s a slight edge of amusement to his expression, as if he doesn’t believe me.
“Yes.” I clear my throat, sitting up straighter. “You sensed I have an…inappropriate attraction to you,” I force out, keeping my voice calm and even. “You wanted to let me down easy, but I assure you, there’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of controlling myself.”
I thought he’d look relieved, maybe, when I said that. Or embarrassed for me. The last thing I expected was that he’d burst out laughing.
Chapter Six
Jace
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I walked into Tea of Fortune, but the interior doesn’t disappoint. There are honest-to-God crystal bouquets on the tables, plus a huge Yule star covered in holly. Still, it isn’t the interior that captures my attention. It’s the woman sitting in a booth in the back.
Mary hasn’t gotten any less beautiful, unfortunately, and when she stands, my gaze instantly sweeps over her. She’s wearing a gray, pinstriped skirt suit and a silky purple shirt that hugs her chest. The outfit is professional, but she looks less severe today…no, that’s not right. Less uptight? But that feels wrong too.
Without saying a word, she extends her hand when I reach her. I automatically take it, thankful it’s a socially recognized way to touch her, because I want to touch her. Her grip is firm, not that I’d expect anything less.
She pulls her hand away and returns to her seat, and I suppress a grin when she gestures for me to join her, as though she’s the one who called me here, rather than the other way around. But then, Mary strikes me as a woman who likes to be in charge.
I wonder, again, what she’d be like if she dropped that control in the bedroom.
Even though she is everything I never wanted in a woman—stiff, formal, tightly wound—I see something lurking beneath the surface that intrigues me. It’s as if all her control is just a front, a curtain that could be pulled back to reveal the real Mary.
I’d like to see her.
Which makes this conversation about my record so much harder.
Except she drops a bombshell before I can roll out any of the lines I’ve been practicing in my head.
“You sensed I have an…inappropriate attraction to you. You wanted to let me down easy, but I assure you, there’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of controlling myself.”
I’m so stunned, the only thing I can do is start laughing, which is clearly not the reaction she was expecting.
“You think this is a joke?” she chokes out and starts sliding out of her seat.
The last thing I want is for her to think I’m making fun of her, so I reach over and place my hand on hers. “Mary. No. Let me explain.”
She stills, but for some reason I don’t pull my hand away. I like the way hers feels beneath mine, soft and small yet strong.
“I’m flattered.”
Her face flushes.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Mary,” I say, my voice huskier than I’d intended, because her “inappropriate” attraction must be heavy on her mind if she blurted that out the moment she saw me. The idea that she’s been fantasizing about me doing God-knows-what to her slides under my skin. I like the notion of it a little too much. While I’d suspected she appreciated what she saw when she met me yesterday, I figured it was the same as walking past a Lamborghini. Sure, it catches your eye, but it’s not practical. I’m not practical for a woman like Mary O’Shea—especially since I’m more like a decade-old Dodge Ram truck than an expensive sports car—even before she considers my ex-con status.
I swallow, then force myself to say, “That’s not why I asked you here.”
Her face flushes a deeper pink, and suddenly the cool, collected woman I’ve known looks like a deer caught in the lights of an oncoming semi. I hate that I put that look on her face, and I’m thankful we’re on opposite sides of the table, because otherwise I’d be tempted to do something stupid, like take her in my arms and tell her she has nothing to apologize for. That I’m attracted to her too.
She continues to stare at me, clearly caught between fight or flight, and flight wins out. She makes a mad scramble to get out of the seat, but her foot gets caught on something under the table. Giving her foot a hard jerk, she inadvertently rattles the vase full of crystals at the far end of the table, spilling several onto the wood surface.
Her eyes gape at it, her cheeks stained with humiliation.
“Mary,” I say, holding her gaze. “Please stay.”
I still need to tell her about my past, but it’s easy to convince myself that it can—and should—wait. That she’s anxious, and I’m the one who caused her anxiety. That I need to soothe her before throwing her for another loop.
Which is all true, but there’s another certainty buried beneath it. I like that she doesn’t look at me in disgust. That I feel like a human being in her presence, and not a mass of soiled garbage.
Unfortunately, that’s about to change, and I’m not eager for it to.
She’s still on the edge of her seat, peering at me as though trying to decide what to do, when an older woman approaches the edge of our table. She’s wearing a cream-colored dress decorated in a pattern of pie slices, something that would have delighted Mrs. Rosa. Her hair is a bright yellow—like the color of sweet corn, not blond—and she looks to be in her late seventies.
