Fifteen minutes later, I turned off the lights and got in bed, curling up on one side. As soon as I shut my eyes, Jack Valentini popped into my head and stubbornly refused to leave. How predictable of him.
I flopped onto my back. He was so aggravating. Was he going to shoot down every idea I had? I wondered if he’d always been so crotchety. Did he ever laugh? Had he been different before his wife’s death? Before the Army? Was it any one thing that made him so different than his brothers, or was it everything?
On a whim, I turned the lamp on again and got up to grab my laptop. I brought it back to the bed and sat cross-legged in front of it, trying not to feel creepy as I Googled Stephanie Valentini.
The first search didn’t turn up anything enlightening, so I added Michigan and drunk driving death to the search words, feeling even worse about what I was doing. But it worked. Eventually I found a local news article about the accident, and I clicked on the link.
Two photos appeared at the top of the page, and I covered my mouth with one hand. On the left was a close-up of a pretty, dark-haired woman with huge brown eyes and dimples. On the right was a wedding picture of Jack and Steph, and it stunned me to see him smiling and happy, breathtakingly handsome.
The headline was chilling: Man with 2 previous drunk driving convictions kills local woman in hit and run. The details were sickening. She’d worked a shift waitressing at a bar just up the highway, and her car had conked out on the ride home. Her cell phone was dead, so she’d been walking the half-mile toward the farm when a drunk driver with previous convictions and an open container of alcohol in the car struck her. He drove away but drove into a ditch not two miles down the road. Another driver saw the accident, and called 911. Steph had been airlifted to the hospital but died several hours later of her injuries. The driver had been taken to jail and held on a $1 million bond.
I read the article once more and stared at the wedding photo for a long time. Finally, I closed the computer, plugged it back in to the charger, and slipped beneath the covers again.
No wonder, I thought. No wonder he was the way he was. That kind of loss, plus the loss of his father and whatever he’d experienced in the Army, could harden anybody.
I felt bad that my being here was causing him more distress. I pushed too hard tonight. That was my fault. I needed to convince him that I honestly cared about what he was doing and really did want to help, but I needed a less direct approach. What would it take to make him look at me differently? See me as a friend?
Or something more…
No. Just stop that train right there and get off, Margot. For God’s sake, he’s a client! And he’s still wearing a wedding band! You’re a little attracted to him, yes. You feel sorry for him, fine. You want to help his farm, sure. But leave it at that.
Sighing, I rolled onto my stomach and tried to stop thinking about him.
But I tossed and turned all night.
At five thirty, I gave up on sleep and tugged on running shorts, a tank top, and running shoes. If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well try to get a little exercise. I figured I’d make my way up to the highway, then head across and up the dirt road next to the Valentini farm. Scout it out a bit.
I put my hair up, locked the door, and tucked the cottage key into the little hidden pocket on my shorts before setting off at a light jog. Behind me, the sun was just peeking up over the lake, turning the sky a gorgeous orange-pink. The punishing heat of the day was hours away, and the air felt cool and refreshing against my arms and legs. I smiled at an early dog walker and an old couple out for a hand-in-hand sunrise stroll, but my spirits flagged when I reached the highway and realized I should have gone to the bathroom before I left.
Oh, well. I’d be OK for a quick jog, wouldn’t I? I’d just loop around their property and head back. How big could a “small farm” be?
As it turns out, pretty fucking big.
I headed west on the dirt road—past the orchard, big plots planted with vegetables, a pasture, and finally thick woods. By the time I turned left at the far edge of their property, I had to go, and the pressure in my bladder quickly escalated from bad to worse.
Biting my lip, I eyed the woods behind the Valentini fence on my left and the open pasture of someone else’s farm on the right before glancing back the way I’d come. I hadn’t seen a single soul back here. But…but I was outside. Could I really?
I don’t think I need to tell you I’m not a terribly outdoorsy type of girl. My idea of “roughing it” is a three-star hotel, I certainly don’t camp, and the one time I had to use a port-o-potty at a concert Jaime dragged me to I thought I was going to die of disgust. Or a bacterial infection.
