Changes (The Magic Jukebox Book 1)

by Judith Arnold

  “Silly isn’t the word I’d use for it. That ring could pay for my after-school tutoring and rec programs for a year.”

  “Well, it’s much bigger than anything I would have picked out. But Peter didn’t want me to pick it out. He likes to make the big decisions.” And even the smaller decisions, she thought indignantly. Like when she should go back to Boston. And how she should eat lobster.

  Nick tilted his head slightly, as if viewing her at a different angle might clarify things for him. “You don’t strike me as the sort of person who wants other people making big decisions for you.”

  “I make my own decisions,” she said. “It’s just…” She sighed, nudged back her plate, and took a sip of beer. “Peter and I have been together forever. We grew up together. Our parents are close friends. I know the way he can be.”

  “Generous to a fault,” Nick joked, flicking his fingers at her naked left hand, where her too-generous ring should have been.

  She laughed, then faltered. Peter could be generous, and he could also be mean, especially when he didn’t get his way. She had learned, after the many years they’d known each other, that life was a lot easier if she simply let him get his way—or at least believe he was getting his way—most of the time.

  That understanding stirred a mix of emotions inside her, worry and anger and guilt. “I shouldn’t talk about him behind his back,” she said. “It seems disloyal.”

  “When is the wedding going to happen?”

  Never. The word rose up into her mouth like a neat, round bubble, just waiting to pop. Startled, she swallowed, forcing the bubble back down. Of course she was going to marry Peter. They were planning on their wedding a year from June. The families had discussed it. Everyone had cleared their calendars and worked out their schedules. An engagement announcement had run in the Boston Globe. All she and Peter had to do was reserve a venue—if they could agree on one.

  She realized Nick was waiting for a response. He appeared curious and probing, as if he could see more than she wished to reveal. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “We haven’t set a date yet.” Feeling even more uneasy, she plunged her hands into her lap, as if that would make her less keenly aware of her ringless finger. “What can you tell me about the jukebox?”

  He gazed at her for a moment longer, then accepted her change of subject with a crooked smile. “At the Faulk Street Tavern?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s been there forever. Some people think it’s magic.”

  “I don’t believe in magic,” she said, wishing she sounded more certain.

  “I don’t either.” He shrugged. “They say it tells people what they need to hear.”

  Apparently Augusta had told him the same thing she’d told Diana. Or else the legend of the jukebox was beyond Augusta’s control, and everyone in Brogan’s Point knew about it. “Did any of the other people in the bar need to hear David Bowie on Saturday night?” she wondered aloud. Perhaps Peter should have listened more closely to the song. It wouldn’t hurt him to change his overweening attitude and become more open-minded. But he hadn’t seemed to be paying attention to the music that night, any more than Diana had paid attention to the other songs the jukebox had played. She couldn’t even remember what they were. She just remembered people singing along, and then filling the dance floor at the center of the room, and then…Changes.

  Nick drank some beer, his eyes never leaving her. “Here’s the way I understand it—and again, this assumes you believe in magic and all that. The jukebox plays a song that someone in the bar needs to hear, and that person hears it in some special way. They know the song is sending a message to them. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway.”

  “And you don’t believe that?”

  He shrugged again. “Magic? I don’t think so.”

  “But that song, ‘Changes’—it was talking to us, wasn’t it? You sang it to me this morning at the beach.”

  He opened his mouth and then shut it. Magic or not, he seemed to acknowledge that the song had connected them somehow. “Maybe it just happened to play when I was in a reflective mood on Saturday night. I can’t really think of much in my life that needs changing. Nothing important, anyway. I’m happy. Life is good.”

  “You told me you were pissed off, and you thought seeing me would cheer you up.”

  “It did. It does.”

  “But you were pissed off.”

  “That was about…someone else. Someone I can’t change. I can only change myself—if I need to change. Which I don’t.”

