by Dawn Atkins
At the last minute, she dumped in more vodka. What the hell, let’s try the high jump.
* * *
“TO US,” TARA SAID, lifting her glass.
“To us,” Dylan repeated. The fading sun turned the drinks into liquid gold in their hands, some magic elixir that would put a spell on them both. Tara’s eyes held that familiar mischievous light that made him want to skip the drinks, the food, the talk and just haul her into his arms.
Despite what they’d said about not going home again, here she was, and he felt it all again, just as big, just as all-consuming.
It didn’t help that she looked so good. She’d become softer and tougher at the same time. Sexier, too, because she was more certain of her appeal, more secure in herself, more sure of what she wanted.
And what did she want right now? Sex?
Damn, he hoped so.
He took a gulp of the drink and had to cough. “This is straight vodka.”
“Pretty close,” she said, coughing, too. “How ’bout we get hammered. For old times’ sake. Escape all this.” She made a circular motion over her head.
That would work. Vodka would fuzz their brains and drown whatever inhibitions remained. It would distract Tara from her troubles and him from his mixed feelings about helping her out.
Go for broke. That was Tara for sure. She took things too far, ready to ride the raft straight over the falls, heedless of the danger. His job had been to stab the oar down to bedrock, anchor them in place before they tumbled to their deaths below.
Yeah, they could get drunk and have sex. It would feel good in a blurry way. But they would be sorry later. He didn’t want to see regret in Tara’s eyes or feel it in his heart, or hear them mumble that they’d been too wasted, that they barely remembered what happened.
He didn’t want that. He doubted she did, either. He knew what she did want—to find out all she could about the car accident—and he had information she would appreciate.
“I talked to Fallon,” he said, putting down his glass.
“You did?” She set hers down, too, and honed in on him, the dare forgotten, as he’d hoped. “What did he say?”
“He’ll write you a report, but it won’t give you more than he already told you. If any pictures got taken they’ve been deleted from what he claims is a, quote, lame-ass camera with next-to-no memory, unquote. The insurance adjuster took the photos he needed and that was all that mattered, according to him. I asked him to send out a detective to photograph the scene and bag the debris.”
“Will he do it?”
“Oh, yeah. If he wants those two new cruisers.”
“You blackmailed him for me?” She grinned.
“Negotiated, I believe, is the proper term.”
“Negotiated, then. You did that for me?”
“I did.” He cleared his throat. “The irritating thing is that he thinks I’m doing this to get back together with you.”
“What an ass.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” What he’d said was get in her pants, though the look on Dylan’s face had scared the guy enough that he’d mumbled an apology and promised to get a detective out there.
“Thanks for doing that, Dylan.”
“I said I would help, didn’t I?”
“I know, but...” But he’d let her down before and she wasn’t convinced he truly had her back. That was Tara.
“Anyway, thanks. It’s more than I would ever get from him. In fact, I kind of blew it again.” She winced.
“What happened?”
“I went to Vito’s to see if any of the waitstaff saw Faye that night, and ran into Jim Crowley, who was there for his niece’s birthday dinner.”
“Not the best setting for an interrogation.”
“I didn’t grill him. I was polite. But he gave me this speech about what a good man Bill Fallon was and that my father wouldn’t want me upsetting my mother by asking questions.”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting? Don’t you get it? Fallon got to him. He probably called all the poker guys and told them I’m on a rampage and not to tell me anything. Crowley still hates me over the grocery store protest.”
“I forgot about that. It was about unfair wages, right?”
“Yeah. He was making part-time workers work full-time and not paying them or giving them benefits.”
“It made the paper, I remember.”
“After I broke Fallon’s headlight to get him to arrest me. It was worth it. Those people got paid so little they qualified for food stamps. They had to leave their kids alone late at night to work double shifts. And Crowley cleaned up his act, too, so he wouldn’t get busted for breaking labor laws.”
“Mission accomplished.”
“Exactly. Anyway, now that I blew it with the poker guys, I need you to talk to them—find out what really went on with my father that night. Can you ask Crowley? Or one of the other guys?” She listed the names.
“What reason would I have?”
“Curiosity? Checking out what Fallon said? Because you’re the town manager. They’ll tell you. You’re one of them.”
He bristled at the built-in insult she’d delivered. “The poker guys and I are all individuals with separate motivations, beliefs and attitudes, Tara. We’re not all part of some small-town hive mind.”
“I get it, okay? Don’t be so sensitive.”
“If it makes sense to talk to one of them, I will.”
“Good,” she said, as if he’d agreed to do it. “We should talk over the rest of the case.”
“It’s a case now?”
“What would you call it? I put all the clues on a spreadsheet on my iPad so you won’t think I’m a paranoid nut job.”
“No. I’ll think you’re an organized paranoid nut job.”
She went to give him a playful slap, but bumped her drink.
Trying to catch it, Dylan splashed Tara’s shirt.
She gasped from the jolt of cold.
“Sorry,” he said. He grabbed a cloth napkin, sending flatware rattling to the table, and brushed at her chest, aware of her body beneath his fingers, the softness of her breasts. She closed her eyes, caught by the contact.
