Jenna rounded a bend in the road, getting the sun out of her face and the motel once again in her sights. Her lungs felt ready to burst, her leg muscles screamed, and there was nothing left inside her skull except dust bunnies. In a few hours, with no further excuses to avoid the inevitable, she was going to stuff her malnourished sex drive in a cage and get on with it. After all, the whole shebang had been her bright idea.
Right?
Gasping for air like a landed carp as perspiration sluiced off her skin in torrents, Jenna slowed to a walk when she hit the motel grounds. There were…let's see…six cars parked out front this morning. Wow.
"Morning," she heard behind her. She let out an eek and spun around—the last thing she wanted or needed or expected was for Mr. If-You-Wake-Me-Before-Eight-You-Take-What-You-Get to pop out of the office, all freshly showered and shaved, poured into a blindingly white T-shirt. The pup tumbled down the single step from the office door and waddled over to her….
Wait. Shaved?
"You know, Grubby," Hank said laconically, uncoiling a hose from a clay pot by the door, "you can catch flies with your mouth hangin' open like that."
Jenna snapped shut her mouth. Opened it again. "Who you calling Grubby?"
"Not the dog, that's for sure." He turned the water on, aimed the hose at one of the planters. Jenna squatted to pet the dog, who nearly turned himself inside out with rapture. Criminy—her hands were shaking. Was he teasing her?
"I see the dog's still here," she said to distract herself.
"Yep. Asked around when I took him into the vet's yesterday, but nobody seems to be missing him. So I guess we're a couple now."
She smiled, then said, because she couldn't stand it anymore, "You shaved." Damn. The last word wobbled a bit.
He rubbed one hand along his jaw, just like they do in those aftershave commercials. "Figured it was time. Took ten minutes to find my razor, though."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?"
Oh, no…that wouldn't be her teasing back, would it? As in…flirting?
Hank's chuckle made his smile stretch out a liiittle bit more, giving yet another glimpse of the nice person that lived inside Mr. Grouch. For a second, Jenna contemplated her sister's idiocy for walking away from this guy.
"Didn't figure on anyone else being up this early," Hank said, his words scattering her thoughts like a bunch of bowling pins.
"Me, either. Why're you?"
The smile faded as he moved the hose over to the next pot. Splashing water droplets sparkled in the sunshine. "Too much on my mind, I guess…hey, mutt—get outta there!" He turned the hose on the dog, who had plopped down in one of the flower beds and was happily munching on a petunia. He yelped and scampered away, only to sidle right back up and plant his butt on the toe of Hank's workboot. Hank sighed.
So did Jenna, but not for the same reasons. She straightened up, thinking, okay, the sweat could stop pouring off her anytime now. Sure, her deodorant was that "you could even skip a day" brand, but let's not push it. "Yeah. Same here." And it was precisely all this stuff on their minds keeping them awake at night that made teasing or flirting or whatever highly inappropriate. "Does he have a name yet?"
"Nope. If the girls don't come through soon, he's just gonna be Mutt." The pup rolled bonelessly onto his back, little pink tummy exposed to the breeze, and woofed up at Hank.
"Maybe that's just as well. We have a cat named Meringue, remember?"
"Good point," he said, and she thought, damn, I did it again, didn't I? Nerves, that's what must be causing this…bantering. Jenna didn't banter. At least, not that she could remember. A defense mechanism is what this was, an unconscious attempt to diffuse the tension, right?
Then she cleared her throat and said, "Um, I think Blair's going to go up to Libby's sometime today? So, uh, I guess we should try to find a time to get together? To…talk things over?"
Like a cloud eclipsing the sun, the mood shifted. The pup scrambled to his feet when Hank walked over to turn off the water. "Wondered when you were going to get around to that."
"I would have sooner, but we have to be careful. About when we're together."
He turned to her with that annoyingly penetrating gaze of his. "Careful?"
Jenna's skin warmed. With any luck, Hank would assume her "glow" was from exertion. "Blair saw us on the porch the other day. When I touched you?" she added at the "huh?" that flared in his eyes. "From there, her imagination took flight. She assumed we had something going."