Would peeing outside like an animal be worse than the port-o-potty? What would I use to wipe myself? I’d heard stories about girls having to do this before, but clearly I’d never paid close enough attention! Did you drip dry like a boy? Use a leaf? But I had sensitive skin! And what if I used poison ivy by mistake? Or some other harmful plant? Wasn’t there something called poison oak? I didn’t know what those things looked like! Why hadn’t I brought my phone? Throwing scones was one thing, but this was something I still found dreadfully unpalatable.
I hopped from foot to foot, desperately wishing for another solution to magically present itself so I would not have to relinquish my dignity or give my vagina a poisonous rash. But none appeared, so I climbed over the Valentinis’ fence and ducked into the trees, cursing myself for being so out of it before I left the cottage.
Hurrying across the forest floor of dirt and pine needles and dry leaves, I moved away from the road until I couldn’t see it anymore. I was about to squat (good grief, what an inelegant word) when I heard a splash nearby. Gasping, I straightened up and looked around, frantically yanking my shorts back into place. When I heard another splash, I cautiously made my way in that direction.
Oh my God!
Not far from where I’d been about to relieve myself was a clearing in the trees, and beyond it was a small lake. Jutting into the lake was a short wooden dock, on which stood Jack Valentini, dripping wet and buck fucking naked.
It was as if an electrical switch had been flipped inside me. Suddenly I was driven by one gut instinct: I need a better view. There was a weeping willow about twenty feet closer to the lake, and without giving it a second thought, I darted toward it and then scrambled up onto a low branch.
Yes, I actually climbed a tree.
Hanging onto a branch above my head, I carefully side-stepped out a little bit and peered through the leaves. Tongue caught between my teeth, I watched him push his wet hair back from his face and stretch a little, arms over his head. Hmm, a farmer’s tan is actually a thing.
My eyes automatically went low, and my jaw dropped when I saw the size of his dick. If it was that big when it wasn’t even hard, how big would it get when it was? Suddenly I felt like a kid who’d been told she could look at her birthday cake but not taste it. A hundred irrational—and frankly perverted—thoughts assaulted my brain.
I want to see him get hard. I want to touch him. I want my mouth on him. I want to watch him touch himself. Damn, he’s huge. I want to be fucked with a cock like that. I bet it could tear me apart. Christ, he could probably fuck me from clear over there.
No! No, he should find me here. He should discover me in the woods and get angry. Then he’d have to punish me for spying on him. He’d be ruthless.
I realized I was panting.
What the hell was the matter with me? I’d never had these kinds of thoughts about anyone, let alone a veritable stranger. Was I having a midlife crisis at age twenty-nine?
He turned away from me, giving me a chance to appreciate the nice round butt I’d noticed in the photo, but also the muscular back and shoulders, the tattoos that snaked around to his ribs on his right side. What were they? I’d never known a man with tattoos before, not personally. And I’d definitely never seen one naked.
I hadn’t seen that many men naked at all, really.
Maybe that was my problem—fascination, sort of like he was a museum exhibit or exotic animal or circus sideshow. The male bodies I’d seen in the flesh were pale and thin—nothing like the beautiful work of art in front of me now, which had bulges and ridges and lines, the morning sun burnishing his skin to bronze. I wanted to—
CRACK!
The branch I was standing on snapped, and I hit the ground in an ungraceful belly flop.
(Also, I may have peed myself. Just slightly.)
I picked up my head and looked at Jack, shocked to see he’d quite literally hit the deck, his body flattened against the wood. A second later he looked up and saw me. Not the discovery fantasy I’d concocted by a long shot.
Oh, Jesus. This is worse than Sconehenge.
How the hell was I going to explain myself?
Nine
Jack
First, terror. Adrenaline-fueled, heart-pounding, blood-pumping, gut-wrenching terror.
