Quick Takes

by Gretchen Galway

  “Yeah,” he said with a sigh, “so did I.”

  “You shouldn’t. Neither of us should.”

  “I like the way you think,” he said. “Can we go now?”

  A giggle bubbled out of her. It really was happening. “We’ve been so rude. People must be staring at us.” She glanced around, still trapped in his arms, and saw a few people to their left lifting champagne flutes from a caterer’s tray. “We should stay for the toast.”

  “And then we can go?”

  She cupped his jaw, savoring the feel of his skin. There was so much of him she wanted to touch. Nodding, she broke away from him to stand up; her knees wobbled beneath her, and she nearly fell over on the sloped lawn.

  “Easy.” He hooked an arm around her waist. “I’d better hold on to you. Wouldn’t want you to have an accident.” He pulled her close and kissed her again. Hungry for him, she pressed her hips against his and felt all that hard desire pressing into her pelvis. What few clear thoughts she held burned off like the morning fog.

  He broke away and said roughly, “We’ll toast them privately.” Grabbing her hand, he tugged her behind him into the aisle and across the grass, through the laughing crowd—were they laughing at them? She couldn’t bring herself to care—to the back steps of her grandmother’s house. He pushed her through the door ahead of him and kicked the door shut behind them. She heard the dead-bolt click.

  The journey up the stairs to his bedroom raced past in a blur. Her shoes littered the living room carpet, his pants fell on the stairs, her dress landed on the bannister. For every garment he removed from her, she claimed one of his, and by the time he was throwing her on the bed and she was reaching for him, gasping and laughing, they were both completely stripped, as naked as the day they were born.

  It was no surprise the first time sped by in a shaky rush; a lifetime of foreplay was too much for either one of them. They fell upon each other, starving for taste and smell and connection, penetration. He drove into her with a kiss. She cried out and scratched at him, years of frustration shattering with rising pleasure. They moved together, hard and mindless, nothing between them.

  Her climax struck; she cried his name and broke into pieces.

  “Jody,” he gasped, following her off the cliff.

  8

  The second time was slower. It had to be, since they were in the shower, and the soap kept falling onto the tile and one of them had to reach over and retrieve it, which led to more groping, giggles, slippery kisses, and inefficient penetration. No man had ever made her feel so beautiful, so fun, so loved.

  Late afternoon, they curled up in Simon’s duvet under a beam of sunshine and gazed into each other’s eyes, two empty champagne flutes on the bedside table next to them.

  “Is your grandmother going to be annoyed with me?” he asked.

  “If she is, will you move out?”

  “Only if you come with me.” His voice was dead serious.

  Butterflies danced in her stomach. “I will,” she said, matching his tone. “But I think she’ll be happy if I’m happy.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” she asked.

  “Are you happy?”

  “I haven’t been this happy since I blew up the playground in fifth grade.” She stroked his cheek. “No, I’m even happier.”

  He gave her a goofy grin. “And that’s really saying something.”

  “It really is.”

  Sighing, he tightened his arms around her, pulling her against him under his chin. She rested against him and ran her palm over the soft hair of his chest, without a care in the world.

  “I love you,” she said softly. Finally, she’d said it.

  His chest rose and fell with his breath. His heartbeat thudded under her ear, a little faster than it had been a minute earlier. “I love you, too,” he whispered.

  “This is going to sound silly, but…” She trailed off, suddenly choked up.

  He tipped her chin up to look at him. “What?”

  Laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes, and his face was more angular, but the friend she’d had in her childhood was right there, smiling at her.

  “I missed you,” she said. “That’s all. I missed you.”

  He closed his eyes and pulled her against him. “I’m here now.” He stroked the back of her head, twisting a long lock between his fingers. “And I’m not going anywhere this time.”

  “Good. Because I won’t let you,” she said.

  “That really means something, coming from you. You’d probably blow up my car or something if I tried to escape.”

  Grinning, she pinched his nipple. “I just might.”

  “Good thing I’m staying right here, then.”

  “Good thing.”

  “I love you, Simon.”

  “I love you too, Jody.” He rolled her onto her back. “Let’s see if we can spark another explosion, shall we?”

  Just Can’t Forget You

  From the Back Cover

  Just Can’t Forget You

  Melissa has finally got her life just where she wants it. She has a peaceful job at a plant nursery in lovely California, her parents are happily retired, and her love life…

  Well, who needs the hassle?

  But then he shows up at work insisting she’s the one for him—well, for his garden. With bedroom eyes and a voice that makes her toes curl in her gardening clogs, Eduardo is even sexier than he was when they were teenagers. And this time, he’s not taking no for an answer.

  * * *

  Timeline note: this story is set between the events of This Time Next Door (Oakland Hills Book 2) and Not Quite Perfect (Oakland Hills Book 3).

  JUST CAN’T FORGET YOU

  * * *

  Copyright © 2015 by Gretchen Galway

  * * *

  Eton Field, Publisher

  www.gretchengalway.com

  * * *

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author.

