What Matters More

by Liora Blake

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, or events are used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Liora Blake

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form whatsoever. For information or to inquire about subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher at www.liorablake.com.

  First Edition April 2019

  Cover design: Okay Creations

  Formatting: Mayhem Cover Creations

  Editing: M.ute Editing, Clio Editing Services, and Victory Editing

  Contents

  1. JT

  2. Anya

  3. Anya

  4. JT

  5. Anya

  6. Anya

  7. JT

  8. JT

  9. Anya

  10. JT

  11. JT

  12. Anya

  13. Anya

  14. Anya

  15. JT

  16. Anya

  17. Anya

  18. JT

  19. Anya

  20. JT

  21. Anya

  22. JT

  23. Anya

  24. JT

  25. Anya

  Thank You!

  Also By Liora Blake

  “I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life—and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing I wanted to do.”

  * * *

  Georgia O’Keeffe

  1

  JT

  At this point in his life, JT Maxwell didn’t ask for much.

  With all that had happened over the last year, he knew better. Turned out that striving to have it all—and then actually having it—wasn’t nearly as good as he’d imagined it would be, especially when it came with one hell of a price tag. These days, when some irrational desire for more crept up, he simply shook it off and moved on.

  Still . . . this was almost too much to bear.

  He wanted this one thing. A tiny, trivial ask of the universe. And that ask was simple.

  He wanted someone to change the fucking channel.

  “This caprese bruschetta is everything summer, right? Fragrant Sun Gold tomatoes, beautiful rounds of fresh mozza, some fruity olive oil, and a sprinkle of that Thai basil. All of that dolloped on top of roasted-garlic-rubbed toast points? Summer, in your mouth.”

  JT watched the comely celebrity TV chef smile absently as she arranged all that “summer in your mouth” bullshit on a tiny porcelain plate, poured herself a glass of pink wine, and then commenced the requisite act of sampling her own creation. One demure bite followed by a purring sound as her eyes fell closed for a beat, her chest rising and falling in a way that filled out the plunging neckline of her tight sweater. JT wanted to roll his eyes, but instead he told himself to enjoy the tepid erotic display for what it was. Mostly because he had very little hope of eliciting those sounds from a woman in real life these days.

  Enticingly tight sweaters aside, this was a bar. Granted, it happened to be the bar inside of a chain eatery, but this was what the outskirts of suburban Tucson had to offer. In this part of the restaurant, there were barstools, bottles of liquor lined up, and a long row of beer taps, so therefore, it was a bar.

  And while JT liked bruschetta as much as the next guy, he held this truth to be self-evident: a cooking show should not be on in a bar.

  If there was a television mounted above a bar, he believed it should be tuned to either ESPN or CNN, that’s all there was to it. Sports and current affairs always encouraged conversation between strangers. But recipes for bruschetta? Most people couldn’t care less.

  An exasperated sigh sounded from the seat next to him.

  “Thai basil? Why is she screwing up a perfectly good bruschetta that way? Thai basil tastes like an old weed dipped in turpentine. And Sun Golds? You’ll waste ten minutes dicing up all those little cherry tomatoes and end up with more skin and seeds than anything. A big Black Krim and some Genovese, that’s all you need. Jesus.”

  Well, scratch that. Some people were stirred up by bruschetta. For a moment, JT had forgotten who was here with him.

  Chris Carr was one of the shrewdest US Marshals whom JT had ever worked with. The two of them were members of Tucson’s violent offender fugitive taskforce, comprised of Marshals who were a cut above the rest, and Carr’s skills as a strategist were legendary.

  He also looked like every casting director’s idea of a ruthless mercenary: shaved head, deep-set eyes, and built like a Strongman title contender. Based on his appearance, people might find it surprising that Chris also happened to be just as good in the kitchen as he was in the field. Hand the man a knife—which inevitably made him look even more like a mercenary—and it wouldn’t take you long to figure out that his knife skills were actually best employed carving a radish into the shape of a butterfly.

  But Chris was also the reason JT ignored how much he still wanted someone around here to change the channel. Today had not been a good day on the job, for either of them. A previously convicted rapist who had recently violated the terms of his parole had slipped their surveillance this afternoon. Since he was currently living out of his car, that meant he could be anywhere. This left them with no option but to wait for him to pop up online again, which would likely be in one of the many chat rooms he frequented to target underage girls. And waiting was the worst. It set the entire team’s nerves on edge because it meant their target was in control, when it should be the other fucking way around.

  To dull that edge a little, Chris needed to watch a cooking show. JT needed to avoid going home for a few more hours. And they both wanted a beer, so here they were.

  JT let out a scoff before raising his beer to his lips. “Do the mozza rounds suit you, Chef? Or would you prefer that she save those for a nice charcuterie platter?”

