by Tawna Fenske
I struggle to loop my bra strap over my shoulder as Jonathan tugs down the hem of my top. The footsteps get closer.
And then they’re in the doorway.
James blinks into the dimness of the bathroom, taking it all in. The sudsy water, the flickering candles, Jonathan’s rumpled hair.
It’s Lily who speaks first.
“Whoa, girl.” She laughs so hard she has to clutch James’s arm for support. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but I approve.”
James is frowning, but it’s more confusion than dismay. “Why are you standing in the bathtub?” he asks. “With your clothes on. And champagne flutes full of—you know what, never mind.”
He yanks at his tie and flicks a hand back toward the living room. “Your front door is wide open. Wild animals could get in.”
Lily gives her trademark Cheshire cat grin. “Looks like they already did.”
It’s then the mangy cat makes his appearance known. He gives a low growl from his perch in the corner, surveying the newcomers with distaste. “Brrrrow.”
James stares. “What the hell is that?”
“A cat,” Jonathan offers. “I think.”
His brother regards the animal with mild alarm. “You’ve been home from the hospital an hour and you’ve had time to eat lunch, adopt a cat, and grope some poor girl in the bathtub?”
Jonathan shrugs and gives an unapologetic grin. “The literature said organ donation makes you a superhero.”
Lily shoots a pointed look at Jonathan before turning back to James. “You can probably skip the sympathy for the poor girl,” she says. “I don’t think Blanka’s experiencing great hardship. Not the bad kind of hardship, anyway.”
That’s when I glance down and see Jon’s fly is half unzipped. Hardship is on full display, so to speak.
“Everything’s fine here.” I step in front of Jonathan to give him some privacy.
He rests a hand on my hip. “We’re following post-op instructions to a tee.”
James sighs. “We were concerned Jonathan had fallen,” he says. “Or gone crazy.”
Jon grins and squeezes my hip. “I wouldn’t it out.”
I glance down and see wet smudges on the front of my tank top. The imprint of his mouth is everywhere, even the places not dotted with damp kisses.
What the hell am I doing?
“I should get going.” I scan the bathroom for my shirt, belatedly remembering it’s back in the living room. “I—um—I should leave you to your recovery.”
Or regain my dignity somehow. The latter seems unlikely.
I’m out of the tub and sloshing water on the floor before anyone can stop me. There’s a fluffy purple towel on a hook by the door, and I snatch it on my way out. Draping it shawl-like over my breasts, I sprint for the living room.
“Don’t feel bad,” Lily calls after me. “We’ve been busted tons of times.”
“Not at risk of bodily injury,” James mutters.
But I’m already around the corner and out of sight. Did we really forget to cover the food? I wrap the foil over the top and hurry to the fridge, counting on it to cool my flaming face. Shoving the food inside, I turn to see James, Lily, and Jon watching me from the living room.
“You don’t need to go.” Lily grabs James by the arm and tugs him toward the door. “Now that we know everything’s okay, we’ll get out of here.”
Jon’s watching me with concern etched into his brow. “Everything’s okay. Right?”
I nod, shrugging into my shirt. “Of course. Everything’s great.”
But everything’s not okay. My fleeting thoughts about relationships, my accidental Ukrainian utterances—none of that is normal for me. My brain has been scrambled, and I need to find a way to shove the mental eggs back in their shells.
“I’ll call you,” I say brightly to Jonathan. “To see if you need anything. Food. Or books. Or—anything.”
Not sex. Definitely not that. Not a relationship, either. That’s the furthest thing from my mind.
James and Lily stand silent by the door, possibly still questioning my sanity. Grabbing my car keys, I move past them with as much dignity as I can muster. “It was good seeing you,” I call. “Glad you’re doing well.”
And like a bank robber fleeing a crime, I turn and run through the door.
Chapter 7
Jonathan
A couple weeks later, my mom and Chuck come to stay.
But it’s not the romantic getaway I’d envisioned. For starters, all the honeymoon suites are booked up. The standard lodge rooms are nice, but not ideal for a married couple and their twenty-something daughter.