Then, anger. That I hadn’t been vigilant enough. That I’d missed some sign of danger. That I’d failed.
Finally, awareness. That I was OK. That everyone was safe. That nothing had happened.
Well, nothing dangerous.
My heart rate and breathing slowed as I took in the scene—Margot Lewiston, flat on her belly—and realized the noise that had startled me had been the snapping of a tree branch, which had apparently given out under her weight. “Fuck,” I muttered, feeling foolish, like I always did when this happened.
And that’s when I wasn’t naked.
I jumped up and yanked on my sweaty running shorts, which were lying on the dock next to my socks and shoes. Since Pete was checking on the animals this morning, I’d decided to take a quick swim after my run. I hadn’t counted on an audience.
Once I had the shorts on, I stood up straight, fists clenched, ready to rip into her for trespassing, for spying, for scaring me. For refusing to get out of my head. But one look at the way she hopped to her feet and started running toward me—on her toes, knees pressed together, hands over her crotch—and I was momentarily stunned.
“Oh hey, Jack,” she said casually, like she just happened to be in the neighborhood, “I know you’re probably wondering what I’m doing here. And I’m sure I can explain. But first, can I please, please use your bathroom?”
“Uh, OK.” Annoyed as I was at the invasion of privacy, I nearly laughed out loud at her awkward rush for the cabin’s back door. I jogged ahead of her and let her in, gesturing toward the bathroom.
“Thank you,” she mouthed as she raced by me.
While she was in the bathroom, I stayed out on the back porch, uncomfortable with the thought of being in the cabin alone with her. What the hell was she doing here? Bad enough I’d spent an entire sleepless night trying not to think about her legs and her eyes and that fucking pearl necklace. She had to show up first thing this morning in those tiny shorts and a tight shirt? My dick started perking up, and I did my best to crush its hopes, thinking about crop rotations and drip irrigation systems and long range weather forecasts.
Thankfully, I had myself under control by the time she came out, a relieved smile on her face.
“Wow,” she said, shutting the screen door behind her. “That was close. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.” I crossed my arms, wishing I’d thought to grab a shirt. “Want to tell me what you were doing out there?”
Her cheeks colored. “Um, I was taking a run.”
“Up a tree?”
She laughed nervously. “No. Well, I didn’t start out in a tree. That happened later.”
I cocked my head, unable to resist giving her a hard time. Not so sure of yourself now, are you, Barbie? “Oh yeah?”
“Yes. See, I left the cottage I’m renting without using the bathroom by mistake,” she began, twisting her fingers together, “and I was planning on running a loop around the farm, but it’s bigger than I thought.”
“Ah. So you were looking for a bathroom in the woods?”
“Well, yes.” She swallowed. “Sort of. But then I heard a splash and saw you…” Her cheeks were practically purple now.
I played dumb. “Saw me what?”
“Saw you naked, OK?” she blurted, throwing her hands up. “I admit it—I saw you naked.”
I had no hang-ups about nudity, but I was damn serious about my privacy, and about people sneaking up on me.
But her embarrassment was funny. The two times I’d seen her before, she’d been so polished and poised. It felt good to put her in her place a little. “So you climbed a tree for a better view, is that it?”
Bowing her head, she dragged the toe of one shoe across the wood planks of the porch floor. “Something like that.” Then she looked up at me. Took a breath. “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I was—I mean, I got—I couldn’t—” She sighed, briefly closing her eyes. “I have no excuse. Will you accept my apology?”
She was prettier without makeup, I decided. And the way she wore her hair off her face emphasized the wideness of her eyes, the angle of her cheekbones, the arch of her brows. Her lips didn’t need all that glossy crap, either. They were a perfect rosy pink, and I wondered if they’d feel as soft as they looked.
Fuck. I hadn’t kissed anyone in three years.
Clearing my throat, I took a step back. “Yeah. It’s fine.” Now get out of here.
She didn’t move. “So you’re not going to fire me?”
“I never hired you.”
“I know. But I really want this job. I think I can help, Jack. I know I can.”
