by Linda Seed
Chapter Eight
“ … And then he ran out of here like there were wolves chasing him.”
“Wow.” Kate and Gen were sitting at her dining room table, eating the pork roast and the rest of the mushroom pizzette with a bagged salad Gen had brought up from her apartment. They were well into a bottle of wine, and Kate was waving her glass around for emphasis.
“I mean, this kiss was epic. Freaking amazing. And then, poof. He shot out that door like his ass was on fire.”
Gen looked thoughtful. “That’s not the reaction you usually expect after an epic kiss.”
“No, it is not.” Kate took another bite of pork roast. “Jeez, this is fabulous. But anyway. It’s not like I was expecting a night of out-of-control jungle sex, just because we kissed. Though that would have been nice. But maybe another kiss or two. Some talking. Eat the pork roast.”
“There’s a story here.” Gen pointed her fork at Kate.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, there’s something you don’t know about him or his history that caused him to, you know, run like his ass was on fire.” Gen raised one eyebrow at Kate pointedly.
Kate threw her hands up in frustration. “I don’t know anything about him or his history. Which I might, if he’d stayed around long enough for, I don’t know, a conversation about those things. But he didn’t. He pulled out all of these painful emotional revelations from me, and then … Oh, no.”
“ ‘Oh no’ what?”
“I talked about my mom, and I cried. Right before the kiss.”
“So?” Gen poured them each another half glass of wine.
“So, I don’t know why I didn’t see this before. I talked about my feelings and cried. And then he ran. You don’t suppose he’s so unevolved that he just couldn’t cope with feelings, do you?”
Gen sighed. “God, I hope not. That would be depressing.”
“Men can be that way, though.” Kate got up and cleared their plates from the table. She carried them into the kitchen, turned back to Gen, and leaned against the counter.
“Yes, they can,” Gen agreed.
Kate blew out a breath and ran her hands through her short, tousled hair. “Well, that sucks. If that’s what it is. Who would even want a guy you can’t talk to? What would be the point?”
“I don’t know.” Gen hefted the platter bearing the rest of the pork roast and brought it into the kitchen, where she started running hot, soapy water in the sink. “I guess there isn’t one.”
“I guess not.”
“At least he weeded himself out early, before you got emotionally invested.”
“Yeah.”
“But?” Gen looked at Kate expectantly.
“But, there was that kiss.”
“Ah, that. Well, you could always keep your girly, emotional trap shut and just use him for sex.”
Kate had to admit, the idea held a certain appeal.
“God. What is wrong with me?” Jackson was gently banging his head against the wall in the pool room at Ted’s. Daniel stood across the pool table from him, cue in hand, an amused look on his face.
“She’s probably wondering the same thing right about now.”
“No doubt.”
“Come on,” Daniel urged. “It’s your turn.”
Jackson picked up his cue, surveyed the table miserably, and lined up his shot. “I was so fucking rude. I hauled ass out of there without even explaining about the poached pears.” He took his shot, and the cue ball sent the nine careening pointlessly.
“Oh, horrors. You forgot about the poached pears!”
“Shut up.”
Jackson drank from a mug of beer as Daniel took his turn. Daniel, who wasn’t in turmoil over a woman, was beating Jackson handily. He sank several balls, and when he finally missed, he straightened and faced Jackson.
“So, why? Why did you rush out of there like that, especially after what you describe as a very good kiss?”
Jackson shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Oh, fuck off. You’re worse than a shrink.”
They stayed silent while Jackson took his turn. He sank the twelve, then missed an attempt to get the fourteen in the corner pocket.
“Yeah, I guess I do know,” he finally admitted.
“Okay. So what was it?”
“I was afraid we were gonna sleep together.”
Daniel peered up at him from where he was leaning over the table. “You know that if a girl pressures you, it’s okay to say no.”
“Ah, you’re such an asshole. Shut up.”
Daniel chuckled. “Sorry, sorry. Go on.”
“It’s just … ” Jackson took a moment to gather his thoughts. “That’s what I always do. I meet a woman, we go out, we sleep together right away. And it’s good. But then pretty soon it isn’t good anymore. It’s what I always do. And I’m afraid if I do what I always do … ”
“It’s going to turn out the way it always does,” Daniel finished for him.
“Well … yeah.”
Daniel took a slug from his beer and looked thoughtful. “Okay. You’re not wrong that maybe you should take a different approach this time. Except that now you’ve got her thinking the kiss was just so repellent to you that you couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
The thought hit Jackson with surprising force. “But that isn’t … She can’t think that. Does she?”
Daniel shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“Ah, jeez.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Jackson pointed one finger at Daniel. “That kiss was not repellent.”
“I repeat,” Daniel said. “So, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll think of something.”