  “The bocconcini are good. Same goes for her use of roasted garlic. You can’t go wrong with roasted garlic. Ever.” Chris drew his beer closer and looked longingly at the TV screen. “That woman could rub roasted garlic on me and I’d just lie there and take it. I mean, so long as she’s wearing one of those low-cut shirts when she does it, and when she’s done with me, I get to return the favor.”

  JT rolled his eyes a little. “If that’s where your sexual fantasies are at these days, you need to stop watching so many cooking shows. And you need to get laid.”

  Chris kept his eyes glued to the television, watching intently as his roasted-garlic fantasy nimbly sheathed an asparagus spear with a piece of prosciutto in a way that seemed almost indecent for a family-friendly cooking show.

  “I am getting laid. You’re the one who’s in a dry spell that just won’t end,” he said.

  JT choked a little on his beer before muttering a fuck you in Chris’s direction. A split second later, he fully processed what Chris had just said.

  “Wait. What the fuck does that mean? Are you dating somebody?”

  He didn’t have to wait for an answer. It came by way of Chris rubbing his thumb across the spot where his wedding ring had once sat. JT sighed, long and loud.

  “Shayna? Really? Do either of you even understand the point of a trial separation? You’re supposed to be sep-a-rated, not fucking each other.”

  Chris shrugged. “I never wanted to be separated. I want to be with my wife and my kids. So if Shayna digs us sneaking around a little bit, I’m happy to go along with her on that. If she needs me—for anything—then I’m there. Me not being there enough is part of the problem.” A flicker of a smirk worked its way across Chris’s features. “So I’m working on that.”

  The smirk wasn’t some adolescent-type tic, or
the look of an asshole who liked talking publicly about things he shouldn’t. Instead this was a man who loved his wife, understood he was close to losing her, and reveled in every victory along the way to getting her back. Given that JT hadn’t been able to manage the same in his own marriage, he couldn’t help but respect a man who did.

  Chris drained his beer, and a full pint glass replaced the empty within moments of his setting it on the bar top. Courtesy of the cute brunette bartender with the bright green eyes who had easily remembered their preferred brand of beer—Blue Moon—despite the fact that they had been in here only twice before. The hard-to-miss US Marshal jackets they were wearing when they came in probably had something to do with what made them memorable. If not, Chris’s mercenary look was impossible for most people to forget, and JT’s intricate tattoos—full sleeves on both arms—usually left their own impression on those who caught a glimpse.

  “How about you?” The bartender walked her fingers across the bar toward JT’s glass, then tapped one of her cherry-red manicured nails on the coaster beneath. “Ready for another?”

  “Not yet,” JT answered, lifting his gaze to meet her eyes. She smiled, told him she would be waiting, and sashayed away.

  Chris reached for his fresh pint, only to stop halfway when his phone vibrated where it sat on the bar top and a text lit the screen. Next thing JT knew, Chris was yanking his coat on and digging out his wallet, dropping a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.

  “Gotta go. All three kids are down for the count with some sort of stomach bug. Shayna needs backup.”

  JT’s brow furrowed. “Need me to do anything?”

  Chris pointed at the full beer he wasn’t going to get to enjoy.

  “Drink my beer.” Then he whacked JT on the shoulder with an open hand. “And that dry spell of yours?” He sent a quick look down the bar, prompting JT to follow his sightline. The bartender was drawing another draft but still managed to meet his eyes for a moment. Chris leaned in and lowered his voice.

  “I’m pretty sure that right over there is a waterfall, my friend. A fucking oasis in the desert. Take a drink, it’ll do you good.”

  Another shove on his shoulder and Chris was out the door. JT watched him go, then immediately sucked down a healthy swig of what was now his beer.

  Chris was right, JT knew that. He needed to shake off this dry spell by putting all of his pent-up, pissed-off energy to use in a way that actually felt good, instead of relying on hours in the gym to exhaust his body until he couldn’t help but stop thinking.

  JT also knew that this shouldn’t be so hard. But going an entire year not being with a woman—or even trying to be—meant that it fucking was hard. The divorce had screwed with his head so much that even when there was a seriously cute bartender just a few feet away who was smiling at him again, he still questioned what to do next. And this time her smile looked a lot like an encouragement. Enticing him to volley back something with his expression, anything that said I’m right here and I’m interested.

  Instead of doing just that, JT dropped his gaze to his beer, then dropped it lower and studied the coaster.

  What the fuck was wrong with him? He could make this happen; all he had to do was get in the game. In the game, he could compete. JT might not have the slightly intimidating untamed-beast thing happening that Chris did, but he was no slouch. He carried two hundred pounds of lean muscle around on a six-foot frame, and all those hours spent punishing his body in the gym meant he could easily take down a fugitive on the run when the situation called for it. He kept his dark hair short and his face clean-shaven. Women liked his blue eyes and loooved his tattoos—or at least, that’s what friends of his sister always slurred when they’d consumed a few too many mason jars of her “world-famous” sangria. Plus, he was a former Marine and a current Deputy-fucking-Marshal. As guys go, mothers everywhere would consider him a catch. So what was stopping him from chatting up a beautiful woman who was just steps away?

