"I'll drink to that," I said, lifting my beer.
"To Midge's good heart," Jasper replied, leaning in to clink her glass against the can.
That was what should've happened. A light tap, wineglass to beer can, a toast sealed.
That wasn't what happened.
I angled my beer the wrong way. She came in too hard. Beer, wine, and shattered glass went everywhere.
She shrieked. "Oh my god."
"Okay, it's fine, don't move until I clear the glass."
"What did you do?"
"What did I do? You smashed your glass—"
"You were too close!"
"I was exactly as close as I was when I raised my beer."
"Okay so I'll address that later but now I'm bleeding. Ohhhh, wow. Oh, that's some blood."
"Oh fuck, you're bleeding." I glanced up at Jasper's face and found her pale, her eyes glazed. I pushed off the porch and reached for her, one hand on her elbow, one on the small of her back. "We're going to my place and taking care of this. Come on, this way. Don't look at it. I mean it, looking at it won't help."
"You're asking me to ignore the blood gushing out of my hand. That seems like a poorly formed choice."
"I saw the way your eyes crossed back there. Maybe you can hang with bats but something tells me blood is off-limits."
"I'm not comfortable with you being right," she replied. "It's like writing with the wrong hand."
"Sure it is, sweetheart." I led her into my house through the deck, not stopping to switch on the living room lights as we made our way into the kitchen. "Here we are."
Holding her by the waist, I lifted her to sit on the countertop. I held her injured hand over the sink and flipped on the tap, passing my fingers under the stream to test the temperature.
"What gives you the impression I want to be manhandled?"
I couldn't stop the laugh rumbling up from my chest. "Oh, there's a few things." I brought her hand to the water. "Hold still. Let me wash this out."
She obeyed this request but couldn't find it in her to stop arguing while I used both of my hands to gently lather the soap. "We've had a number of conversations where I've made it clear I am not a fan of your hard-headed"—I laughed again because fuck, she did not know the hard half of it—"meddlesome, antiquated attitude."
"I'm gonna stop you right there. Not because I see it differently, not because I've had legitimate reasons for everything I've done, and not because it's possible you're wrong about me."
She peered at me, a cute little crease forming between her brows. "Then why?"
"Because I've cleaned your cuts and they're mostly minor but the first aid kit is in my bathroom. I need you to tell me whether I can leave you here for a minute. I don't want you passing out in my kitchen. That would be worse than another one of your banana breads, and for both of us. The floor is hard. It will hurt. I'll have to pick you up and I'll probably have to drag your ass to a clinic."
"Is being an asshole part of the treatment?"
"Nah, that comes free for you." I wrapped a paper towel around her hand and elevated her forearm above her head. It was more about keeping the blood out of sight than any crazy amount of bleeding. "Stay just like that. Don't move. Not even to yell at me."
The bathroom was only a few steps away and it didn't take more than a minute for me to grab the kit and return to Jasper but it was long enough for me to remember how all this started. I went to her because I'd been out of line earlier. Even if it bothered the hell out of me that she had to do all this work alone. Even if there was clearly much more to her situation than she was sharing. Even if sparring with her filled me with perverted joy.
Fuck. Especially then.
It wasn't my business to call her out. I didn't have the right to criticize her as I had.
This, plus the fact nothing good would come from pursuing my neighbor, shifted my thinking enough to stuff away any notions of keeping our flirty, fiery banter going tonight.
Until I caught sight of Jasper bathed in the warm glow of the kitchen light, her hair tucked back behind her ears, and the skirt of her dress hiked barely above her slightly spread knees.
There was nothing specifically amazing about it but maybe that was what made it amazing. She was gorgeous and freaked out by blood and maybe a little drunk too. And she was in my kitchen, waiting for me to help her.
There was nothing else in the universe I wanted right now. Not a single thing.
"I'm impressed," I said, stalking toward her while a hot tingle spiraled through my muscles. "You followed directions. Is that a first?"