  She was tempted to quote the Shakespeare line about protesting too much. “Who’s the someone else?” she asked, figuring she deserved to know as much about him as he knew about her. “Have you got a fiancée, too?”

  He snorted, then shook his head. “No fiancée. I was pissed off at my mother.”

  She smiled. “Forgive her. Mothers can’t help but piss us off sometimes. I’m sure your mother loves you.”

  “I’m not,” he retorted, then shook his head. His voice was gentle even though his eyes were hard and cold when he added, “Forget it. It’s not worth talking about.”

  That alone convinced her his problem with his mother was worth talking about. But she wouldn’t pry. It wasn’t her business.

  The waitress appeared at their table. She handed them foil-wrapped wet-wipes and stacked their dishes, somehow managing not to spill the precariously balanced pieces of empty lobster shell piled on their plates. “You folks want any dessert?” she asked.

  Diana had devoured an entire lobster and more French fries than she should have. “I’m full,” she said.

  “Just the check,” Nick said.

  “My treat?” she asked. She earned a good living, and she believed in equality. It irritated her that Peter would never let her pay for their dates, even though once they got married his money would be hers and her money his. “The man pays,” he would declare, as if it were one of the Ten Commandments, whenever she pulled out her wallet at a restaurant.

  She hoped Nick wasn’t that rigid. More important, she hoped he understood that this wasn’t a date.

  “Next time,” he said, implying that he was indeed more open-minded than Peter—and also implying that there would be a next time.

  She should have been concerned. Maybe she should have spelled out that, the absence of her ring notwithstanding, she was engaged to Peter, and any encounters she had with Nick had to take that fact into account. But she was too pleased, too wickedly, inappropriately thrilled by the thought of a next time with him, to say anything.

  Once the bill was settled, they left the restaurant. Night surrounded them, cool and dark. Lights along the wharf etched the sailing boats in silhouette. The clang of chains and metal hooks against masts sounded like bells as the boats bobbed in the water. The sea air had a briny scent, salty and lush. “Boston Harbor doesn’t smell like this,” she pointed out.

  “That’s a harbor. This is the ocean.” He folded his hand around hers and headed toward the wharf. Once again, she thought about saying something, reminding them both that his holding her hand implied nothing, that they were only friends, could never be more than friends…

  Except that deep inside her, she didn’t believe that. She didn’t believe his holding her hand implied nothing. She didn’t believe they were only friends.

  Did this mean she was turning to face the strange? Did it mean she was changing?

  They strolled in silence to the end of the wharf, where the breeze was stronger, the ocean’s fragrance thicker. Her hair tangled in the gusts and he shifted slightly, angling her so the wind would blow her hair away from her face. When one thick lock snagged on her nose, he caught it and brushed it back, tucking it behind her ear.

  Her ear tingled. Her scalp. Her hand, enveloped in his. Her entire body. The wind was chilly but she was warm. Too warm. She shouldn’t be feeling this way, not about Nick Fiore. She should say something, tell him not to pivot to face her, tell him not to give her hand
a quiet tug, pulling her closer to him. Tell him not to lean in, not to lower his head until his lips were a breath away from hers, then less than a breath away. Then touching hers.

  She should say no. But her mind scrambled. Her heart pounded. Her soul said yes.

  She reached up with her free hand, steadying herself as the heat of his mouth on hers caused her legs to weaken and sway. She might have been standing on one of the boats rather than the dock; the earth seemed to rock beneath her feet. But Nick was solid and secure. The world could be churning with wild waves, hurricane tides, whitecaps and undertows, but as long as she clung to him, she would be safe.

  Through the worn leather of his jacket she could feel the firm bone and muscle of his shoulder. The tips of his hair grazed her knuckles, cool and silky. He slid his arm around her waist, embracing her as if he knew she needed protection from the storm, as if he feared that one powerful wave might sweep over them and carry her off.

  It occurred to her that he wasn’t the solid ground she was counting on. He was the powerful wave, carrying her off. He was the storm, surging around her, inside her.

