Con glanced at her again. “I figured that, baby.”
“I say that he did because…well, he did get a green card out of the marriage, but he has this…thing that he likes to do.”
“What kind of thing?”
“Deconstruct dishes. He finds one he likes at a restaurant, then takes it home, and tries to determine all that went into the making of it. You know, the cut of meat, the vegetables, the sauce, and spices.”
“Okay…” Con drew it out, sounding puzzled.
“I was this twenty-two-year-old American girl, foreign to him and…quiet. Can you believe I was quiet then?”
“You’d just lost your brother.”
“Right.” Of course Con would make that connection. “What I think now is, is that I was a dish he wanted to deconstruct. He wanted to know the parts of me and how I…how I went together. And then once he figured me out…” It was her turn to shrug.
“Are you saying he was bored?” Con said, sounding like the idea of that offended him.
“Or maybe he simply didn’t like the ingredients,” she said.
Even a seat away, Jojo could tell Con hated the idea of that. The narrow-eyed look he sent her held fire. “Fuck, kitten. I—”
“It’s fine, Con.”
“No,” he said. “It’s—”
To drown him out, she reached over to increase the radio volume. She changed the station too, leaving classic rock behind for country. Con raised his voice to bitch about the selection, but at least the subject of her previous marriage was left behind.
For the rest of the trip to Santa Barbara, they squabbled over music and then they squabbled over what to eat for lunch. Once they found a place for food, she teased him about his choice of beverage—Mountain Dew! So high school!—and he poked at her salad and said her nose was twitching like a rabbit’s.
They never stopped smiling at each other.
Then it was time for the meet at the storage facility. Jojo’s smile died as she climbed from the car, her gaze finding Timothée hovering near the entrance, saucy Suzanne at his side. Her footsteps faltered until warm fingertips found the small of her back. Con’s hand making a warm connection, offering a gesture of support.
Jojo’s spirits lifted and she threw him a grateful look.
Why couldn’t it be like this always?
Chapter 8
Con didn’t like the prick chef instantly. The guy was slight with a head of black curly hair. He wore baggy checkered trousers and a starchy-white coat.
Maybe he simply didn’t like the ingredients.
What an asshole for making Jojo feel lacking or the least bit unlikeable. Con scowled at the other man as he followed Jojo forward, her stride businesslike.
Then he nearly snatched her away when the little dude threw his arms around his ex-wife and kissed her lavishly on each cheek. He spoke to her in rapid French that caused her to shake her head. “Tim,” she said, “you’re talking too fast.”
As if looking for help, she glanced over her shoulder at Con. He stepped up and the chef’s head swiveled his way. “And who is this?” he asked in accented English.
Jojo performed the introductions. Con shook hands with the other man and with the chef’s blonde girlfriend too. He noticed the two women exchanged no kisses or even made eye contact.
Jojo punched in a code on a keypad outside the facility and then the four of them strolled inside, lights automatically flickering on as they made their way down a hallway lined with red metal doors. Jojo led the way, the chef jabbering about his new restaurant the entire time, staying right at her heels like an annoying, nippy little dog. Con took up the rear, afraid he might be tempted to throw a punch.
Especially when the other man shouted out some emphatic point and slung his arm around Jojo’s shoulders to hug her once again. She extricated herself calmly, but Con noted her stiff posture. Tension. Unease.
Damn, the woman had baggage, including a tragically dead brother and then this very alive and annoying five-foot-six-inch prick of a person. Con’s chest felt the weight of it, and he reconsidered that revelation he’d had the night before.
Imagining himself in love with Jojo was a terrible choice.
It was better to consider it a case of smokin’ hot lust, and there was no doubt that fire had been burning last night. As Jojo came to a stop outside Unit 204, he leaned against the wall outside it and recalled her nakedness in his lap, the sleek feel of her skin beneath his hands, the wet heat inside her body, clenching so hard on him when they were in bed that he’d have worried about his dick if it wasn’t bringing him so much damn pleasure.
Lost in his memories, he didn’t know how much time passed before the other three shuffled outside of the unit. Jojo slammed the door and the chef’s morose expression provided the answer—no recipes found.
Con didn’t have a fuck to give about that as they reversed directions and returned to their cars. The four paused before parting ways.
“We may not see each other again,” the prick said, his mouth turning down. “My Jojo.”
Not his Jojo, Con thought, reaching out to yank her close as the chef moved in for yet another hug. Con curled his arm across her body, anchoring her to him. The scent of her and the warmth of her spiked his pulse. This was the first time he’d had his hands on her all day, and already there was a hunger for her growing in his belly.
But this ache was only for the physical, he assured himself, struck by the power of his want to touch her, to be inside her. Possessiveness was new to him, but its unfamiliarity didn’t cause him to loosen his hold.
It caused the asshole to send him a speculative look. “Is this a boyfriend, ma bichette?” he asked Jojo.
She shook her head. “A friend.”
“Bien.” The chef nodded. “You don’t have what a man needs.”
“And what exactly is that?” Con said, with enough underlying roar in his voice that the small man flinched.