Her face brightened in a rueful smile. "It might very well be. I'm not one for coloring inside the lines."
I wrapped my fingers around her elbow and took my time skimming them up to her wrist. Her skin was unreal. So soft, so smooth. I could lose a day to the creamy expanse of her forearm.
"Stopped bleeding," I said as I peeled back the paper towel. "Some antiseptic, a couple of Band-Aids, and you'll be hammering away in no time." I blotted the cuts on her palm once more. "Maybe not first thing tomorrow morning though."
She shook her head, her gaze fixed on mine. "Not tomorrow morning."
I couldn't look away. Couldn't even breathe.
"Do you want me to do it?" Her eyes widened at my question. "The antiseptic. And the bandages. Do you want me to do this for you? So you don't have to look?"
Her lips parted on a fast breath. She nodded but then stopped herself, saying, "It's okay. I can do it."
"I know you can." I gave her wrist a squeeze that fell somewhere between comfort and restraint. I didn't know what I wanted to give her more. "There's nothing you can't do, Jas, but there's nothing wrong with letting someone else deal with the problems for a minute. Especially the gory ones."
"That sounds all well and good but it's never that easy. Never."
She ducked her head down, out of the overhead light's glow, as her eyes grew shiny. Whether it was alcohol or emotion, she didn't want me to see.
I thumbed open the antiseptic cream. "I'm not gonna prove you wrong."
"Because it's the truth," she muttered, her gaze still averted as I dabbed the cream on her palm. "People don't usually do it right. When they deal with the problems, I mean."
"I'm actually going to agree with you on this one."
She jerked her head up. "I'm not sure how to respond to that. What do we do now? We can't just…agree."
I swept a bit of extra cream off her palm and wiped my hands on the paper towel. "You know the saying. 'If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.' You probably have it inked somewhere." I lifted her wrist, gently twisted her arm to inspect the underside. "Not here. Maybe the other one." I ran my hand down the opposite arm. "Nope. Not there either." I dropped my hand to her knee, stroked my thumb in the tender hollow there. "Come on. Where is it?"
"No tattoos. Hate to disappoint." A lazy smile stretched across her lips.
I eyed her up and down. "You're sure about that? I could check for you."
Her cheeks heated and she giggled, a sound so strange and novel that I found myself laughing too. "You could look but you won't find anything."
"And now I'm back to disagreeing with you because I would find plenty, Jasper." I tickled the back of her knee. "Plenty."
I held her gaze for a heavy moment before turning my attention to the first aid kit. I had to find a bandage to protect the span of her palm while these cuts healed.
"Out of curiosity, did you find anything when you grabbed my breast? You know, last week at the front door?"
"Shit. I am sorry about that."
"Don't be. My elbow was…"
"Oh, I know where your elbow was that day. I know all about that elbow."
She rubbed her temple, saying, "Glad I made a good impression."
"Are you holding up all right?" I ripped open the bandage's wax paper packaging. "Not too woozy? Not going to pass out on me?"
"I was never going to pass out on
you," she replied, tart as ever.
"Course not."
"I just get a little lightheaded when there's a lot of blood. I don't see much of it," she mused. "It's funny since my work tends to be something of a blood sport. Metaphorically speaking."
I smoothed the bandage into place, my thumb passing over the adhesive several times. "What is it you do when you're not replacing rotted staircases?"
"It's not interesting."
My thumb still stroking her hand, I glanced at her, my brows arched. "Who said it has to be?"
She looked down at the bandage and pushed her lips out in a pout. I wanted to bite that pout right off her.
"I'm going to have to bake you something new," she said.
Oh, fuck, no. Please no. "Why?"
She jerked her chin up, in the direction of her injured hand. "For that. For helping me. Again."
Now that her hand was treated, I stepped between her legs. "Just being neighborly."
