by Liora Blake
JT nodded, resisting the intense urge to reach for her. The bed and its coverings were clearly acting as her cocoon right now, and until he was sure she wanted him to breach that safe zone, he needed to stay put.
“This artist-in-residence program I applied for?” She let out a surrendering exhale. “I want that, JT. So much. I want them to pick me. I want it so much I can’t think about it too much. If I do, it will make me crazy.” Her eyes glazed with what might become tears if she allowed it. “I’ve never wanted anything in my career like I want this. Never.”
JT’s chest swelled, almost pained by what it felt like Anya was handing him right now.
Her trust.
She was trusting him to treat her goals and aspirations with care, to hold on to them in those moments when she believed she couldn’t, and to hand them back to her whenever she was ready.
And JT was damn sure that not only did he want to rise to that challenge, he was ready for it. JT crawled up on the bed, sitting down in front of her so he could cage her in with his legs. He took her face in his hands.
“Then I hope you get it. That’s what I want for you.” She lost the battle with the tears brimming in her eyes. JT caught a lone teardrop with the sweep of one thumb across her cheek. “I hope they see how passionate you are, how no one deserves this more. If I could make it happen for you, I would. I’d do anything, even move a fucking mountain, if that’s what made you happy.”
A wobbly smile lit her face, followed by a shaky-sounding thank you. JT felt his heart start to ache so intensely it made him light-headed, in the same way the adrenaline rush from capturing a fugitive did. This, though, was all because he’d made Anya feel safe and happy—and not by way of anything that came with a price tag.
He’d done it by being there for her when her heart was full of doubt, reminding her, when it mattered most, that she was everything to him.
16
Anya
“The Eiffel Tower? Really?” Tara groaned, curling her lip as she pointed accusingly at the easel. “I don’t want to paint the Eiffel Tower. At sunset. With a cutesy couple under a freaking umbrella. Ugh.”
Anya snorted, then skirted around Tara and Alec so she could continue her setup for this afternoon’s paint-and-sip class. Perhaps if Kevin Kang were here, his unique imagining of the Eiffel Tower might help temper Tara’s cynical tone. Anya grinned at the thought.
“Oh, come on,” she said playfully. “What’s wrong with the Eiffel Tower?”
“It’s just so predictable. So precious. And so completely bor-ing.” Tara scanned the walls of Wine, Wonder & Whimsy and gestured toward the other side of the room. “Why can’t we paint that one with the sugar skull? Or the castle that looks all gothic and Dark Shadows-esque? Or the barn owl one? Even the freaking barn owl is more badass than this insipid Eiffel Tower.”
Anya flicked Tara on the shoulder with a dry paintbrush. “Because the Eiffel Tower painting is what’s on the schedule. We can’t just change it for two misanthropes who randomly decided to show up.”
When Tara had called her yesterday afternoon, her first words were an announcement that it had been too long since they had seen each other in person, followed by a demand to know when they could get together. But between Anya’s schedule and theirs, it would be a month before all three of them had a free day off at the same time. Then Alec suggested what seemed like an obvious solution: for the couple to join a weekday paint-and-sip class, effectively combining work with fun for Anya. Classes during the week were typically small to begin with, and those held during the day were even smaller. If they were lucky, the class might even wrap up early enough for the three of them to squeeze in dinner somewhere before Tara and Alec had to head home to the babysitter.
“No one else is here,” Tara huffed and swept her arms about the empty room. “These two misanthropes are your only students. We should be able to call an audible if we are the class. Right, Alec?”
Alec set his beer down and shrugged his shoulders. He eyed the new lavender highlights in Tara’s hair with an appreciative grin. “Whatever you say, sugarplum,” he drawled.
“There. You see that? The only other person here agrees with me.” Tara blew him a kiss. “On everything.”
“Technically, you can paint whatever you want, anyway,” Anya relented. “But we can’t go changing what’s on the schedule for everybody else in the class. Now, on the off chance that no one else shows up, then we can pick another painting. Will that make you happy?”