A beat or two passed before he said, "And you said?"
"Th-that she had absolutely nothing to worry about."
His mouth pulled into something not quite a grimace, but definitely not a smile. "Dammit," he said softly. "Why are you afraid of me?"
Naturally, she started. "Wh-what makes you think that?"
"Well, call this a wild guess, but the way you act all jumpy when you're around me kinda leaves that impression."
Over her ka-thudding heart, Jenna said, "It's…the situation. Not you. I'm not afraid of you."
Exactly.
"Glad to hear it," he said after a moment, although the words fairly crackled with skepticism. "Well, anyway. Guess there's no point in puttin' this off. What time?"
"I don't know yet. Will you be around?"
One corner of his mouth lifted. "I s'pose I can fit it into my schedule."
"Okay. Good. I'll, um, be in touch, then," she said, backing away, realizing her sports bra was soaked through and that, as luck would have it, a breeze had come up, chilling her damp skin. And that Hank Logan had no qualms about letting his gaze roam where it would. Not that there was much to roam over, but still.
She pivoted smartly and jogged all the way back to the cabin.
Oh, God, yes, she was afraid of him. Of her reaction to him. A reaction she didn't understand in the least. Before Phil's illness, the sex had been good. Better than good. But when Phil died, her libido had died right along with him, a state of affairs she'd found convenient, if nothing else. The last thing she'd expected was for it to rise like a phoenix from the ashes now.
Not good. At all.
Blair was still sawing logs when Jenna got back, so she ducked into the bathroom for a fast shower, after which she decided to check her e-mail. Her editor was overdue in getting back to her about her latest book proposal, which she needed to get approved so she could set up her next year's writing schedule. She shimmied into a clean tank top and a pair of shorts, then sat down to her laptop, towel-drying her hair. Sure enough, there was something from her editor—who was new, young and on the ball—but not what she'd expected.
Hey, did you know some of your biggest numbers come from this one bookstore in Tulsa? Annmarie wrote. It would be really fabulous if you'd do a book signing while you're out there. I think your fans would get a huge kick out of it, don't you? PR's already contacted them, they said either Saturday the 10th or the 17th would be great if you could make it. Let me know, okay?
Jenna stared at the message for a full minute, her chest tight.
"I think you should go."
"Oh, Lord, honey," Jenna said, bouncing around to face her niece. "You nearly gave me apoplexy. What on earth are you doing up this early?"
"The shower woke me. I'm serious, Jenna. You should totally do this." Blair swiped her hair behind her ear, tucking one foot up underneath as she sat down across from Jenna. She tugged her sleep T over her knee, her expression earnest. "I could go with you, like we used to do, remember—?"
"Oh sweetie…" Jenna skimmed the message again. "I don't know…"
"You know what I think?"
"What?"
Blair leaned forward to let the cat play with her fingers. "I think you think you're shy, but you're not really. It's just, I don't know, maybe because you spend so much time alone, you've forgotten how to be with people?"
Love flooded through Jenna for this remarkable child that God had seen fit to leave in her care. And right on its heels, a surge of guilt—fo
r not telling her yet about her father, for underestimating Blair's ability to handle the news. Even so, she now had Hank's feelings to consider, too. As unfair as it was to Blair to keep the truth from her, neither was it fair to Hank to tell her before he'd had a chance to come to terms with it.
Honestly. If they didn't get this sorted out soon, Jenna's head was going to explode. She reached out to smooth down her niece's tangled hair. "How'd you get to be so smart?"
"Wondered how long it'd take you to notice," Blair said with a glittery grin.
Jenna chuckled, then tilted her head. "You still hate it here?"
Blair's shoulders hopped under the pale pink jersey. "It's okay, I guess." Then she shot up off the chair and headed toward the bathroom. "I've gotta shower an' stuff. Libby said she might call around nine, her dad's gonna take us into Claremore while he does some shopping. Is that okay?"