They were on dangerous ground, so he stopped. “I hope that won’t leave a stain.”
“No big deal. This makes us even. One ruined shirt apiece.”
“You’re too much,” he said. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. The minute he decided sex was a bad idea it was all he could think about. He was about to take her hand and pull her toward him when mesquite smoke billowed out in a cloud, accompanied by a roaring sizzle.
“Time to eat,” he said on a sigh, saved by the grill.
He cut up the chicken, brought out the rolls, a pasta salad and some marinated peppers, and they dug in.
“Mmm,” Tara said, swallowing a bite. “Heaven. Moist. Savory. Beerlike. Perfect.” She did everything with such relish. When she licked her fingers he had to look away and think about baseball. “Where’d you get the recipe?”
“Uh, Candee. She made it for me once.” He felt himself blush, remembering the circumstances.
“I thought you said the cookware didn’t include benefits.”
“Just forget it, okay?”
“You two,” she said, shaking her head in amusement.
When they finished eating, she wiped her hands on the napkin. “I’ll go get my iPad so we can go over the clues.”
She started to rise, but he caught her hand. “Wait.”
Tara sat, looking at his hand on hers, then at his face, her eyes gleaming, pupils large. “Yes?” she asked breathlessly. She couldn’t possibly think he was going to yank her into his arms and kiss her, could she? Though the idea sounded damn good to him.
But he’d had a point to make. What was it? Oh. “How about you just talk me through it?” He released her hand.
“Sure,” she said, taking a sharp breath. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s see. Where to start?” She tapped her lip. “
How about this? Someone broke into my dad’s desk and stole all his files. I think it might be Joseph.”
“Why?”
“I had to ask him for the car insurance agent’s number and he got defensive about it. He warned me not to do anything that might delay the settlement our attorney will be working out with the insurance company. Bodily injury, lost earnings, pain and suffering. It’ll be millions. He got this gleam in his eye about the money. That made me wonder more about the finances at Wharton.”
“What does that have to do with him stealing the files?” Her thought process seemed convoluted to him.
“He’s been handling things for Mom—insurance, our estate attorney, even the clothes for the funeral—so maybe he was afraid something incriminating was in the files.”
“You didn’t accuse him of any of that, did you?”
“No. I’m not an idiot. Well, despite picking a fight with Fallon and harassing Jim Crowley at a birthday party.” She smiled ruefully. “I simply asked if he’d seen them and he got excessively defensive.”
“You’re not thinking Joseph had something to do with the accident, are you?” That would be way over the top.
“No. But something’s up with him, for sure. I’ll see what I can find out when I’m at Wharton.”
“What are you going to do at Wharton?”
“Investigate a little, but mostly help out.” She pushed her plate forward and back, frowning, thinking hard, abruptly upset. She lifted her gaze to his. “Faye wanted to hire me. She called a few weeks ago and said she’d like my perspective on the transition Wharton’s going through.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She steadied her gaze on him, regret clouding the clear blue of her eyes. “But I didn’t take her seriously. I joked about Joseph being too cheap to pay my fees. I totally blew it. I should have dropped everything and come out. Maybe if I had...”
“What? You think you could have prevented the accident?”
Tara shrugged. “Faye started seeing a shrink around the time she called me. She was taking pills for depression and anxiety. She was worried, Dylan. Really worried. But I didn’t pick up on that. I let her down.”
He stayed quiet, knowing there was more she had to get out.
“Faye was always there for me. Always.” She swallowed. “And what did I do? I harassed her for trying to please our father instead of going to art school. I told her marrying Joseph was a mistake. Who does that to someone they love?” She looked so anguished he had to intervene.
“Someone with strong opinions and big feelings.”
“You mean a spoiled brat? Don’t you dare pity me. You’re supposed to give me hell.” She gave a twisted smile. “I can’t stop thinking that the last talk I had with Faye was her begging for my help and me blowing her off. Why didn’t I listen? That’s one of my strengths with clients. Faye is the dearest person in my life and I barely paid attention.”
“She wouldn’t see it that way.”
“That’s because she’s too kind.” Tara grimaced, then grabbed her neck, so he knew her muscles had gone tight.
“You’re knotting up.” He moved his chair beside her and motioned for her to turn so he could rub her shoulders. He gripped the muscles at the base of her neck. They twisted like snarled rope under his fingers.
“You haven’t lost your touch,” she breathed, relaxing under his hands.
He focused on easing the knots, not how right it felt to be touching her again, how much he wished he weren’t so damn adult, that he would just give up and go to bed with her. His gaze landed on the sweating drinks, both nearly full. Maybe Tara was right. Maybe vodka wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
CHAPTER NINE
THIS FEELS SO GOOD. Tara all but melted under Dylan’s skilled hands. She’d forgotten how good he was at this. Revealing her guilt over Faye, then this amazing massage, was making her distress slip away.
Such a relief. Her stomach let go of its clinch, her shoulders loosened, her headache faded. She noticed how silky and cool the night air felt on her skin. The lights tucked into the landscaping began to wink and glow, turning his yard into a wonderland.