“Mary, my dear!” she exclaims, clasping her hands in front of her chest. “Tina said you were here.” Then her gaze turns to me, her smile stretching wider. “And who’s this fine you
ng man?”
Mary’s mouth opens and closes, and she looks like she wants to crawl under the table and gnaw off her stuck foot so she can flee.
I lift my hand from hers and turn to face the newcomer.
“Hi. I’m Jace Hagan,” I say, extending my hand, “Mary’s son Aidan’s buddy.” It sounds ridiculous, just like I meant it to. I was hoping it would get Mary to relax, if only slightly, but her back is ramrod straight.
A sage look fills the older woman’s eyes. “Some people might think you’re too old to be friends with a six-year-old boy, but I believe there are no limitations to friendship.” Then she takes my hand. “I’m Dottie Hendrickson. I’ve known Mary since she was captain of the debate team in high school.”
I’m not surprised to hear that Mary was captain of her high school’s debate team, but I hold back a smile because she looks even more embarrassed than she did ten seconds ago.
“I only met Mary yesterday, so you’ve got the advantage.”
Dottie’s gaze shifts to the crystals splayed on the table. “Jace, dear, would you slide those over to me? They practically jumped out of their container,” she says with obvious delight, “which means I simply must do a crystal reading of your auras.”
“Dottie,” Mary finally says, “we don’t need our auras read.”
“Speak for yourself,” I say, flashing her a grin. Trying again to get her to relax. “I’ve been in Asheville three years and still haven’t had my aura read.”
Dottie lowers onto the other side of the booth, forcing Mary to scoot over and make room for her. If her discomfort is noticed, it isn’t mentioned. Instead, Dottie picks up a pale blue crystal and holds it up to her eye as she stares at me. She shakes her head in consternation, then picks up a pale yellow one. The whole spectacle should look ridiculous, but it doesn’t.
As she lowers the yellow crystal, she lets out a soft sigh. “Your aura is tinged with sadness and pain. You’ve been through so much trauma in your life. I’m sorry.”
I freeze, wondering how this woman could know anything about me, before I remember this is a parlor trick, a gimmick for entertaining tourists.
She looks at me through a pink crystal next, and whatever she sees—presumably a pink version of me—makes her brighten. “Oh, but I can see it’s easing, and a new joy is taking root.” She lowers the rock. “It’s still quite new and vulnerable, so be careful, Jace. Don’t let it fade away.”
Now it’s my turn to want to flee or hide.
Mary shoots me an apologetic look.
“Now you, Mary,” Dottie says, turning to face her. Only she doesn’t use a crystal to look at her—she just cups Mary’s cheek and looks deeply into her eyes. “Glenn lacks imagination, the foolish boy, but you have a very bright future ahead of you—full of love and happiness. You just need to let it in.”
Mary squeaks out, “How do you know that? You didn’t use a crystal or tea leaves.”
Dottie gently pats her cheek. “Because I know your heart, dear, and that’s the most important knowledge of all. Now, if you need anyone to watch your delightful son, you let me know. I’m always available.” She lets Mary’s hand drop and gets to her feet. Smiling at both of us, she says, “Your lunches will be right out.” And she walks away before we can object that we haven’t ordered anything. Then again, I have a feeling she knows that.
“What just happened?” I ask with a nervous laugh. Dottie’s aura reading has left me feeling naked and vulnerable, but then I suppose Mary feels the same way.
“I’m so sorry,” she says in a gush. “Dottie’s an old family friend, and I’ve been meaning to see her. When you mentioned meeting in person, this place popped into my head, but I should have known she’d pull something like this…”
“Read our auras?”
“And our tea leaves, and possibly our palms.” She shudders. “And who knows what she’ll send out for lunch. I think she actually buys into all that woo-woo stuff.”
“My grandmother believed in tea readings,” I say. “But she couldn’t read them herself. She had a neighbor lady do it.”
She tilts her head, studying me. Her face and neck aren’t as red now, but a tinge of pink remains. I have an insane urge to reach up and cup her cheek like Dottie did.
“Do you believe in tea readings?” she asks. It’s obvious she doesn’t, but there’s no condescension or amusement in her tone.
I shrug. “Nana did, and whether the readings were actually accurate or she made them fit her preconceptions, I’ll never know.” The corners of my mouth tip up. “But I guess that doesn’t really answer your question. Let’s just say I’m a skeptic.”
“So you didn’t come to Asheville for the”—she waves her hand in a circle—“the woo-woo?”