Jenna willed enough brain cells to clump together to at least approximate a synapse. This was it, then. Her chance to meet with Hank. "Oh. Sure. Just, um, don't forget to call me and let me know when you expect to be back."
Blair gave her an eye-roll, then vanished into the bathroom. Meringue leapt up onto the table and bumped heads with Jenna, rattling loose a whole slew of thoughts about coming clean with Blair about Hank, about the book signing, about the fact that Blair was right—Jenna really had become a recluse since her husband's death. Since well before that, actually.
"I'm the most boring person on the planet, aren't I?" she asked the cat, who yawned in response. But it was true. She and Phil hadn't had many friends, both too jealous of their creative time to be social. Of the few people they did occasionally see, one couple had moved away, another had split up, and Jenna had let her own friends drift away. And her relationships with her agent and editor were strictly business. Other than Blair, she realized, the only "people" in her life were those of her own creating.
Geez. And she wondered why Hank Logan made her nervous?
* * *
"I can't believe you brought the dog," Jenna said between yips and hisses as she stuffed cold cuts and lettuce and tomato into whole wheat pita pockets.
The girls would be gone until at least three. So, after a run to the local supermarket to stock up, Jenna had decided to invite Hank to lunch. She hadn't counted on the pup, however, who, for the past ten minutes, had been trying to convince the cat—who was spewing decidedly unladylike epithets in the dog's direction from her perch atop the refrigerator—he was one of the good guys.
"Can't leave him in my apartment. Damn dog chews everything in sight."
She glanced over at Hank, seated on the sofa, his arms crossed over his chest, one denim-covered leg stretched halfway out into the room. Outwardly, he looked almost relaxed, but even from this distance she could sense the energy coiled inside him, set to spring at the slightest provocation. "How could you tell?"
"Very funny, Grubby."
And maybe she was making far more of this than she needed to. Maybe, now that he'd had a minute to absorb his new role, he wasn't nearly as bent out of shape about it as she'd thought he would be. Maybe he really was relaxed. And maybe, like her, he made jokes to mask his anxiety.
"Hey," she said. "I showered."
"Yeah. I noticed."
O-kay, just keep making those sandwiches. "Want something to drink? I've got tea, diet Coke or water."
"That's a choice?"
"Sorry." She carried the plates with the sandwiches over to the dining table, then wiped her hands on her butt. "This is strictly a PG kitchen."
"Tea, then."
Jenna returned to the kitchen, filled two glasses with suntea. With a grunt, Hank got up from the sofa and took a seat at the table. She didn't miss the grimace at the pita sandwiches.
"What?"
"What's with the girl food?"
She looked at the sandwich she'd set at his place, then at the man about to consume it. Probably in a single bite. With a sigh, Jenna set the tea glasses on the table and looped right back around to the kitchen.
"I don't mean for you to go to any more trouble—"
"I don't intend to." She yanked a bag of potato chips—her private stash—from the cupboard and a tub of macaroni salad from the fridge, plopping both down in front of him. "Here. Live."
Hank ripped open the bag of chips and grabbed a handful, then offered them to her. She declined. "I've still got two chocolate shakes to work off."
"You work anything more off, you'll disappear."
He was doing that intense staring thing he did, no less disconcerting simply because he'd wiped every hint of expression from his face. She plucked a tomato slice out of her sandwich and nibbled on it. "I put on a lot of weight when Phil was sick. A lot of weight," she added at the skeptical look he gave her. "I knew I was in trouble when lacing up my sneakers knocked the wind out of me. Took me nearly a year to lose it. I do not want to gain it back."
"So…the potato chips are for Blair?"
Her mouth twisted. "One of the hazards of shopping in an unfamiliar store. You don't know which aisles to avoid until you're halfway down them."
He chuckled. "You've got a real thing about control, don't you?"
His question startled her, but more for his astuteness than his impertinence. "I don't know. I've never thought about it. Maybe."
The dog, having apparently decided his prospects for food were far better than for cat, begged for a bite of his sandwich—which Hank readily offered.