Tara pirouetted triumphantly, an unexpectedly graceful move from a woman dressed in fatigue pants, a cropped Bad Religion t-shirt, and red lace-up high-tops. Tara then took a seat next to Alec, her own can of nonalcoholic beer clutched in one hand.
“I am willing to accept this as a suitable compromise. But bear in mind, if just one or two people show up and they happen to look particularly impressionable, I may explain to them that Eiffel Tower paintings are for dreary people living monotonous lives who are one step away from a headstone that reads Here Lies the Most Boring Person Who Ever Existed.”
“Tara,” Anya groaned, “you can’t do that. There are at least three other people who signed up online, probably for this class specifically. You’ll just have to find your inner romantic, maybe drink some French wine, and figure out how to love cheesy paintings the way you love actual cheese—”
She stopped short at the sound of the front door opening, straightening up to greet a “real” customer, hoping they hadn’t overheard any of her and Tara’s conversation.
But instead of a customer, she looked up to find JT poking his head in. He scanned the room swiftly and, after determining it was safe, he made a beeline for Anya. He was dressed casually, in well-worn jeans and a t-shirt that did a killer job of showing off all the ink and muscles on his arms. Even though that would normally make her think about all the ink under his shirt, the rest of his outfit made that almost impossible.
A shiny police badge was draped around his neck on a chain, and there was a gun holster on his hip, which held the kind of gun Anya had only seen in the movies. Over his t-shirt he had on a black vest with the words US MARSHAL emblazoned on it. The vest looked heavy, especially given all the things clipped to it: a radio of some sort, a can of pepper spray, plus other things she couldn’t readily identify but suspected were deadly weapons of some sort. At least in his hands they would be. In someone like Anya’s hands, they’d be useless.
But the vest itself was what she couldn’t get past. Because it was, quite obviously, a bulletproof vest. The sight of it—and her suddenly realizing why he was wearing it—left her reeling inside.
She wasn’t sure how it happened, but it had never really occurred to her what JT did every day while he was at work. But now the reality of it, with all its danger and seriousness, was right in front of her and she couldn’t look away.
Anya wasn’t sure if she should be angry, afraid, or aroused. All three were coursing through her, the combination of which made her a little unsteady on her feet.
“Hey, I’m glad I caught you before class started,” JT said hurriedly. “I can’t talk long, but we need to change our plans for tonight.”
Anya continued staring at this new-to-her version of JT—the one she wanted to kiss all over, hug until her arms hurt, and then worry incessantly about—trying to focus on what he was saying, but mostly she was thinking about why they had plans to change in the first place.
After their uncomfortable pupusa outing and the wild pool interlude that had followed, Anya had so many feelings she couldn’t be sure which one to focus on first, and she’d ended up telling him about the Fenton.
Correction. She hadn’t just told him about it. No, she’d gone and spilled her guts to him about it.
And when he’d left that night, she had been positive that she had shared too much. She only had another ten days before the Greenes came home and her time in Palo Verde Heights would be over. This was so not the time for her to start relying on him
for anything more than orgasms.
But when JT had caught her in the Kangs’ driveway the next day, she and Kevin had been headed out for a walk to track down things they might use to create handmade rubbing plates. Kevin had just scampered back into the house for his backpack when JT had slowed to a stop in his SUV and rolled down the window. He’d had a goofy grin on his face, the kind that little kids who were excited about something they probably shouldn’t be involved in usually sported.
“My parents are taking a trip to Branson next week for their anniversary. Dad’s finally taking Mom to this Dolly Parton tribute show she’s been dying to see. They’ll be gone for three days.” JT bit his lip. “And nights.”
Anya quirked a brow at him. JT flashed a mischievous grin.
“And since I’ve apparently regressed straight back into my teen years, I can’t think of anything else I want to do but see if I can convince the girl I’m dating to come over while they’re gone. So . . . ” His smile grew. “Wanna come see my room?”