But then he addressed Jojo, his face soft and his eyes sad. “Ma bichette. You know, don’t you? I looked for it all those years, I told you, and then, when I realized I would never find it…”
Jojo’s back was ramrod straight and her gaze flicked to Suzanne. “You moved her into our home. Into our married home.”
He made a face, looked at his feet. “Yes, that was all me. My fault. My stupid. I should have ended us first.”
Con had heard enough. Jojo appeared carved from stone and he had to practically lift her into the passenger seat. But she made no protest and didn’t even attempt any goodbyes.
Stomping to the driver’s side, he sent the chef a look designed to castrate. “Asshole,” he muttered, opening the door. “Bastard.”
Jojo looked exhausted, her gaze dull as he hit the ignition switch. Con rethought his decision not to punch the other man in the face.
But the other pair were already in their car and pulling out of the parking lot. Trying to get his temper under control, Con squeezed the steering wheel and sucked in a long breath. “What the hell was he talking about? What did he look for all those years?”
She hesitated so long he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. Her eyes were closed, her fringe of lashes dark against her pale cheeks. “He was talking about my ability to love. It died when Simon did.”
He was talking about my ability to love. It died when Simon did.
On the couch in his sister’s bungalow at the Hathaway at Dragonfly Beach aka Heartbreak Hotel, Con shoved his legs in front of him and crossed them at the ankle. Jojo’s words had been replaying in his head over and over the last seventeen hours. Now he attempted to halt the endless loop and recall what his sister, Audra, had just said. Something about their parents accepting the fact that their darling daughter had developed a new life blueprint. “You just keep believing that, Pollyanna.”
She frowned at him, then took a swallow of coffee and set the cup aside. “Dad said. He told me Mom was going to be fine with me quitting the family company, moving a hundred miles
north, and starting my own business.”
“Did you hear yourself just now? Especially the part about moving a hundred miles north?”
“It’s part of the plan,” she said. “I’ve done some preliminary research and it looks to be a good location to establish myself. Not too big a city but with lots of opportunities to ply my new trade.”
Died when Simon did…died when Simon did…died when Simon did.
Those damn words. They’d kept him up all night in his room at the resort where he’d retreated after dropping Jojo at her home. He’d made noises about taking her to dinner or ordering takeout, but she’d waved it away and he hadn’t pushed. She looked as if she’d been wrung dry and it was smarter not to risk being near a bed and behind closed doors with the woman.
He was trying to get his head on straight and stoking his emotions with more sex wasn’t going to help.
Except sex had never been about emotions for him. Sure, he’d liked the women he took to bed just fine, and found them attractive, obviously, but he wasn’t invested in them in any way.
He was talking about my ability to love. It died when Simon did.
Needing action, Con jumped up and made for the mini fridge, trying to focus on his sister again. And his marching orders from his mother.
Trying to finally be that good son his parents deserved. The responsible one who wouldn’t fall in love on an instant.
Yeah, Con was too smart for that, surely.
He bent to dig through the cold beverages on hand. “You think I’m here at oh-too-early just to see if you have any of that iced tea I like?” he asked his sister. “I was planning on sleeping in, but Mom called and arm-twisted. I’m supposed to encourage you to go back home. If you want to start a business, it will be better on familiar turf, she said to tell you.”
“See?” Audra got to her feet and made a wild gesture with her arms. “That’s why I have to move. I love her dearly, but she’ll smother me before I’m thirty. She probably hopes I’ll move back in with her and Dad.”
If not feeling lucky, but at least a little better, Con snagged one of those teas he was looking for. “I quote here—‘Moving home would be a cost saver for a budding entrepreneur.’”
Audra’s doomed expression prompted a grin despite his less-than-stellar mood. “God I love being the sibling that screwed up over and over. She’s happy as long as I’m not in jail or in the hospital and God forbid I ever move home and she has to witness my life firsthand.”
“You didn’t screw up. You made your own choices, damned the consequences, and somehow always came out on top.”
Sweet Audra. A nice spin on his knucklehead teens and his restless twenties. As she left the main room, he followed her into her bedroom. She went for a hoodie thrown over a chair, and his gaze snagged on one of the nightstands. He walked directly to it and the man’s money clip he spied there. “What’s this?”
Her guilty expression said it all—busted.
A few dollar bills wrapped a pair of unused, foil-wrapped condoms.
Con picked up the money clip, gave it a wave. “I won’t bother advising you against getting too serious about anyone at this juncture…” His sister had been set to marry another just a couple of weeks ago!
Audra just stared at him.
Sighing, Con waved the money clip again and spoke the sage advice he knew his parents would expect him to deliver. “Jumping into something with someone you barely know is not what a smart, responsible person would do.”
Audra’s chin lifted. “You might,” she said, her tone accusatory. “You very well might jump into something, Con. Tell me I’m wrong.”
He grimaced. “You’re not wrong. But that’s how I roll. Face it, both Mom and Dad would lose their minds if their just-left-at-the-altar daughter, the ever-obliging and always-sensible sibling of the family, believed herself serious about a man so short a time later.”