Which is the other thing making this romantic getaway not very romantic. My second-oldest sister, Gretchen, is along for the trip. A research scientist working on her PhD, she’s interviewing for a Masters-level teaching gig at OSU Cascades. Her trip out here was planned way before I lured my parents with the prospect of a romantic getaway, and it was Mom’s idea to make it a family thing.
“Kinda defeating the purpose, Mom,” I told her on the phone when she explained the change in plans.
“I know, sweetie. But we don’t get to see Gretchen that often and Chuck and I are so proud of her and—”
“At least let me loan you my cabin,” I insisted. “I can move in with James and Lily for now so you and Chuck can have your own room.”
With a king-sized bed. And a door that locks. And—okay, I don’t need this mental picture about my mom and stepdad.
“Absolutely not,” my mother huffed. “You’re still recovering. I’m not kicking you out of your own home.”
“I could clear out the guest room for Gretchen, then.” Dammit, I knew it was a bad idea to invite Mark and Chelsea to store furniture here while they repaint bedrooms. “Or check with Izzy about the extra room in her cabin.”
Iz is staying at Bree’s old place, though now that I think about it, my twin cousins might be visiting. Dammit, how can a zillion-dollar resort with gobs of rooms be this low on options for a last-minute romantic getaway?
“We’ll manage, honey. Besides, it’s a good chance for us to spend time with you kids.”
Which is what I’m doing now, I guess.
My mom and Gretchen went into town to shop, so Chuck and I are fishing in the pond. It’s relentlessly sunny for late-September, and the autumn breeze ripples oaky and crisp across the water’s surface.
“It’s damn beautiful here.” Chuck casts his line out and eases back against the stone bench we’re sharing.
“Sure is.” The memory of that broken toy sailboat is on the edge of my brain, but I don’t share it. No need to spotlight my father’s pettiness.
Instead, I nod toward an aspen at the water’s edge. “See that tree over there?”
Chuck looks up and squints at the bark. “The one with the initials in it?”
“Sean paid an arborist to do that,” I tell him. “It was a surprise for Amber, before they got married. Sort of a romantic gesture.”
“Huh.”
Chuck adjusts his line with no further comment about romantic gestures. So much for subtlety.
I study the tree, conscious of the faint tightening of strings around my heart. I’m not jealous of my brother’s happiness. I’m thrilled my siblings have found their soulmates. Sean, Bree, Mark, even Iceman himself, James.
What is it about being back here that has me picturing it for myself? Entertaining the idea of settling down. I know my lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to the family thing, but maybe with the right woman…
No. I can’t afford to think that way. My place is out there in the world helping others less fortunate. It’s service and duty and all the qualities Chuck taught me.
I force my attention back to my stepdad, pushing away thoughts of Blanka. I need to figure out what’s wrong between my parents.
“What’s new with you?” I try. “Things going okay?”
“Things are terrific.” He reels in his line, adjusts someth
ing, then casts again.
“Retirement going well?”
“Retirement’s great.” Chuck takes a sip of his beer. “Can’t complain.”
He never has, about anything. Not the pressures of a career in the Coast Guard or the struggles of raising six daughters and his wife’s son from another marriage. It’s one of the things I love about him.
Since my mom loves him, too, I keep pushing. “Everything okay healthwise?”
“Fit as a fiddle.” Another sip of his beer. “What did you think of the Seahawks’ starting lineup last week?”
Hell. And it’s not like he’s blowing me off. Chuck’s never liked the spotlight, never wanted to be the focus of attention.
“It was a good game,” I manage. I didn’t watch, actually, but I read the recap in the paper.
“Yeah.” He adjusts his line, then leans back against the bench. “If they can get it together on defense, they’ll have a shot at the playoffs this year.”
“Got that right.” Okay, I need to steer this conversation back on track. “You know, Mom really likes the Seahawks. Maybe you guys could drive to Seattle sometime, catch a game up there.”