“Suit yourself.” My name on her lips was trouble. Needing some distance from her, I started walking toward the dock to get my shoes and socks, but she followed me. God, she was a pest. It reminded me of the way Steph used to tag along after the boys when we were kids, wanting to get in our games.
“Are you going to be like this the entire time I’m here?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Moody and uncooperative?”
“Probably.”
“Why? Do you hate me that much?”
“I don’t hate anybody. I just don’t see why we should pay some city girl who’s never set foot on a farm to advise us.” We reached the dock, and I leaned down to get my stuff.
“I’m not even asking to be paid, so piss off!” she shouted, her voice carrying on the water.
I straightened. “Oh, you’re working for free?”
“Yes!”
“Then you’re an idiot. Or so rich you don’t need the money.”
“I’m not an idiot,” she said through clenched teeth.
“So you’re rich, then.” I don’t know why I was being such an asshole. But for some reason, I did not want to let her see another side of me, or see another side to her. “I should have guessed.”
She crossed her arms. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you look like you’ve led a charmed life. Like you’ve had everything you’ve ever wanted handed to you. Like you’ve never gotten your hands dirty.”
“So get them dirty.”
I almost fell off the dock. “What?”
“Get them dirty. Teach me about working this farm. I want to learn.”
Was she serious? The last thing I needed was to drag her ass around all day, explaining things. Or stare at her ass all day, imagining things. But one glance at her defiant face and I shook my head. “Why do I feel like if I say no, you’ll just keep bothering me?”
She smiled and clasped her hands behind her back, rocking forward on her toes. “Because I will. I don’t like being told no.”
“Of course you don’t.” Jesus, she was trouble. A bad apple—smooth and shiny on the outside, spoiled rotten on the inside. But for no good reason, I found myself giving in. “Fine. Go change your clothes.”
She grinned. “Where should I meet you? It will take me about a half hour to run home, change, and get back here.”
“No idea where I’ll be
then. You’ll have to find me.”
“Fair enough.” She glanced over her shoulder at the trees. “What’s the quickest route back? Through there?”
“No. Take the path toward the house to get back to the highway.”
She turned in a circle. “Which way is the house? I’m not very good with directions.”
“Jesus. It’s that way.” Jabbing a thumb into the air over one shoulder, I decided I’d better get her going the right way or I’d be waiting around for her forever. “You can cut through the cabin. Come on.”
We walked back to the cabin and she followed me from the kitchen into the front room. “Hey, I like your place. It’s cozy. And so clean.”
“Thanks.”
The cat jumped down from the front windowsill and crossed in front of us, checking out the situation.
Margot knelt down to pet her. “How sweet. What’s her name?”
I grimaced. “Bridget Jones.”
She burst out laughing. “You have a cat named Bridget Jones?”
“Yeah. What’s so funny about it?” I snapped.
“I don’t know. Take it easy. You just seem more like a dog person, I guess.”
“I am,” I admitted, some of the tension leaving my voice. “The cat was my wife’s.” I opened the front door, hoping Margot would take the hint, but not surprised when she didn’t.
“Have you always lived here?”
“Since I got out of the Army.”
“When was that?”
“Six years ago.”
She nodded, rose to her feet, and glanced around the room. Her eyes lingered on the framed wedding photos hanging on the wall. “Oh, how beautiful. Can I look at them?”
“I guess.” I let the screen door swing shut as she went over to examine them. God, how long had it been since someone other than me had looked at those pictures? I felt nervous about it, but also pleased she’d noticed them.
There were three—one family photo; one of us during the ceremony, holding hands beneath a floral arch; and one taken in the barn where Steph stood on a bale of hay so her head would be level with mine when I kissed her. When Margot got to that one, she laughed. “That’s adorable! Look how tiny she is—and she’s wearing cowboy boots with her big wedding dress, I love it!” She pointed at the way Steph was holding up the bottom of her dress to show off her feet.
After We Fall Page 6