"Oh, no you don't," she said. "Dogs do not get seven-dollar-a-pound smoked turkey. Dogs get dog food."
"Fine. You got any kibble lyin' around?"
"Well, no…"
"Then the dog gets turkey." He tossed the pup a bite, then got quiet, munching on his chips for a minute. A long minute.
Jenna fidgeted with her sandwich, finally broke down and snitched a chip from the bag. "Okay—who goes first?"
From underneath black lashes, blacker eyes flicked in her direction. "You."
A chill raced up her spine, even though it wasn't the least bit cool in the room.
Teasing time was over.
* * *
He'd never known a woman who blushed as much as this one did. She broke the potato chip into a dozen pieces, then shoved her hair behind her ear. "I'm not sure where to start." Her bra strap slipped—white, no frills—and she hurriedly pushed it back up. "You wanna know how much the P.I. found out?"
"Okay, let's go with that."
"All right," she said on a rush of air. "I know how old you are, that you were a police officer in Dallas up until a couple of years ago, that you were there when Sandy said you two had your affair. That your record was spotless, that you were respected. That you were up for lieutenant, before…" She hesitated, stuck a piece of chip in her mouth. "I know about your fiancée. That after her death, you came back here, bought this place." She shrugged, making the bra strap slip again. This time, she let it be. "That's pretty much it." Her flush deepened. "I'm sorry," she added.
Hank nodded, almost automatically, carefully wiping his hands on his napkin. He'd dreaded this meeting for a boatload of reasons, half of which he couldn't even completely figure out. Maybe he'd enjoyed being able to get under her skin at first, but now it bugged him, the way she got all jittery around him. Not that he wanted to get close to her or anything; he just didn't want her to hate him. Especially if they were going to share raising a kid. Underneath all the crap he'd piled up around himself over the past couple of years lurked somebody he used to take pride in being. He was real keen on finding that person again.
But he had a lot of shoveling to do first.
"Are you angry?" she now asked. "That I know?"
After a minute, he shook his head. "I should be, I suppose. But in a way it makes things easier, doesn't it?" He leaned back in his chair, his hands laced behind his head, watching her. Thought how, if the situation had been different…But it wasn't. Still, it was fascinating, the way everything she thought was right there on the
surface, flickering in her cool blue eyes, trembling around her expressive mouth. "Gives us something in common."
"Yes, I suppose it does," she said, her voice catching. She took a swallow of her tea, then skimmed her fingertip along the rim of the glass. "Although…I wonder which is worse—watching someone you love take more than a year to die, or having it happen with no warning."
Hank could answer that, but he didn't. His parents' deaths had been hard. But Michelle's was the most brutal thing he'd ever gone through. Which cut right to the heart of the matter. Two days of thinking things over might have have helped him accept the fact of his fatherhood—he didn't need any DNA test to prove Blair was his, between the dates lining up and her being a dead ringer for his mother—but that didn't mean he felt any differently about it. And if there was one thing Hank was lousy at, it was pretending.
"I have to be totally up front with you, Jenna," he said quietly. "I'm gonna deal with this…turn of events, because I have to. But can't say as I want it."
"I know, you're still in shock—"
"This has nothing to do with shock."
Stunned disappointment skuttled across her features. "You don't want your own child?"
Hank let out a harsh sigh. "It's more complicated than that. A lot more complicated. I don't even know yet how I feel about having a kid. I've come to terms with having one, but…aw, hell, I don't know what I mean, how could I expect anybody else to? This is about…"
He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, desperate for his thoughts to line up, to make sense. Jenna's watchful silence from across the table wasn't making things easier, that was for sure.
"See, I've always been somebody who liked to call the shots. To be in control. Like you," he added, although he didn't figure that would help his cause any, not in the long run. "Which is why I became a cop, thinking maybe that was a way I could, I don't know, fix things or something." He took a moment to send old images packing, then said, "Well, Michelle's death pretty much screwed that idea all to hell. But once a control freak, always a control freak. If I can't control what happens to the people I care about, then…"
Fathers and Other Strangers Page 8