He tugs his line, mulling that over. “Not a bad idea.”
A warm pulse of hope throbs through me. But it’s short-lived.
“She and Gretchen could make it a girls’ trip,” he says. “Did you know they offered her a position at U-dub, too?”
“I—yeah, she mentioned it.”
Chuck beams, so proud of his daughter he’s nearly glowing. He’s always been proud of his kids, even me. The one not biologically related to him.
“Yeah, she’s sure got a good head on her shoulders.” Chuck claps me on the back. “That’s a great idea, Sea Dog. I’ll surprise her and your mom with Seahawks tickets and maybe a night in one of those fancy hotels near the stadium.”
And that’s pretty much the end of that. I go back to fishing quietly, mind still swimming in a sea of doubt. There has to be a way to get my mom and Chuck reconnecting. To help fix whatever’s off between them.
It’s not until later that evening that I take a break. I’m sitting on my front porch in an Adirondack chair, watching the sun sink slowly toward the mountains as I plug weird search terms into my laptop. Things like “midlife marriage trouble” and “empty nest marital discord.” Hardly normal web searches for a single guy in his early thirties.
“Brrrrow.”
I peer over my laptop to see the cat ambling toward me in his snaggle-toothed glory. He narrows his eyes and passes by, flicking his mangled tail with disinterest.
“Good to see you, too,” I mutter.
“Brrrrow.” He throws that one over his shoulder like a curse word, which it probably is.
Or maybe he’s judging me. I should probably close this article on ten tips for spicing up your marriage. It’s not like I’m going to forward it to my mother, inviting her to buy bondage tape and talk dirty in the bedroom.
Christ, I need to stop.
But instead of closing the laptop, I toggle to the business plan James sent this morning. It’s for Dreamland Tours, a company owned by my cousin Val’s fiancé. Josh plans to sell, and since Ponderosa has first dibs on buying, James asked me to take a look at the business plan.
“They specialize in boat trips,” he said gruffly when he explained it at our last family meeting. “Rafting, canoeing, kayaking, that sort of thing.”
“Sounds fun,” I replied, wishing desperately for a chance to do any of that. As soon as my doc clears it, I’ll be back out on the water. I’m aching to feel the rocking swell, to watch the rainbow ripples of current swirling around me.
“You know boating,” James continued. “Tell me if we’re missing anything. Hot new trends in kayaks or inflatable swans or whatever the hell people are floating on these days.”
I scroll through the document there on my front porch, jotting notes about watercraft maintenance budgets and the possibility of acquiring some of those new standup boards that act like a treadmill on water.
An idea niggles at the back of my brain, a way to combine boating with charity. I scribble more notes, losing myself in the familiar flow of service. Of making myself useful.
“Brrrrow.”
The cat’s back again, still keeping his distance. He parades in front of me like a runway model, keeping his ratty body just out of reach. Pausing at the welcome mat, he digs his monster paws into the sisal.
“Anything else you’d like to use as your own personal scratching post?” I ask him.
The cat ignores me. A low rumble emanates from his direction, a gravel-filled purr I’ve grown to appreciate.
Still.
“I’m not talking to you,” I tell him. “I tried taking you to the vet, and you hid in Mark’s woodpile, hissing.”
I swear to God, the cat shoots me a smug smile. Then he twines himself around my ankles, catching me by surprise. It’s the closest he’s come to letting me touch him, though technically, he’s touching me.
“You are filthy.” More purring, like he’s proud of it. “And kind of a mess.”
But less damaged than I first assumed. The mangled tail, the torn ear, the scar on his face—they’re all well-healed, like long ago battle scars. He doesn’t seem bothered, but I’d still like to get him checked out.
The crunch of gravel pulls my attention to the driveway. My heart jams into my throat as I spot Blanka’s car moving toward me. We haven’t spoken since the bathtub incident, and I’m trying to play it cool.
I wreck that to hell as soon as she gets out of her car. Leaping from my chair like a gameshow contestant, I wave at her as she steps out onto the driveway.
“Hey, Blanka.”