“No,” I say, grinning through an uncomfortable surge of memories. “I came for the construction jobs.”
She nods. “I suppose that makes sense. There’s a lot more construction here now than before I moved away for college.”
“So you left for college and never came back?”
“Until a month ago,” she says, playing idly with the pink crystal. I suspect she doesn’t realize she’s doing it, and the sight of her fingers caressing it sends a rush of blood through me. “I considered moving back after my parents died in a car accident. My youngest sister was still in high school, but our middle sister was living at home, so it made sense for her to take care of Molly.” Her shrug is belied by the way she averts her gaze. “Besides, I would have had to drop out of school. It wouldn’t have been right to uproot Molly and drag her to Charlottesville.”
It all seems practical, yet I can tell there’s more to it. I don’t press, even if I’m curious. “My father died when I was twenty, but my sister was older. Losing him was hard, and it had a profound impact on me. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to lose both my parents at the same time.”
Her gaze drops to the table, and she jerks her hand away from the crystal, as if burned. “It was the most devastating experience of my life.”
“Even more than your husband walking out?” The question is out before I can stop myself, and I’d give anything to reel it back in.
Her head jerks up, fire in her eyes. “How did you—”
“Butterfly Buddies,” I say apologetically. “They give us information about the child we’re matched with so we know what’s going on in their life.” I grimace. “I’m sorry. That was way out of line.”
Her lips flatten, and she studies the rock again. “No. Glenn walking out wasn’t nearly as earth-shattering for me as losing my parents. It was as if someone had finally opened the door of a house that had been locked for years, and fresh air swept in. I could breathe again.” Surprise fills her eyes. “I’ve never admitted that to anyone before.”
I give her a half smile.
“It feels wrong to be glad about it,” she says. “Aidan doesn’t understand why Glenn left, and I can’t find it in me to tell him his father didn’t want him anymore.” Her voice breaks, and tears fill her eyes. “Glenn didn’t say it in so many words, but he considers him defective now. And having a defective child isn’t good for his image.”
Her words stoke my anger at her worthless ex, but I take slow breaths to rein it in. “He’s better off without him, but I understand your predicament. Aidan’s a smart kid. He’ll see it for what it is—abandonment.”
She gasps, as if caught off guard, and then shakes her head woefully. “Sorry. I know that’s what he did, but it’s such a brutal word.”
“Agreed. What he did was brutal.” My voice softens. “I thought you would be a fan of the truth.”
A derisive chuckle escapes her lips. “I used to think so too. Lately…” She shrugs, but it looks more like an act of defeat than indifference. “Is it lying if you do it to yourself?”
I feel her opening to me, unfurling like a flower, and God, I don’t want to do anything to interrupt this or to fuck it up. But this isn’t why I asked to see her. The deeper we
get into conversation, the harder it will be to tell her about my past.
I’m about to launch into my rehearsed speech when a woman appears next to our table holding a tray of plates. It’s a different waitress from the one who was standing by Mary’s table when I arrived. Her nametag reads Josie.
“I have your lunch,” she says. “You must be very special, because Dottie doesn’t do this for just anyone.”
“Well,” I said in a serious tone, “Dottie has known Mary since she was captain of the debate team.”
Josie narrows her gaze on Mary. “You don’t look old enough to have gone to school with Dottie.”
Mary starts to respond. From the horrified look on her face, she’s probably about to tell Josie she’s not that old, but I interrupt and say, just as seriously, “It’s amazing what Botox can do these days.”
Josie studies me for a few seconds before giving Mary a weighing look. Apparently satisfied, she nods and starts to unload three small plates of tiny sandwiches from her tray. The plates are handmade with words painted on the edges in fancy scrollwork.
“This is a lot like Alice in Wonderland,” Josie says. “Only none of them will make you grow taller or shorter.” In all seriousness, she adds, “But Dottie says she’s working on that.”
Mary gives me an is this woman for real? look, and I suppress a laugh.
“Well, I, for one, am glad to hear that,” I say.
Josie looks me up and down, examining me with a serious expression. “Yes, I guess you’re tall enough.”
A young woman walks through the door at the front of the teahouse and stops in her tracks, her three friends ramming into her back as she shouts, “Oh, my God! It’s Josie!”
Her friends start to squeal with excitement.
“Sorry,” Josie says. “Gotta go.” She heads toward the woman and her friends, who shriek even louder, carrying on like Josie’s some kind of celebrity.
Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club) Page 7