That grin and the sweetly hopeful look in his pretty blue eyes? Anya wouldn’t have been able to say no even if she’d wanted to.
Tonight was supposed to be the first night they spent together, side by side all night, which was the novelty of their plan. Even if he could have spent the night with her at the Greenes’ house, he never did, so waking up next to JT was what she was looking forward to more than anything else.
But now it sounded like that might not be happening. She didn’t know what the reason might be for that, but if it had anything to do with his bulletproof vest, she was probably going to embarrass herself by getting teary-eyed or blubbering while hugging him tightly.
“Anya? Are you okay? You look pale.” JT tried to meet her eyes, which were still fixed on his vest. She snapped her attention back to his face.
“I’m fine . . . I just . . . ,” she stammered.
“Well, well, well,” Tara said, cutting off Anya’s pointless blathering. She stood right behind Anya, near enough that she could nudge Anya’s side with her elbow. “Is this him? Good Goddess, he’s even better than you described. He looks like an action figure or something. G.I. Joe, but hot. And, you know, real.”
Grateful for Tara’s ill-timed but much-needed interruption, Anya seized the opportunity to take a full breath.
“Yes, this is him,” Anya answered.
“Is he here to do inappropriate things with you? He looks a little overdressed. Unless this is some sort of role-play thing.”
Anya groaned. There was nothing to say to that, at least not while she was at work. Then, before she could stop her, Tara stepped in front of Anya and started to prowl slowly around JT, her arms crossed over her chest and a cool, calculating look on her face.
“Hot or not, it’s best that he knows I’m not a woman to be crossed, especially when it comes to my best friend,” she declared. “A woman who I would commit all sorts of capital crimes for if I found out that someone hurt her or did something to make her cry. That includes getting all Benihana on someone’s precious bazooka, if necessary. And I give zero fucks if that someone also happens to be a US Marshal. Prison doesn’t scare me.”
Anya wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or crawl under a table. JT’s anxious gaze flicked back and forth between the two women, finally settling on Anya.
“Should I know who this person is? She sure seems to know who I am.”
Anya sighed. “Tara, meet JT. JT, this is my best friend, Tara.” She waved a hand behind her. “And the creeper behind us, who I’m sure is staring at Tara like she just said the most inappropriate but cutest thing ever, is her husband, Alec.”
Recognition dawned in JT’s expression. Clearly, he remembered the times when Anya had mentioned Tara and her various off-color antics.
Alec offered JT his usual drawling hello, which JT returned with a nod. Then he extended his hand to Tara.
“Tara. Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Tara cut him one more assessing look before taking his hand, shaking it once, and releasing it. She crossed her arms back over her chest.
“I’ve heard plenty about you, too. Mostly that you’re built like a championship cage fighter and that you fuck like one, too. The kind that can go multiple rounds without so much as a water break.”
JT coughed into his hand with a chuckle, hiding a smile. Anya pressed her palms to her face, embarrassment heating her cheeks, while still managing to jab her own elbow into Tara’s side.
“What? It’s true,” Tara muttered, rubbing her ribs as Alec slipped in behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, walking them both backward—and away from a still-mortified Anya.
JT cast Anya a smirk. “Good to hear that you’re talking me up to your friends.”
Anya could only shake her head and hope her face would eventually return to its normal coloring. JT peered over his shoulder, toward the street in front of the studio where a black Suburban with dark-tinted windows idled at the curb.
“Look, I have to get going. We cuffed a fugitive that’s a real pain in the ass this afternoon, and Chris left ahead of us to take the guy to county lockup. But Lexie and I are headed back to the office to start on all the paperwork we now have to do because everything that could go wrong did. We had to drive right past here and I begged Lexie to stop so I could tell you in person that I won’t make it home to have dinner with you. My best guess is it’s going to be close to nine before I make it out of there. Do you want to come over then, or just—”
The front door to the shop jerked open, and a tall woman wearing all the same gear JT did shot a peeved look his way.