“But doesn’t the left-at-the-altar business prove that months and months of knowing a person, as well as being engaged to a person for months and months, means you actually might not know a person no matter how much time passed? That time is not—”
“Audra.” He pitched the money clip back to the night table. “Are you trying to tell me that mere days after a broken engagement you fancy you’re in love with this near-stranger? Come on, that’s not like you. Clearly, you don’t know your own mind.”
Did he sound a little strident? He felt a little strident. Because this was guidance he should heed.
Damn it, should have heeded.
Because, face it, there was no talking himself out of this one. No matter what bluster he came up with, there was no backsies on the truth…he was in love with a near-stranger.
Except she wasn’t a stranger, she was Jojo, fun and funny and vulnerable and strong.
Who perhaps had lost the ability to love.
But that wasn’t going to stop him, he decided, his innate stubbornness kicking in. Despite his best intentions, the ones that were supposed to turn him into Mr. Responsible, part of him was still that reckless, trouble-seeking man who wouldn’t accept limits.
So no, he wasn’t walking away from this marriage by whimsy.
Not when it felt so right.
Another woman’s words rolled into his head.
You didn’t screw up. You made your own choices, damned the consequences, and somehow always came out on top.
Why would this time be any different?
Con ignored the little voice that reminded him that this time the choice wasn’t only his to make.
Chapter 9
Early evening, Jojo took a car service from her place to Dragonfly Beach, her mood lifting as she strolled into the resort’s staff offices and heard her cousins’ voices. Jessie and Amber, two beachy looking blondes with long legs and long hair, had spent a lot of time with the Thatcher family growing up. Now they worked full-time at the Hathaway, alongside their brother Kane.
Catching sight of her they smiled, instantly brightening Jojo’s mood. Both of them were irrepressible rays of sunshine, despite neglectful parents. A great-aunt had showed up at their beachside house one day, a Mary Poppins-type figure who Jojo’s mom swore was the making of the pair.
“Party tonight, yeah?” she asked. “Kane’s birthday celebration still on?”
“Everything’s set up on the beach,” Jessie said. “We’re glad you’re here.”
“Me, too.” She dropped into a chair and crossed her legs. “Tell me something interesting.” Her cousins’ chatter would get her mind off yesterday’s run-in at the storage facility and the Connor Montgomery mess. She’d have to address it, sure, but tonight she planned on taking a break from the predicament.
Rubbing her hands together, she looked between the sisters. “What’s the latest scoop around here? Anything juicy you can share?” The resort was good for entertaining stories of all kinds—from missing pets to naked guests—and she could use the diversion.
“Well…” Jessie slid a glance at her sister. “One of our favorite annual visitors checked in. Shaw Morgan, remember him?”
“Um…” Jojo screwed her brows together.
“The widower, remember? Young, handsome, showed up four years ago clearly heartbroken.”
“Poor man,” Jojo said.
Jessie nodded. “We keep hoping he’ll one day arrive with a new lover or new wife, but so far, no go.” She hesitated a moment, then shot her sister a quick glance before widening her eyes at Jojo. “I know! Maybe you can cheer him up.”
“Me?”
Another glance at Amber. “Yes, Jojo,” Jessie said, “you. He takes lunch on the patio every day. You and I can casually stroll by, I’ll introduce you, maybe suggest he could use some company during his meal and—”
“You want to fix us up?” Horrified, she stared at her cousin. “Uh, no.”
Jessie pouted. “Why not?”
Because I already have a husband. She drew in a cleansing breath, let it out. “Because…because
I was just divorced.” And I have yet another to arrange.
Jessie waved her hand. “It wasn’t yesterday and that little french fry had been cheating on you forever.”
“Jessie,” Amber waded in. “Have some tact.”
“The french fry should have had some tact,” her sister retorted. “Moving his lover into their house. Who does that?”
The first man she’d stupidly married, Jojo thought, before she married stupid a second time.
“What did you ever see in him?” Jessie asked, plaintive.
“I know,” Amber said, her voice quiet. “He was exciting, passionate, fun-loving. You said so at the time.”
“Yes,” Jojo admitted.
“And Jojo was reeling from Simon’s death,” Amber continued. “Remember that funk she was in?”
“I thought he would make me feel something,” Jojo mumbled. At her temples, a dull throb started up. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Shaw Morgan,” Jessie promptly said, still a dog with a bone.
“Jess—”
The younger woman held up a hand. “Hear me out. I don’t believe for a second that you’re permanently ruined for romance. And for four years Shaw’s been grieving—”
“Exactly,” Jojo said, a little testily. “I know how that is and there’s no timeline on recovery, okay?”
“Oh, Jojo.” Amber’s gaze turned troubled. “There’s no way Simon would want his death to forever hold you back from life.”
Her temples pounded and she shot to her feet. “I’m going for a walk,” she said, and didn’t stop when they called after her.
Her strides ate up the curving walkways of the resort grounds, though she was more frustrated than irate. Nobody understood about Simon. Her older brother had been a sibling but he’d not been an equal. Instead, he’d taken the place of their father who in her childhood rarely came home before she went to bed and was gone before she got up for school. Simon helped her with homework and cheered her out of petty spats with her friends. He never treated her like an unwanted tagalong.
My Quickie Wedding (Heartbreak Hotel Book 3) Page 6