  His mouth clung, coaxed and conquered. When her lips parted in a faint moan, his tongue stole inside, claiming her. She’d never experienced anything like this before. She’d kissed, of course, and been kissed, but she’d never been so totally, utterly turned on by a single kiss.

  Her brain tried to inject some rationality into the moment. You hardly know him. He’s a stranger. This is wrong. You’re engaged.

  No. It was right. Maybe later, when she thought about it, she’d decide it was wrong. But at that instant, standing on the wharf with Nick, his arms holding her, drawing her against him, the warmth of him enveloping her as the heat of his kiss burned through her body and deep into her soul…

  Nothing in her life had ever felt more right.

  ***

  Chapter Six

  Holy shit.

  He shouldn’t have started this kiss—but now that he had, he couldn’t stop it. She tasted so good, so sweet, better than any dessert they might have ordered at the Lobster Shack. Better than any woman he’d ever kissed before.

  One kiss, and he was rock-hard. It took all his willpower to keep from arching his hips into her, letting his body find the heat of hers. He didn’t have any willpower left to stop kissing her.

  So he didn’t stop. He tasted, sipped, nibbled, nipped. He ran his hand up her spine to the nape of her neck and dug his fingers deep into her hair. He’d wanted to touch her hair the moment he’d seen her at the Faulk Street Tavern Saturday night, the moment the song had started to play and his gaze had met hers. He’d imagined her hair feeling like honey, because it was the color of honey. But of course it didn’t. It felt like strands of satin.

  Her hair was amazing, but so was the rest of her. He knew she was slim—he’d easily lifted her over the retaining wall that morning—but wrapping his arms around her informed him of how slender her waist was. He remembered how tempting her ass had looked in her stretch-fabric running pants, and he decided that, as soft and seductive as her hair was, he needed to explore more of her.

  He ran one hand down her spine to the small of her back, then lower, cupping one tight, round cheek.

  Mistake. He’d thought he couldn’t get any harder. That one touch proved that he could.

  She made a tiny sound—a sigh, a groan, a feline purr. God, he wanted her. All of her. All night long. “Come home with me,” he whispered against her mouth, trying to remember when he’d last laundered his sheets. If she was half as crazed with lust as he was, she wouldn’t notice the sheets. She definitely wouldn’t notice the dingy shower curtain.

  “I can’t,” she murmured.

  He could practically hear tears in her voice. He could practically feel them in his eyes. Not because she was denying him what he craved, but because she was reminding him of everything that was impossible about this, about them, about letting one blazing kiss lead them where they both wanted to go.

  Maybe she didn’t want to go there as desperately as he did.

  Christ, maybe she was kissing him only to get back at her domineering fiancé. The guy had pissed her off, so now she was extracting her revenge by tangling tongues with Nick. It was possible.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he loosened his hold on her. The fingers that had arched so naturally around her butt now curled into a fist as he let his hand drop to his side.

  She lowered her eyes. Her lips were swollen, glistening with moisture. I did that, he thought with a combination of satisfaction and irritation. He’d kissed her—and himself—senseless, and now she was saying no, and he was… Pissed off didn’t come close to what he was feeling.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Yeah.”

  Her gaze shot up to his face. She appeared startled by his anger. Wasn’t she as frustrated as he was? Wasn’t she as exasperated that the domineering fiancé, the asshole whose ring she’d deliberately removed, was preventing them from going the distance? Or was she just playing Nick, fooling around a little before she put her ring back on and became the dutiful bride-to-be?

  Instead of firing back at him, she brought her hand to his face and caressed his cheek. Her fingers felt cool against his skin, which was practically steaming from the lust burning inside him—and her touch was so gentle, her expression softening from surprise to wistfulness, that he felt his fury drain away. “Nick,” she said.

  He waited, watching her, wishing she would keep her hand pressed to his face forever. Or else press it to his throat, his chest, his dick.