  * * *

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  1

  Melissa’s mother always called her at work.

  She could’ve ignored the call—it was only her third week on the job at the nursery, and she had a reputation to establish—but Mom would call every fifteen minutes in a rising panic until she heard her daughter’s voice. Better to get it over with.

  “How’s my favorite mother?” Melissa asked as she picked up.

  “Are you all right? You didn’t answer right away.”

  Even before Melissa had attempted suicide as a teenager, her mother had worried excessively—and since that little incident a decade ago, she’d been as clingy as a fabric-softener dryer sheet on a fleece sweatshirt.

  “Fantastic,” Melissa said. “I’m potting a rare South African perennial. At my new job. Which is where I am right now. Working.” Hopefully her mom would get the hint.

  No such luck. “You could be a scientist at Harvard,” she said with a tragic sigh. “Instead, you’re a gardener.”

  At seventeen, Melissa had been a stressed-out, suicidal wreck at the top of her class, but at twenty-eight, she was happy and content with her quiet, unimpressive life. Unlike her parents. “Don’t make me feel bad. I just might try to end it all again.”

  Her mother made a distressed noise in the back of her throat. “I don’t know how you can joke about that. After what we all went through.”

  Melissa had always felt guilty about the attempted suicide—so guilty it woke her up in the middle of the night—but her therapist had given her permission to move on. “How’s Dad?”

  While her mother launched into a discussion of her father’s golf game, which was the center of his life since they’d reti
red to Phoenix, Melissa used her free hand to scoop potting soil into a plastic nursery pot. She loved her new job. Golden Gate Horticulture in El Cerrito, California filled over a city block and was one of the most prestigious, well stocked, and expensive nurseries in the San Francisco Bay Area.

  The pay was terrible, of course, but she didn’t have many expenses. She knew she was lucky. One of the greatest gifts of all—the freedom to do what she loved—was hers, and she’d finally learned to appreciate it.

  Across the rows of shaded camellias and rhododendrons, she heard the trill of the store phone inside the main building. “Mom, I’ve got to go. I’m at work.”

  “But—”

  “Love you, love Dad. Bye!” She shoved the phone in her back jeans pocket and jogged into the main building, where the nursery’s owner, Ian Cooper, was ignoring the phone ringing next to him. Her boss was a very shy man who only talked to the plants if he could get away with it.

  Out of breath, she picked up the receiver and smiled at Ian. “Golden Gate Hort.”

  “Good morning. I’d like some plants.” The man’s low voice had the soothing tones of a late-night radio announcer.

  Enchanted by the sound, Melissa froze in the act of wiping peat moss onto her jeans. She realized she was still panting.

  “Hello?” the man asked.

  “I’m here,” Melissa said. “You want some plants.”

  “Yes. You have those, I assume?”

  She shook off the spell of his voice. He had a formal way of talking that suggested he was older; many of their customers were retired academics from the University of California in neighboring Berkeley. “Sure do. Lots of them.”

  “Excellent. I need someone to put them in my backyard.”

  Melissa tried to meet her boss’s eye. “We have two excellent garden designers on staff. Jake, who’s here today, is even a landscape architect, but he’s out to lunch at the moment, so if I could just get your—”

  “I’d rather take care of this right now.” The baritone rumbled in her ear. “It’s a small area off the patio. I just want a few plants. I’m tired of looking at dirt. I’m not picky.”

  She wished she hadn’t been the one stuck with this call. Her own experience was in propagation, not customer service, especially not with elderly men whose horticultural vocabulary was limited to “plants” and “dirt.”

  “They won’t do anything too elaborate if that’s not what you want. They’re trained to—”

  “I was thinking about those little white flowers that smell so good,” he said. “A whole bunch of them. Do you have those?”

  “We have the largest selection of ornamentals in the Bay Area.” She glanced at her boss again. “Can you be more specific?”

  “I’ll try,” he said. “Small white flowers, kind of pointy. The main thing, though, is they smell good. They’re all over the place. I’m sure you know what I mean. ”

  “Star jasmine?”

  “No idea. Does star jasmine smell good?”

  “Very,” she said.

  “Then let’s go with that. I’ll be home tomorrow morning. Saturday. Somebody can come by at ten and put it in the ground then.”

  She bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “It doesn’t really work that way,” she said. “We’ll need to see the space first, confirm the plant selection, the amount of plants needed. Then we have to assess and amend the soil, address the watering needs, perhaps install a drip-watering system, talk about long-term maintenance—”

  “I don’t want anything that needs much maintenance. Does your star jasmine require much work?”

  “No, actually, it’s very low-maintenance—”

  “Perfect. Then that’s decided. I’ll give you my address. You or the other guy can drop by and do whatever you need to do. May I have your name?”

  “Melissa, but—”

  “Melissa?” His melodious voice sharpened.

  “Yes, Melissa.”

  The phone went quiet. She ran a hand through her hair, forgetting her fingers were still grubby with potting soil. “I’ll get your number and one of our senior staff will call you back to go over the det—”

  “Melissa… I’m writing this down. Mind if I get your last name?”