  One glance at the twenty-dollar bill Chris had tossed down before leaving—conveniently more than enough to cover both of their beers and a tip—was his answer.

  The reason JT was behaving like a recently neutered schnauzer and found that goddamn beer coaster so interesting was because he wasn’t a catch. Not if a woman was interested in anything beyond appearances. Because the man underneath the tattoos was in credit card debt up to his eyeballs. He was also barely making the mortgage payment every month on a house that it seemed his ex-wife would never move out of. And, as if all that wasn’t aggravating enough, he was still paying off the bill to his divorce attorney for her services.

  But the real kicker?

  He was currently living in his parents’ basement. Which is where all women dream of finding themselves stripping down for a long night of sweaty, headboard-banging sex. Getting it on in some recently divorced guy’s parents’ basement, the faint sound of a Matlock rerun drifting down the staircase, on a cheap double bed dressed in the bright purple sheets his mother had proudly bought on sale at the outlet mall.

  JT all but groaned at that reality check on his life. Of being so broke at thirty-two years old that living in his parents’ basement was what he had to do to dig himself out of the hole he’d created.

  Which was why he was going to do the same thing he’d done every night since his divorce: he was going to go home, try not to wake his parents up when he went into the house and made his way downstairs, then take a shower and go to bed.

  Alone.

  Time to finish this beer, he figured. He took a drink and stared at the stupid coaster some more, until he noticed movement in his periphery.

  A moment later, without warning or invitation, Chris’s abandoned barstool was occupied. A large platter, piled high with a deep-fried onion appetizer, clattered on the bar top. The plate bumped into his forearm, hard enough that the pint glass in his hand lurched forward and sent beer sloshing onto his knuckles.

  “Wow,” a breathless voice uttered. “This is my first time ordering one of these and I had no idea it would be this big. The picture does not do it justice.”

  JT’s eyes trailed over the beer dripping off his knuckles, passed by the fried onion mound, and landed on the woman who, apparently, was the person who had ordered that culinary nightmare. She stared wide-eyed at the plate for a moment before tipping her head his way.

  Long honey-blond hair greeted his gaze, with thick bangs that framed a heart-shaped face. Her tawny golden skin was dusted so generously with delicate freckles that JT wondered if all of them were real, or if she had done something with her makeup to create the effect. Either way, she and her freckles now had all of his attention.

  Her hazel-green eyes met his, a playful half smile curving her lips before she spoke.

  “Do you want some?”

  2

  Anya

  Anya Alves did her best to keep from cringing—outwardly, at least.

  Inside, all she wanted to do was take back every word she’d uttered since sitting down on this barstool.

  At no point in the history of feminine seduction had a giant battered onion been used as an effective icebreaker, she was sure of it. To make things worse, she’d also announced that this was her first time ordering the appetizer in question and then babbled about how big it was, all before asking him if he wanted some. Every terrible, innuendo-laced word made her want to crawl under the bar.

  Yet there she was, still nudging the platter toward a guy who did not look like he made a habit of eating anything deep-fried. Instead, he looked like he belonged in a commercial for something incredibly masculine, like shaving cream. Or razors. Perhaps some sort of atrocious body spray that advertisers claimed smelled good, even when all it did was make your eyes water. This guy could sell anything, she suspected. But if it was something he could peddle while wearing only a towel, staring intensely at the camera as a solitary bead of water ran over his oh-so sculpted jawline, the product would fly off the shelves.

  And what had Any
a done with a guy like that right in front of her? She’d nearly knocked his beer over and then offered to share her big ol’ greasy onion with him.

  An offer he looked a little confused by, as if it was a trick question. Not that Anya could blame him. She was still trying to figure out what in the hell she had been thinking.

  He flicked the last few drops of beer off his fingers before finally replying.

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  Then he lifted his beer and took a long drink, and the sight convinced Anya that he could sell beer, too. Because the simple act of him raising a glass to his mouth, his tattoo-covered forearm flexing, was enough to make her reconsider her usual stance on beer, which was that it was only good with pizza. Even then, she liked beer with a little oomph to it, something along the lines of a big, bold imperial stout.

  So this guy’s beer choice—a seriously wimpy-looking ale—was not the reason she suddenly felt a little thirsty. As he set his beer back down, she trained her eyes on his forearm again, taking in all the tattoos that covered his skin. Mostly black and gray, much of the ink looked military-inspired, which wasn’t a style of art she usually gravitated toward. But since creativity in all forms fascinated her own artistic mind, Anya found herself lingering on the way the tattoo artist had wound bright red poppy flowers around the rest of the starker images. Only when her barmate cut his eyes her way did Anya realize she was staring—blatantly.

  She jerked her gaze away. Quickly enough that it was obvious she’d been caught gawking like some hormone-riddled preteen, instead of a twenty-nine-year-old adult woman.