She brought her hand to my chest, pressed it to the center of my breastbone. Tilting her head back, she gazed up at me, her lips barely parted. With the light bouncing off her honey hair, she looked like magic. Like the magic that existed in certain golden-limned corners of the forest, warm and electric and infinite. Like the vulnerability and defiance of pure, unburdened nature.
And I still wanted to bite that pout.
I pushed my fingers through her hair and sealed my mouth to hers. A squeak sounded in her throat but she twisted my t-shirt around her fingers and kissed me back with the same zeal she brought to arguing about anything. I leaned in, pressing hard against the cradle of her thighs, and drew my hands down her torso. She was a dream of ripe, rich curves and the sort of softness that didn't seem possible when considered alongside the hard edges she'd sharpened to a point. I shoved both hands under her backside, boosting her up and holding her tight against me. She responded by yanking my shirt up and baring my belly, and squeezing her knees to my hips like she planned on riding me right here.
Yeah, she could crack the earth open. She could snap me in half. She could do anything she wanted and I'd let her. I'd fucking let her.
And right now, she wanted this.
"Jasper," I breathed, edging back just enough to meet her dreamy gaze.
Her hands still in my shirt, her knees still trapping me inside her thighs, she lifted her gaze to me and said, "Linden, I-I'm married."
8
Jasper
Linden backed away from me, his hands raised and his eyes wide.
Every inch of my body screamed for his heat and closeness now that it was gone but I had to say it. His hands in my hair and the hard ridge of him against my belly turned my thoughts to applesauce—which never happened, not even the time I was loaded up on sedatives for a root canal and I'd given the oral surgeon a thorough explanation as to why he was supporting the wrong candidate in the D.C. mayoral race. I stopped going for spa days and getting massages because the technicians always commented on my steel-tight shoulders as if it was my fault I carried a lot of stress in my body.
There was never a time when I wasn't on. Even in my dreams, I had poised, on-message conversations. It was as ridiculous as it sounded but it was my reality. I never forgot myself, never blurted things out.
And yet… "You're married?"
There were several ways to spin this because not all marriages were formed alike, and mine—what remained of it—met only the barest definition. But my mind had stopped working the way it always did around the time Linden plopped me on the countertop and it went fully offline when he secured that Band-Aid in place. I didn't understand how someone running water over my hand could make me feel like I was floating. And also melting. And maybe conducting electricity through my skin.
It wasn't sexual. Even when Linden's touch lingered longer than necessary, that didn't hit me as hard as the attention he put into that touch. Into me. I couldn't remember a time I'd felt this way. I would've known if I'd experienced this before. Would've remembered it.
And that was how I ruined a perfectly scalding kiss with a poorly timed announcement of my current marital status.
"Yes. I am."
Linden shoved his hands in his pockets, the front of his jeans still bulging with the thickness I'd savored moments ago. He gave a quick shake of his head, saying, "That's—that's not what I expected." Before I could explain or qualify the matter, he continued. "I'll walk you home."
"You don't have to do that."
"I don't," he said, shifting to pack away the first aid supplies. "But I'm going to."
Instinct told me to fight this point but I couldn't put any words together. I pushed off the counter and stepped toward the door leading to the deck.
Linden led the way out of his house, the night darkness now heavy and cool. He maintained a measured distance between us, his hands stowed in his pockets once again. We were a few steps away from my porch, the rusty old overhead lamp still giving off a faint light and our drinks still abandoned on the floor, when I said, "It's over. My marriage, I mean. He's not part of my life…anymore."
Somehow, this had no impact on Linden. He grunted out a disinterested "Uh-huh" and skirted the perimeter of the porch. "I'll deal with the broken glass."
"You've done enough. I can clean up the glass. It's my glass."
"Not with one hand, you won't. Take the night off, would you?"
I recoiled at the idea of anyone cleaning up after me but a sudden wave of drowsiness washed over me and I couldn't assemble a decent fight. Or the energy to figure out where I'd left the dustpan.
