by Liora Blake
With that idea in mind, I straighten my spine, pull my shoulders back, and grab the drinks to make my way back to the booth.
Once I’ve taken my seat and managed a few gulps of my drink, I scan the room, trying for as much nonchalance as possible. Jake’s across the way, sitting in a booth where he can see me clearly, paying only cursory attention to the slightly familiar man he’s met up with because every few seconds Jake’s eyes flicker to mine. And as much as I want to stifle the excited flutter that comes with the fact he is quite obviously watching me, it happens each time our gazes cross.
I remind myself that the goal is for Jake to feel the fluttering. All while I remain cool and composed, making it obvious that I’m not looking for anything or anyone. Which is true. I stopped trying so hard to find a man years ago, convinced that when it was right, the perfect man would come knocking on my door. And zooming into town on a private jet because my brother-in-law needed a ride probably doesn’t count as opportunity knocking. Even if opening my door to find a man like Jake standing there—all ruggedly enticing—seems like the kind of opportunity I’d like to investigate. Thoroughly. For as long as it takes to traverse all the proportions of his new not-gangly body. Who knows how long that might take? Days, I’m sure.
No. Retreat, Lacey. You are an independent, kick-ass, take-care-of-yourself kind of gal now. Do not play this game with that man. Just consider him some sort of optical illusion, the ghost of boyfriends past or something.
Sandi’s talking. I can hear her voice, but the words are running together. Only the fact I know her so well means I’m able to offer the appropriate verbal mumblings to make it seem as if I’m really listening. But because I’m evidently weak, and despite all of my internal ramblings, when Jake looks my way again, it’s on. I give in, and a gripping match of eye-flirtery and temptation between two worthy opponents ensues.
He looks, I look away. I look, he sees, and the side of his mouth hitches up in faint acknowledgment. We both look, locking gazes until someone gives. It’s maddening.
And fabulous.
Finally, Sandi’s phone rings and the sound of her Brantley Gilbert ringtone—the absurdly apropos “17 Again”—blaring forces me to focus on her for real. Then she’s looking at me and pointing to the phone, mouthing her husband’s name with a lighthearted eye roll before shimmying out of the booth to finish her call outside, where she’ll be able to hear better. The moment she’s gone, I know exactly what’s going to happen in the next sixty seconds. I actually smooth my skirt down and fluff my hair as slyly as possible.
“Christ, I thought she’d never leave.” Jake doesn’t ask permission to sit down, simply takes Sandi’s spot and slides his hands onto the tabletop, thrumming his fingers softly.
No use fighting my smile in response to reeling him in, so I let a slow grin take over. I’m sure he tried to come out on top in our little game, but he’s a man. They’re easily persuaded by feminine wiles. Just ask poor young Cole.
All that matters is this: I. Win.
“You could have come over here at any time. She doesn’t bite.”
Jake raises one brow. “You sure about that?”
“Not entirely.” Silence settles, only for a moment, but long enough for us to look at each other squarely and size up whatever is happening right now. “Is that who I think it is?” I tip my head in reference to his booth mate.
“Uncle Rick. Figured I should do the family catch-up thing, if I’m here. He hasn’t called me Shirley or thumped me in the back of the neck with a ratchet, which feels like a minor victory over my adolescence. So, you know, there’s that.”
Jake’s uncle Rick owned a ramshackle two-stall mechanic’s shop just outside of town, and Jake used to pick up a few bucks working there when we were kids. The job provided him the opportunity to discern a proclivity for fixing things, discovered while he shimmied under a farm truck to do a brake job or swap a leaf spring. Only when he managed to hone his skill set enough to do an oil change in record time did Rick even utter a slight word of encouragement. Mostly, he complained and griped until Jake learned how to tune him out and still look like he was listening.
“He sold my grandma’s farm after she died, closed up his shop, got a job with a liquor distributor, and it seems he met the love of his life on one of his deliveries. At a strip club. Where I’m sure she’s working because law school is so expensive, right? Because that relationship’s obviously gonna work out.” Jake rolls his eyes and then stretches his hands flat against the table.