The next morning, a Wednesday, Kate was unlocking the front door at Swept Away, putting out her sandwich board sign advertising ten percent off new releases, when Jackson’s truck drove by on Main Street as he headed toward Neptune.
She was involved in her tasks and didn’t notice him until the truck came to an abrupt stop two doors down. The street was mostly empty at this hour, so he threw the truck into reverse and pulled to a stop in front of her. Jackson put the truck in park, pulled on the emergency brake, and got out, his face stormy and intense.
He stomped over to where she was arranging the sandwich board.
She looked up in surprise. “Jackson, hi. What … ”
That was all she got out before he grabbed her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her with an intensity that made her toes tingle. In an instant she was hot and limp, melting against him, feeling the rush of pleasure and fire through her veins.
Just as abruptly, he released her, leaving her barely able to stand upright.
“Last night’s kiss was not repellent,” he said, pointing one finger at her.
“Okay. No. I didn’t think it was.” She leaned against the door of the shop for support.
He got back into his truck, threw it into drive, and sped away, leaving Kate to wave after him with a dreamy look on her face.
Kate didn’t see Jackson over the next couple of days—but she did hear from him. He sent her emails detailing the preparation of the dishes he’d neglected to make the night he’d come to her house. Instructions on the polenta, including tips to keep it from sticking to the pan or clumping. A reminder that she could make the poached pears ahead of time and have them finished and out of the way before Zach and Sherry arrived. A course-by-course wine pairing list, along with a note indicating that he didn’t expect her to provide a different wine for each course, he simply wanted her to have that option. A note on where she should buy the produce for the salad, and where she could find the most succulent pork roast. Some hints on presentation, including plating and garnishing.
All in all, it amounted to more than a dozen emails between the kiss on Wednesday morning and the dinner on Friday night. On Friday morning, Lacy dropped by t
he shop before her shift at Jitters, and Kate showed her the long series of emails, some businesslike, some chatty, some with photos attached as visual aids.
Lacy browsed the emails and laughed. “Oh honey, he’s got it bad.”
“You think?” Kate was peering at the screen over Lacy’s shoulder.
“Oh, yeah. No question. Most of these are just so he can be in touch with you. I mean, nobody cares that much about how to make polenta.”
Kate considered that. “He’s Jackson Graham. He might care that much about polenta.”
“Okay, granted. Fair point. But look at this one, about the polenta.” She brought up one of the emails and gestured at the screen. “ ‘Stir with a counter-clockwise wrist motion’? At this point, he’s just making stuff up. He just wants to be writing to you.”
Kate leaned one hip against the counter, arms crossed, considering. “Do we think that’s creepy or cute?”
“Oh, cute, definitely. I wish I had a guy that hot advising me on my counter-clockwise wrist motion.” She sighed. “So, what are you going to do about him?”
“What do you mean?”
Lacy clicked the laptop shut. “I mean, this isn’t the Dark Ages when women had to wait for men to ask their fathers for permission to take them courting. He can make moves, you can make moves. He can ravish you in front of the store, you can … I don’t know. Call him.”
“I’m not sure,” Kate said.
“Which part aren’t you sure about? The part where it’s not the Dark Ages, or the part where you call him?”
“The part where I call him.”
Kate pulled some new releases out of a carton and stacked them on a shelf. Lacy followed her around while she worked.
“Why aren’t you sure?”
Kate shrugged, her arms full of books. “It’s just, the way he rushed out on Tuesday night was kind of … strange. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what to think about it.”
“You could try asking him what it means.”
“He’s a guy. He probably doesn’t know what it means.”
“Well. Right. That could be true. We could ask Gen to ask Daniel Reed. She’s doing a lot of work with him at the gallery right now, and he’s Jackson’s best friend.”
“No.” Kate stopped what she was doing and faced Lacy, her hands full of books. “We’re not doing that. We are not in ninth grade.”
“Okay, okay.” Lacy grumbled under her breath, “But it always worked for me in ninth grade.”
On Friday, Kate left Althea in charge in the afternoon and left work early to plan for the evening. She bought the groceries according to the list Jackson had provided for her. She went home, carefully prepared the pork roast as he had taught her, and put it in the oven. She made the salad—all except for the dressing—covered it in plastic wrap, and set it in the refrigerator for later.
She poached the pears just as he’d told her in a particular step-by-step email that had run several pages when printed out. They smelled fantastic. When those were done, she put them in a decorative bowl, wrapped them, and put them away. She whipped the cream to go on top, and put that in the refrigerator next to the pears.
For someone who didn’t cook often, she felt good about how it all was turning out. She burned the edges of the crust of the pizzette, but that problem was solved with some creative slicing of the appetizer. Some of the polenta did stick to the pan, as she’d feared, but enough didn’t that it hardly mattered.