“Jonathan.” She’s wearing jeans and a pink T-shirt, unfathomably beautiful with her hair caught back in a loose ponytail. Spotting me, she draws a stack of books to her chest like she thinks I might steal them.
“How’s it going?” I fight to keep my voice casual, even sitting back down in the chair like it’s no big deal to see her. Like my heart isn’t slamming against my ribs at the sight of those cool blue eyes.
Blanka bites her lip. “Is Izzy home?”
Izzy, of course. She’s here to see my sister. “She and Bree went to Portland this morning,” I tell her. “The doctors wanted some follow-up testing.”
Her brow furrows. “Is she okay?”
“Yep. It’s just routine stuff. Are those for her?” I point at the books she’s still clutching against her breasts.
Breasts that are permanently burned into my brain, the tight nipples, the soft, round fullness, the taste of—
“Yeah, just some books I offered to loan Izzy.” She glances at the cabin where my sister’s been staying. “I should have called first.”
“I can hang on to them for her if you want.”
Her cheeks pinken a little as she hesitates. “I’d rather hand them off directly, if that’s okay.”
“Suit yourself.” Okay, now I’m curious. “You afraid I’ll forget or something?”
“No. I just—I’d rather give them to Izzy.”
Now I’m really curious. “You can leave them on her porch if you want. They’ll be back tomorrow around lunch.”
She glances toward the porch of the tidy cedar cabin that once belonged to Bree. It’s got charming little flower boxes and a pretty paver path, but the porch is open to the elements. No overhang at all to protect Blanka’s precious armload of reading materials.
“There’s a thunderstorm coming tonight,” Blanka says, reading my thoughts.
“Is there a reason you don’t want me getting my hands on those?” Dammit, I’m staring at her chest again. Not her chest, but the books pressed against it. “You afraid I’m a book thief or something?”
Her eyes flash with something I can’t read. She studies me a moment, assessing. “No,” she says tightly. “I don’t want to have to listen to you make fun of my reading choices or make cracks about Fabio or ripped bodices o
r—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, not sure where we got off track. “What are you talking about?”
“Romance novels.” As her chin tilts up, she slowly lowers the stack so I can see the cover on top.
Suzanne Brockman, Force of Nature.
“I happen to like them,” Blanka says. “And so does Izzy, so I’m loaning her some of my favorites.”
It’s all I can do to keep a straight face. I should be irritated she’d assume I’m a judgmental prick, but mostly I’m amused. “What kind of romance novels?”
“Romantic suspense.” She straightens her spine, squaring her shoulders. “A few are New York Times bestsellers, and some are this year’s RITA Award finalists.” She bites her lip. “The RITAs are—”
“Kinda like the Academy Awards of romance novels, I know.” I hold her gaze as her jaw falls open. “So, you’ve got some Tonya Burrows in there, maybe Katee Robert. Elizabeth Dyer won that category this year, right?”
Blanka stares at me. Just stares. “How do you know that?”
“I’ve got a lot of time alone in my berth to read,” I tell her. “Hemingway and Vonnegut get old after a while. Don’t look so shocked. I’m a romantic kinda guy.”
I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am. This stunned awe on her face, the bright pink tint to her cheeks.
Her throat moves as she swallows. She’s regrouping, recalibrating the image she had of me in her mind. I hope she likes this one better.
“I see.” Fanning out the stack of books across her arms, she proves me right. There’s Elizabeth Dyer’s Fearless and Tonya Burrows’s Reckless Honor and yep, even Katee Robert’s The Bastard’s Bargain. I spot a couple more I haven’t read and add them to my TBR list as Blanka stares at me like I’ve grown horns.
Slowly, she piles the books back together, then makes her way up the path to my porch. She lowers herself into the seat beside me without saying a word. When she turns to look at me, her expression is sheepish.
“Sorry I misjudged you,” she says.
It takes all my self-control not to bust out grinning. “I’m used to it.”
It usually takes the form of folks assuming I’m just like my father, so this seems better somehow.