  “McGowan. Melissa McGowan. But it’s Jake or Mary you’ll probably be—”

  “McGowan?”

  “Yes.”

  The phone went quiet for a moment. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “It might be better to set up an appointment. If you give me your—”

  “See you soon.” He ended the call.

  She stared at the phone in her hand. She had the oddest sensation of déjà vu.

  Ian slipped back behind the counter. “Everything OK?”

  “He’s going to come in.” She replaced the phone handset in the cradle. “When’s Jake due back from lunch?”

  “No idea. What time did you make the appointment?”

  “I didn’t. He just said he was coming in.”

  “Next time, get the name and number first,” Ian said. “Then one of us can follow up.”

  Melissa felt her cheeks warm. His mild rebuke stung. “I’ll get it when he comes in.”

  Hanging a pair of bright-purple nitrile gloves on a hook next to the register, Ian tilted his head toward the door, where Jake was just striding in. “Don’t bother. Jake will handle it.”

  “What’s up?” Jake asked, unsheathing fries from a white In-N-Out Burger bag.

  Feeling even worse, Melissa filled Jake in on the customer’s call and then escaped to her potting table and the peaceful simplicity of rare perennials. Replacing her earbuds, she let out a calming breath as the indie folk-electronica music filled her ears and got back to work. Within seconds she was immersed with the feel of soil, water, roots, and life, and the world outside slipped away.

  Until a hand on her shoulder made her jump so violently that she dropped the root ball she’d been holding. As she fumbled to take out the earbuds, she turned and saw a bearded man in dark glasses looming over her.

  2

  Unnerved, Melissa took a step back and bumped into the table. She bent down to pick up the delicate plant that had fallen onto the gravel.

  “Melissa?” The man’s voice was low and buttery-smooth.

  She realized it was the old-timer on the phone. Except he wasn’t an old-timer. Unless thirty was the new eighty.

  Heart pounding—it was just that she’d been surprised, and had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with how he looked like a dashing secret agent who saved the world before breakfast—she straightened and attempted a smile.

  “That’s me,” she said, looking past his broad shoulder straining under the crisp white button-down shirt for Jake or Ian, suppressing the urge to cry for help.

  “I shouldn’t have crept up behind you,” the man said, slowly removing his sunglasses.

  Help.

  He was the most sexually potent specimen of male humanity she’d ever seen—at least in person. She imagined movie stars had this kind of charisma, but although she’d grown up in Southern California, she’d never been this close to one. Twelve, maybe eighteen inches away from deep brown eyes, blue-black hair, a square jaw under a trimmed beard, and a wide, sensuous mouth that was slightly curved up at the corners.

  And there was the gold stud in one ear, drawing her attention to his high cheekbones above the sharp line of his beard.

  This guy wanted plants?

  Maybe he needed a soothing retreat from his job thwarting violent criminals. Or competing in triathlons. Or perhaps she was overreacting, and he was only an internationally famous underwear model.

  “Melissa,” he said again. His probing gaze stroked her from head to toe.

  She nodded, embarrassed he’d unbalanced her. “Yes. Hi. You’re the guy on the phone?” She called him a guy to make him seem more down-to-earth, even though every inch of him screamed man, man, man.

  Or maybe that was her screaming.

  He ex
tended a hand. His shirt was rolled up, exposing a muscular forearm. “Yes. I’m… Eduardo.”

  She held up her soil-stained fingers. “You don’t want to touch me.”

  His penetrating gaze made her ears burn. “I don’t mind,” he said finally, enveloping her hand in his. His grip was strong but gentle. Warm but hot.

  She gave him a quick squeeze and jerked her hand away before she gave into temptation and left it there for a while.

  Eduardo. An old memory stirred in the depths of her brain. “I’ll introduce you to Jake. He makes the house calls.”

  He shook his head and tucked the glasses into his chest pocket. “I already told them inside that you were helping me.”

  “But—surely they told you—Jake would work with you. I don’t do—”

  “I assured them you knew exactly what I wanted,” he said.

  The naked root ball in her hand was crumbling to pieces. Turning away from him, she tucked it into a pile of loose potting soil, manhandling the little plant to keep her hands busy. “I’m sure there’s some misunderstanding. I don’t have any design experience. The one you want—”

  “You’re the one I want.” He walked around the table and touched the spiny green leaves of the seedling. “Your boss agreed.”

  “Ian? Are you sure?”

  He nodded.

  She frowned at the nursery building. Ian had made it clear when he hired her that she wasn’t qualified yet to do garden design. Jake had a MA in landscape architecture, and Mary had worked over thirty years as professional garden designer.

  “Don’t worry about your lack of experience,” Eduardo said. “I’m sure you’ll do a great job. And even if you didn’t, I’d never tell.”

  “That’s nice of you, but I wouldn’t want you to lie about that.”

  “Still so honest, aren’t you, Melissa?” he asked.