  “I can’t start something with you when I’m engaged to someone else.”

  Something? Were they pursuing something? He’d thought they were just going for a hook-up. No complications. No meaning attached to it. No thinking allowed.

  Which was ridiculous, and wrong. Casual hook-ups had been fine when he’d been younger, but he was thirty now. He liked to know the woman he was making love to. He liked waking up with a woman as much as he liked sleeping with her.

  Diana was right. This was something. Damned if he knew what. But whatever it was, he couldn’t just blow through it, have some fun and move on.

  And if it wasn’t a casual hook-up, if it was something… Well, there was a fiancé in the picture. Nick might not be the noblest guy in the world, but he didn’t make a habit of fooling around with women who were publicly attached to other guys. He had at least that much integrity.

  “Sorry,” he said, apologizing for having forgotten the existence of her fiancé when he’d kissed her, and ruing the fact itself. Yes, he was sorry she was engaged. If she weren’t, they might be in his car right now, speeding back to his house, him flooring the gas pedal and her running her hand up and down his inner thigh.

  “I have to work this out,” she said. “I have to…I don’t know, try to make some sense of everything.”

  By the time she made sense of everything, she’d probably be back in Boston, with her antiques and her family and her fiancé’s family. And her fiancé.

  It would probably be for the best, too, Nick thought, although his body wasn’t convinced. Just looking at her gave him a hard-on. Remembering how she’d felt in his arms, her hair spilling through his fingers, her lithe body pressed to his, made him think that her refusal to go home with him was not even remotely for the best.

  They walked side by side up the wharf to the parking lot by the Lobster Shack, no longer holding hands. Neither spoke. Diana seemed lost in thought, and Nick wouldn’t have been able to string three words together if he’d tried. His mind was as dense as shoreline fog. Only one word managed to break through the thick, gray mist: Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

  The drive back to the inn passed without conversation. She sat next to him, her face pinched, her arms wrapped around her middle in a self-protective hug. He thought about turning on the radio, but while a dose of loud, clashing rock would give his brain a needed jolt, it would probably scare her. Even worse, he might turn
on the radio and hear David Bowie singing that freaking song.

  There was nothing wrong with the song. He couldn’t blame it for what had happened between him and Diana. What should have happened. What wasn’t happening.

  Not a word shattered the silence until he eased the car to a halt in front of the inn’s broad porch. Only then did she speak: “I’ll see myself in, thanks.”

  Apparently she took him for a gentleman, assuming he would have gotten out of the car, opened her door for her, and walked her up the steps to the porch and inside. He wasn’t always the epitome of courtesy. With Diana, he would have been. But she didn’t want him to be.

  She unfastened her seatbelt and turned to him, once again wistful, her eyes shimmering in the gloom of the car’s interior, her lips still rosy, still way too tempting. The word sorry was replaced in his mind by the word desire. And then the word hopeless.

  “I have to think,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  He nodded. He wasn’t going to say desire or hopeless. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to say sorry. He’d already said that. It wasn’t worth repeating.

  He waited to start the engine until she was safely inside the building, the heavy front door swinging shut behind her. Then he coasted down the driveway, back out to Atlantic Avenue, and a couple of blocks south to Faulk Street.

  On a Monday night, the bar wasn’t that crowded. The place was busy enough for Gus to earn a nice profit, but not packed the way it had been on Saturday night. A slow song he didn’t recognize, layered with syrupy violins and soulful singing, filled the air, and several couples rocked back and forth on the dance floor, arms wrapped around each other, feet barely moving. Lucky people, he thought. They were holding their lovers, rubbing body parts, getting it on as much as it was possible to do while fully clothed and in a public place.

  He crossed directly to the bar. Gus was pouring something pale and frothy from a blender pitcher into a bowl-shaped glass. She handed it to a waitress, then acknowledged Nick with a squint and a pointed critique: “You look like hell.”