“Hurry it up, Romeo. Chris just radioed that our guy is trying to see if he can bust through the bulletproof door glass with his head. He wants us to meet him at county, just in case things get stupid. So your little lovey-dovey detour ends now.” Her gaze landed on Anya and she gave her a nod. “You must be Anya. FYI, Casanova here is all tied up in knots over you. But right now, he needs to get in the goddamn truck so we can do our jobs. You two are going to have to play kissy-face later.”
Then it was JT’s turn to look a little red-faced. Anya waved him off when he started to apologize.
“Go. I’ll come over whenever you get home. It doesn’t matter what time; I’ll wait up for you.”
His grin softened and he dropped a kiss to her forehead. Just as he reached the front door, a swell of anxiety rushed up inside Anya and she called his name so he would stop. He turned back, a smile still on his face.
Anya took a deep breath. “Be careful, okay?”
A perplexed look crossed his face, as if what she said made no sense, because he would never do otherwise. Then he cocked his head and gave her a short nod.
“I will,” he said with nothing but absolute confidence.
When he jumped into the passenger seat of the Suburban, Anya had to turn away. She ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it down in an attempt to calm herself.
“Well, I know what we’re doing after this,” Tara announced from behind her. Anya peered over her shoulder to find Tara and Alec staring at her with knowing gazes.
“That man,” Tara said as she pointed toward the front doors, “is going to need food when he gets home. And you look like you just figured out that he’s worth making dinner for. I hope this place where you’re house-sitting has a good kitchen, because G.I. Joe is getting some of my enchiladas for dinner.” Tara folded her arms over her chest. “Be prepared, though. My enchiladas are more persuasive than one of those stupid ‘engagement chickens.’ By the end of the night, he may start naming your future babies.”
17
Anya
Anya had lost her mind, she was sure of it. She was also pretty sure that she’d given up quite a bit of her heart, too. For now, she wasn’t going to think too hard about what that meant, though. Instead, she was going to give herself a nice long lecture about how nuts it was that she’d been staring out the front window for the last half hour wi
th a pair of oven mitts on her hands.
Unfortunately, the second she saw the headlights on JT’s SUV, that lecture was all but forgotten as Anya leapt up like a jack-in-the-box from her perch in the living room and scurried into the kitchen.
She turned off the oven and pulled out the pan of enchiladas she’d been keeping warm in anticipation of JT’s arrival and then peeked under the aluminum foil, where a dark red sauce bubbled up around the melted cheese that covered corn tortillas stuffed with shredded chicken.
Tara had shown Anya how to make her super-secret homemade enchilada sauce, but only after Anya solemnly pinky-swore that she would never share the recipe with another living soul. The recipe involved a few different dried chilies along with a couple squares of Mexican chocolate, and while they didn’t have time to make the braised short ribs that Tara normally used as a filling, the rotisserie chicken they’d picked up from the supermarket made for a quick, but still tasty, substitute. The homemade enchilada sauce was what really made the recipe, though. Even Tara was impressed with their somewhat rushed handiwork, officially declaring them Tara-tastic based on the pan of enchiladas that she, Alec, and Anya had shared for dinner.
Anya put two cold Modelo beers into a grocery bag, along with a dish of the jicama and cucumber salad they’d made to go with dinner. She slipped the bag into the crook of one arm and used her oven-mitt-clad hands to pick up the hot pan of enchiladas. After managing to not only turn the lock but also pull the front door of the house closed behind her using the tips of her mitted hands, she strolled across the street to the Maxwells’, catching JT’s attention just before he closed the garage door behind him.
A surprised smile spread across his face. “I was just going to call you. I wasn’t sure if you still wanted to come over.”
He was dressed in the same clothes he had worn this afternoon, but thankfully all of the other anxiety-inducing accessories—gun, leg holster, and vest—were nowhere to be found. The only reminder of the man she had seen earlier was the badge that still hung from a chain around his neck. Even so, Anya’s heart still thudded a little in her chest.