When we reached the short set of steps at the side of the porch, the ones I'd replaced three times more than necessary, Linden turned to face me. "All right, Jasper. Listen. I'm due down in Marion tomorrow morning and I'll be on the Cape most of the day. Earliest I'll be back is five, maybe six o'clock. I'll leave the back door open. Come over and use the shower, washer and dryer, whatever you need. The Wi-Fi password is on the refrigerator. Just do me a favor and come over. No banana bread necessary."
I nearly laughed at the implication of Linden inviting me into his house only when he wouldn't be there. No awkward bathrobe moments for anyone! "You don't have to—"
"Could we press pause on your survival mode for one minute? Believe me, I know you can do everything and you don't need anyone and help is unwelcome. I get that, Peach. Loud and fucking clear."
I fiddled with the belt at my waist. "Okay." Since I could not leave it at that, I added, "There's nothing wrong with relying on myself. Men do it all the time without anyone making an issue of it. When women do it, they need someone to ride to their rescue."
He stepped back, shaking his head as he stared into the forest. "There's a difference between relying on yourself and insisting you don't need anyone under any circumstance." He waved an irritable hand at the house. "It just means you went through a fuckton of shit alone and haven't realized it's not supposed to be that way." He shot a brief glance at me. "Lock up, okay? I'll handle the glass."
For the second time today, Linden Santillian walked away from me after bullet-pointing my problems.
It was funny, really. That used to be my job.
As I watched him dissolving into the darkness, I considered chasing after him, telling him all the ways in which he was wrong and drawing a few lines in the sand. Sharing one kiss was not an invitation to pick apart my life. He didn't know me. He didn't know anything. He saw what he wanted to see, and made his faulty interpretations based on that. He didn't know the first thing about me.
But I didn't chase after him. Didn't call out with my objections. I folded my arms over my torso and went inside. A significant part of me was still floating, melting, conducting electricity, but another part of me needed to curl up into a ball and block it all out.
Still wearing today's dress, I dropped onto my bed and pulled a quilt over me. I needed a minute before washing my face and changing into pajamas. Just a minute to settle down. A minute to stop that shaky, shiv
ery feeling from words that had sliced down to the bone.
The next morning, I watched as Linden lumbered out his front door, oversized travel mug grasped in his oversized hand. I ran my thumb over the bandage on my palm, remembering the feel of those fingers on my skin.
He climbed into his truck without so much as a glance in my direction. Not that he would've seen me anyway. The folding television table and kitchen chair I'd positioned perpendicular to the front window gave me a perfect blend of sunlight and invisibility.
I paused, my pen frozen over the notebook dedicated to lists, staring as he backed out of the driveway and drove up the street. When the truck's taillights disappeared, I set the pen down and picked up my phone from the makeshift desk.
I avoided calling my mother even when my life wasn't in disarray. I had my reasons just as she had her reasons for allowing that avoidance to grow into distance.
She lived outside Seattle with a man named Martin Mayo. He was a commercial airline pilot with thirteen years on her, she was a first-class flight attendant, and they vacationed in places like Singapore and Seoul and drove matching seven-series BMWs. That was how it was with them. High cotton.
All of which was a long way of saying my mother could help me out with money if I ever asked but I wouldn't ask. Not while I could manage to sublet my Georgetown apartment and I was able to leave my retirement account untouched. I'd raid that fund before I made a request of my mother. Hell, I'd probably sell my plasma and harvest my eggs before I asked my mother for anything.
She'd spent enough time worrying over me and money. I didn't want her worrying now, not when she had a new car every three years and a month-long vacation on the Java coast. Not when things were finally good for her.
And that was one of the reasons I'd ignored her calls over the past few weeks and replied to her text messages with quick, vague nonsense like I have a lot of plates spinning right now. Talk soon! and Service is super spotty here! I'll check back in when I know I won't immediately drop your call, okay? and It's all good, just making some moves.
The Belle and the Beard Page 7