This was way better than getting drunk. Good call, Dylan. He’d always been sensible.
She found herself doing what she used to do when he rubbed her shoulders. She turned into his arms for more comfort, rested her cheek against his collarbone, felt the steady bump of his heartbeat, breathed in the sweet, sweet smell of his skin. Mmm.
Dylan’s breathing hitched in surprise at her move, then he shifted his upper body so their curves fit just right. His massage slowed, as if he, too, were remembering this experience.
The best massages were in bed in his room, when they lay skin to skin, free to take the touching further. She would feel relaxed and aroused at the same time, anticipating the moment when Dylan’s hands would slide from her back to her butt and pull her tight against him, and they’d be lost in each other’s bodies for hours.
It was happening again, she noticed—the neural pathways lighting up as if they’d never gone dark. It would be so natural to go to bed together, so easy. Why was it a bad idea again?
Dylan froze, as if he’d had the same thought, and answered her question by patting her back. “Hope that helps.” He pushed his chair back hard, the scrape loud against the tile.
“It did,” she said, turning to look at him, to see if it had been tough to stop. Embers glowed beneath the smoky color of his eyes and he was breathing hard. Good. She wasn’t alone in the struggle.
If he could resist, so could she. She was bigger than her urges, bigger than her past. She had to focus on now. Now, they were friends. They were investigating the accident together. The past was the past. They’d even apologized to each other. Done and done.
Sex would only complicate things.
Right. Good. Check.
There was another reason...simmering below the surface.
What if the sex was amazing? What if it felt too good? What if it made her want more?
That would be bad. Wanting more meant wanting Dylan and Dylan was all about Wharton, now and forever. His dream was to fix the town the way he’d fixed his father’s company. He belonged in Wharton. He fit here.
She didn’t. She’d worked too hard to break free of the town and who she’d been here. If she stayed, she’d lose all the gains she’d fought for—her independence, her confidence, her pride. She’d fall back into her old ways, turn into the same lost, sad failure she’d been.
The problem that was eating at her now, the reason she was so tempted was that she was lonely. She had to correct that—make friends she trusted enough to confide in. Get a boyfriend for the physical part. Talking about it with Dylan she realized she was not only a guest in her condo, she was a guest in her life.
So that was the lesson of seeing Dylan again.
“I missed you,” he said. “A lot.”
Zing. His words flipped a switch inside, lighting her up all over again, reversing every sensible thought she’d just had. “I missed you, too. I was miserable that first year. It was all I could do to make it to class. I had had all these plans for us, how we’d study together, go on hikes, learn to snowboard and, hell, look at stars. I felt like I’d lost a limb.”
Dylan looked surprised. “I had no idea. You cut me off cold. I figured that was that for you.”
“I cut you off because it hurt too much to hope.” Her entire body felt electrified by the words they were sharing. Truths she’d never spoken aloud, not even to Faye. “Even then, I hoped you’d come sophomore year like you said. Instead you got married.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “Yeah. I did. And it was a mistake. And, the truth is, seeing you again, I realize Candee was right. I wasn’t over you.”
“That’s what happened?” she asked, shocked, but also reassured that she hadn’t been alone in her own misery.
“I thought I was over you. I wanted to be and I fought like hell to prove it to her, bu
t once she got that idea in her head, she wouldn’t let go.” His eyes burned at her, his voice rough.
“I’m sorry, Dylan.”
“Me, too. More than I can say. I hurt Candee. I should have figured it out. I should have known.” He looked so troubled she wanted to cup his cheek, but she held back.
“Maybe if we’d talked back then...”
He shook his head. “Wouldn’t have worked. We needed perspective. We needed for what happened not to matter so much. We needed to be friends.”
He was right, though she got that panicked feeling again. She wanted to say. Wait. Don’t write us off. Maybe we’re not done.
Of course they were done. Weren’t they?
“It’s imprinting. That’s the trouble.”
“Excuse me?”
“Like with ducklings. They imprint on whatever creature they see when they hatch. A dog, a person, a goat. We were each other’s first love. We got imprinted.”
“Okay...”
“Plus we were young...drenched in hormones.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Tingly and shaky and floating on air,” she continued. “It felt like we’d invented sex.” Even as she was explaining it away, the feeling grew, fueled by the familiar look in Dylan’s eyes—the way he drank her in, every nuance—deciding the right moment to take her, kiss her, make her his own.
They were breathing slowly and noisily now, like the air scraped their lungs on the way out.
“Yeah. All that.” Dylan’s hands slid toward her across the table, moved in. Was he going to kiss her? Did she want that?
With every beat of her unchanged heart.
What if they had stayed together? What if they were soul mates? What kind of life might they have built together?
That poem about the two roads in a yellow wood and the one not taken came into her head, and she heard herself say, “Do you ever wonder what might have happened with us?”
“All the time,” he said hoarsely.
And that was that. Like someone had shot a starting gun, they lunged for each other and kissed. Dylan’s lips tasted smoky from the chicken, sweet from the drink, and like Dylan, the way he used to taste. He rose and so did she. Their chairs hit the tile with twin bangs and they slammed their bodies together, arms wrapped tight.