My eyes drop to take in the small tattoos on his fingers. A heart, a spade, a club, and a diamond across the knuckles of each hand. He didn’t have those before. When he notes my interest, his hands come together, fingers clasping loosely until the ink is mostly obscured. I lift my gaze up again.
“Why are you still here, Jake?”
I allow myself a good long look while waiting for him to answer, letting my eyes run over his face, across the red flannel shirt he has on over the ragg wool sweater, over the slight scruff of a beard coming in. He looks so much more like the old Jake now; instead of that trim-cut uniform from yesterday, he’s all relaxed appeal. Which is problematic. Because even more so than yesterday, he’s my Jake right now. Or, who used to be my Jake.
“This storm’s got me grounded. I can’t take off until this cloud deck lifts. Trevor’s letting me crash in the mansion they refer to as a guesthouse, and he said I could borrow Kate’s truck if I needed to.” His eyes drop a bit. “Probably should have dropped Trevor off yesterday and bailed to beat the snow, but curiosity got the best of me. Figured I might see you at the hospital. I made up a bullshit excuse to tag along.”
The most absurd kind of satisfaction rises up inside me when I register what he’s owned up to. Wanting to see me. Going out of his way to do so. I take a sip of my drink and say nothing. Although I’m sure the smile teasing across my mouth says everything. Another win for Lacey, thank you.
“Totally worth it, though. You look . . .”
Jake pauses. I hold my breath.
“. . . amazing. I swear, fucking felt like I was in some flashback. Was the hospital PA system actually playing emo love songs or was that shit just me? ’Cause I kind of wanted to just grab your hand and find a dark stockroom somewhere. Which basically describes every single day of my existence during our senior year.”
Jesus. That right there, those few sentences, might effectively sum up all that I’ve ever understood to be Jake Holt. A wild mix of bold proclamations, self-deprecation, swoony flatteries, all with a thread of eager rowdiness woven in, just to hold it all together.
My heart starts to thump enthusiastically, my body reacting to what it knows as opportunity. Jake grins, a slow-burn expression that forces me to consider a suddenly obvious question. What would sex with Jake be like now? Soft and slow? Rough and furtive?
I narrow my eyes and think on that for a moment. When Jake gives an impish little raise of his brows and lifts one hand up to tug on his bottom lip almost absentmindedly, I have a pretty good guess. Hot. Focused. Relentless. And, if I’m not mistaken, he’d manage to make it fun, too. So, to put it simply, I think sex with Jake now would be awesome.
Before I can decide what to do with that assessment, Sandi comes sweeping through the bar, phone still in her hand, and stops next to the table, car keys in her other hand.
“Mack filled his tag. So my boys are on their way back from elk camp. Gotta get those home fires a-burnin’. You ready?”
Only when she looks up for my response does she see Jake. Her brows lift, she volleys a look between us, followed by a grin. “Unless you already have a better ride arranged.”
Subtle, she isn’t. Jake looks my way, expression almost entirely blank, but his eyes lock on mine.
One deep breath and I calculate everything. The last time I indulged in the idea of “one night” with an ex, I didn’t wake up feelin
g like it was the best idea I’ve ever had. The rum in my drink slows my response time and at the hesitation, Jake’s eyes widen ever so slightly. Over his shoulder, I can see Dusty perched at the bar, and the sight reminds me of what can happen when you give in to the wrong kind of nostalgia. And I don’t want another one of those nights—or mornings. Yes, an empowered woman can do whatever the hell she wants. Yes, her life can, and probably should, include the occasional night with a man for purely decadent reasons.
Unfortunately, Jake once said every generous and gentle word I can remember that was spoken in truth, instead of strategy. He provided the backdrop to each lusty and heady moment of true wanting I’ve ever experienced. Then he left without any indication that I had anywhere near the same impact on him. Even though all of that stopped hurting years and years ago, it still happened. There’s no changing that.
“I can give you a ride, Lacey. No need to take off if you aren’t done here.”