When the food was ready, she turned her attention to the house. She tidied everything up, cleaning the kitchen and putting away the pots and pans, sweeping the floor, shoving her own clutter into cupboards and closets until it was out of sight, placing candles strategically throughout the house, and sprinkling dark red rose petals across her comforter.
By the time she had dragged the dining room table out onto the deck and had set the table with white linens and sparkling dishes, she was beginning to feel a little jealous that this dinner was for someone else and not for her. When was the last time a man had made a fuss over her?
Of course, to be accurate, Zach wasn’t making a fuss over Sherry—Kate was. But when was the last time a man had gone to the trouble to enlist someone else to make it look like he’d made a fuss over Kate? Never. Or at least, it had been so long that she barely remembered.
Kate hoped that Sherry would appreciate the gesture—regardless of who had actually done the work—and she also hoped that Zach would follow through on his intentions to compromise in the relationship to make it work. While she wanted these things for Zach, so that he could save his relationship and be happy, she wanted it for her own reasons, as well. She wanted to believe that a marriage could work, that problems could be worked out, that love could prevail in the face of differences and disagreements. She wanted to believe in romance. She wanted to have hope. Hope for love in general, but also hope for love for herself.
If she could engineer another chance for Zach, maybe someday she could do the same for herself.
When Zach arrived, she showed him around the house and gave him a last-minute briefing on how to reheat everything, which course to serve when, how to plate it—according to Jackson—and how to complete the last-minute prep.
She instructed him to tell Sherry he’d made the food himself, and even gave him some details on the preparation of each dish so he’d be able to sound convincing, should she start asking questions. Then, finally, she’d wished him luck and hurried out of there before Sherry’s scheduled arrival.
“Kate? Thank you,” Zach had said at the door as she’d rushed down the walkway and toward the stairs down to Gen’s apartment. “I mean it. This is great.”
“You’re welcome. Just don’t screw it up. Don’t argue with her! About anything. Don’t get into that ex-spouses-bickering-about-old-grudges thing. Remember, you’re wooing her!”
“I’ve got it.” He went over to her, kissed her on the cheek, and squeezed her hand. “You’re the best, Kate.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She waved him off. “Now, win that woman!”
She spent the evening down at Gen’s place, where Kate ate takeout pizza and Gen munched on a salad, and they watched movies on Netflix. Once or twice, when they’d heard Zach and Sherry moving around on the deck overhead, Kate had eased open the sliding glass door and listened to see how things were going. She knew she shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but after all her work, she couldn’t help it. She’d heard soft voices, but couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. It was just as well, since, of course, it was none of her business.
Kate had planned to sleep down at Gen’s place, but that turned out not to be necessary. At around eleven, Zach texted her to say they wouldn’t be spending the night. At first, Kate had been alarmed, thinking something with the date must have gone wrong. But he reassured her, saying that Sherry had agreed to go to counseling with him so they could try again—mission accomplished. She just hadn’t been ready to take the step of spending the night with him.
So, she’d gone upstairs, said goodnight to Zach, put the place back in order—he’d washed the dishes, but there were still the candles and rose petals to deal with—and crawled into bed. Propped up against the pillows, she’d taken one last look at her laptop before turning in for the night.
Logging in to her email, she found a message from Jackson, sent just fifteen minutes earlier.
How’d it go?
She wrote back:
Pretty well. The food looked good. I burned the edges of the pizzette, though.
She looked at the clock. At almost midnight on a Friday night, he was probably just finishing up at the restaurant, preparing to go home. She thought she likely would not hear from him again until the following morning, so she was surprised when a response promptly appeared in her inbox.
Cut off the burned parts?
She grinned and wrote back:
That’s what I did. Zach said it went great.
She got no response for a while, and she
thought she should shut the laptop and go to sleep. Just as she was about to follow through on that thought, another message came in.
Since Zach and Sherry had a nice date, maybe we should, too.
A little zing of excitement rushed through her. She typed:
What did you have in mind?
His response came in moments later.
I’ll call you tomorrow to ask you in a gentlemanly fashion, without the email.
Jackson was going to ask her out, formally, on a date. She thought of kissing him, first on her deck and later outside the shop. She remembered the rush, the liquid feeling of desire.
Okay. ☺
She looked at her unsent response, considered whether the emoticon made her look like a teenager, and deleted it. She tried several alternative answers:
Okay.
Okay!
I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
Tomorrow, then.
Talk to you then, big guy.
She deleted them all and laughed at herself. In the end, she opted for:
Thank you for your help with the dinner. Have a good night, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
She closed the laptop, set it on the side table, and snuggled down under her covers.