His eyes hood a bit and glaze ever so slightly. I smile. “I’m sure you can. But . . . I’m good.”
Slipping out of the booth, I stand to pull on my coat, and Jake doesn’t bother hiding his leisurely perusal. Up and down, then back again, over the entire length of my frame. Which, if we’re keeping track—and, we are—makes three for me. Three thrilling, satisfying wins.
Sandi drops me at my car and proceeds to flip me off as she drives away, her final reaction to the fact I didn’t give her a word-for-word rundown of my conversation with Jake. She proclaimed him to be lumbersexual delicious, demanded I explain why I didn’t take the “ride” he offered, and peppered the rest of the fifteen-minute drive mumblingly trying to remember him from back in the day. No luck, it seems, because she only muttered his name and clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth in thought.
Once I wave her off and get my car door unlocked, I settle into the seat and let out a long exhale at surviving her inquisition without blathering every sordid detail about all the history between Jake and me. Turning my key in the ignition sounds nothing but a click, followed by a series of ticking noises. I immediately want to scream but stifle it into a growl. I try again. Same result, same growl. Click, tick, tick, tick.
This car, although it’s served me well through seven Montana winters, has recently decided to become about as reliable as nonwaterproof mascara at the beach. Now, on a frigid night when getting home to a warm bed is my priority, the beast decides to misbehave.
I only live seven blocks away from the store, in the same house I grew up in, but it’s miserable out. All the wet snow that slushed into piles on the sidewalks is freezing into slick traps that will inevitably land me on my ass if I end up walking home. Giving the key one more mercy prayer of a turn, I sigh when the telltale click is the only response.
I slam the car door and sling my bag over my shoulder, then heel-toe my way down the dark and icy driveway behind the store to the alleyway. The upside? I have to walk past the A&P to get home. Dusty’s mention of frosted animal crackers at the bar happened to inspire a craving for exactly that. One bag of frosted animal crackers it is. We’ll think of it as my reward for a frigid walk home.
Leaving the store, I turn down the sidewalk along Main Street where more light comes from the full moon than anything, because Crowell is not a place with many streetlamps. Our little town shutters at dark, with only a few ancient lampposts in the center of town to guide a wellie-wearing girl home, clutching an open bag of cookies in the crook of her arm. I rip the bag open the second I get outside of the store and the utterly unnatural yet delicious taste of that strange candy coating slicks across my tongue, leaving the best-worst kind of aftertaste behind. Since I was a kid, these little snack cookies have been my favorite comfort food. To most people they’re just partially hydrogenated, mediocre cookies bordering on awful-tasting junk food. I happen to think they’re frosted contentment in a bag.
Halfway home, the sound of a loud truck rumbles in the background, its dim headlights edging closer and illuminating the sidewalk as it nears. The truck slows to my pace when it coasts up just a few feet away, the engine puttering at a near idle. Please don’t let it be Dusty in his decrepit county-issued Ford Bronco. If it is, I’ll be compelled to veer my path into the worn dirt trail that runs behind the library, where I can eventually cut across the town pastor’s backyard, and shimmy between his house and mine. I’ll have to jump one fence, in a skirt, but avoiding Dusty’s inevitable commentary about the cookies will be worth it.
As I consider my escape, the sound of a window cranking down creaks into the still night air.
“Hey, pretty girl. I thought you said you didn’t need a ride.”
I’ve just slid a fresh animal cracker between my lips, teeth poised to bite off the pink head of whatever nondescript creature this one is. The truck stops so the headlights shine directly on me and I’m suddenly the living, clichéd embodiment of a deer in headlights. Jake is behind the wheel of Kate’s old farm truck, both his arms flopped on the open window frame and leaning his head forward so it’s just outside.
Grinning, he lets out a low chuckle and rubs his hands together. “Get in, Lacey.”
Just my luck, a half-eaten cookie shoved in my mouth and what feels like a few stray crumbs dangling off my chin—and Jake happens drive by. I would have preferred to have our reunion end as it did at the bar, him looking me over with evident want and me sauntering off with the final say. I try valiantly to re-create the moment when I walked out with three wins. Me, last word. Him, hopefully staring at my behind longingly.
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” I turn and start walking again, cursing the empty curbsides as Jake puts the truck in gear and proceeds to let the truck roll along beside me.
“You can’t be fine. You’re walking in the dark, in the freezing cold, and you’re wearing a short skirt. Where’s your car, anyway? I don’t recall you being a big fan of a winter’s night nature walk.”
“Car wouldn’t start.” I stick another cookie in my mouth and stare straight ahead. Only two blocks to my front door. After that, my cookies and I can burrow under the sheets and think about sex with Jake in the abstract. Anything other than that is a bad idea; I know it, the cookies know it, and once I’m lying there with cold cream on my face and frosting in my teeth, my body will get the message.
“Wouldn’t start or wouldn’t turn over?”
I keep quiet in response to his question and continue walking, because I refuse to let this conversation veer toward the diagnosis of my car’s nonstart problem. Despite knowing Jake could likely fix the dumb thing in less than five minutes, we aren’t old pals or new pals or two people who plan to spend the night together, so I don’t need him to do me any favors. We aren’t anything. When I left the bar a few minutes ago, that was the plan.
Jake starts to speed up and at the end of the street, he pulls in to block the area I would normally cross and shoves the truck into park, tosses open the door, and stands there. When I cover the final few steps to where he stands, I simply veer my path. He side-hops over to block me again. I raise my eyes to meet his and the playful goading look on his face suddenly makes me want to crawl all over him, just to see if he smells the way he used to.
“Lacey. Won’t start or won’t turn over?”
Sighing, I curl my bag of cookies closer. “I don’t freaking know. It went click, tick, tick, tick. Click, tick, tick, tick. I’m not exactly a grease monkey, you know that.”
He tips his head back and laughs. “True.” Jake tilts his head down toward mine. “I think this was meant to be. Like the universe wants us to spend some more time together. The ancient gods of unreliable engines must have divined it.”
“The only thing the universe wants is for me to get home and out of the cold.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“I don’t need you to drive me one block.”
Narrowing his eyes, Jake looks down the street tow
ard my house, turning back slowly. “Don’t tell me you live in the same house. Duke’s house? Really?”
Ideally, the darkness prevents him from seeing how the incredulousness in his voice stings and, frankly, ticks me off. “Yes. I do.”
His face goes slack for a moment and he shakes his head a little. “Sorry. That was a dick thing to say. No judgment; it’s a nice house.” Jake shoves his hand out and grabs into my bag of cookies, fishing a few out, then starts to chew on them. With a grimace, he swallows and rolls his tongue out with a gagging noise. “God, those are still shitty. Some things never change.”
“Some things do,” I say, slowly, letting my eyes find his and focus there, unwavering. Jake meets my stare and his eyes soften.
“Lace, come on. Just hang out with me a little more tonight, please. It feels like we have more catching up to do, doesn’t it? Let’s go somewhere.” Mischief twinkles in his eyes and he slips his hand to the inside of his thick flannel shirt, pulling out a bottle from a hidden inside pocket.
“Plus, look what Rick gave me. He gets this stuff dirt cheap from his job. It’s añejo, too. Not the blanco shit I used to ply you with.” Jake then dances a small bottle of tequila in front of my face.
Oh, tequila and Jake. A deadly combination. If I go with him and that bottle, only a few things can result, and all possible scenarios involve varying degrees of regret. The last time Jake cajoled me into joining him on an adventure that included a bottle of tequila, we broke into an abandoned farmhouse and spent the night having frantic, sweaty sex in a gross sleeping bag that he procured for the occasion. Unfortunately, he also gave me my first official with-another-person-during-actual-intercourse orgasm that night. I woke up with a screaming hangover and candle wax dried in my hair from the romantic scene he tried to create. Thus, tequila and Jake mean good and bad for me.
I try to focus on the candle-wax memory instead of the orgasm, but when he smirks and nudges his head toward the open truck, it’s nearly impossible.
