Back in Service

by Isabel Sharpe

  “That bad?”

  “I was too pissed to taste anything.” He stopped by a shelf of chocolate. “Are you a dark or milk woman?”

  “Dark.”

  “I like dark, too.” He added a bar, feeling as if they’d shared something significant. Oh, yeah, he had a big old crush. “Let’s go check out.”

  She hurried after him. God, it felt good to be walking at a near-normal pace again—somewhere that wasn’t a treadmill. He really had shut himself in. A mistake.

  “Hey, Jameson.”

  “Hey, what?” He picked the shortest line and turned.

  Kendra was taking her colorful purse off her shoulder. “I want to make sure you let me pay half of—”

  “Nope.” He cut her off with a raised hand. “My house. My food. My treat.”

  “Mike’s house, my treatment plan, my—”

  “Nuh-uh. You’re off the clock.”

  She blinked, holding a twenty in her hand. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Ms. Lonergan, tonight you are my dinner guest, not my therapist.”

  “Counselor, not therapist.”

  “Counselor. So put the twenty away. If it really bothers you, you can have me over some night to your place.”

  She blinked again. “But that would be like...”

  “What?” He started casually loading their purchases onto the belt. “Like we’re dating?”

  “No.” She shoved the twenty at him insistently. “No, of course not.”

  “Of course not.” He held her gaze with a half smile until she turned red and looked away. Tonight was a date, as far as he was concerned. But if she wasn’t comfortable calling it that, he wasn’t going to push it. He took the twenty. If it made her feel better about it, fine. He’d use it to buy her something. “Thanks.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “Plenty.” He nodded to the cashier, who chatted agreeably about the weather and the wave conditions. Fall was a great time for surfing in Southern California, though between the Air Force and his knee, he wouldn’t be on a board again for quite some time.

  “You surf?” He took the bags and escorted Kendra out to the rapidly darkening parking lot.

  “Not me.”

  “A non-surfing Southern California girl? What did you do as a kid?”

  “Oh, let’s see. Not much.” She started counting on her fingers. “I took flute lessons, ballet lessons until they got to toe shoes and I couldn’t stay up on the darn things. Swimming lessons, tap dance, jazz dance, voice lessons...”

  “Weren’t you ever home?”

  “At home I read everything I could get my hands on, did needlework, knitted, made my own clothes.”

  “Good God, do I need to check you for wiring?”

  She blew out a breath as if the recitation had stolen too much of hers. “In short, Jameson, I did anything that involved learning a skill and had nothing to do with socializing or school.”

  He was laughing, not because she’d said anything funny, just because he was having so much fun with her. “C’mon, you had friends.”

  “I did have friends. But many of my social interactions in grade school were less than ideal.” She sent him a pointed stare. “Though I did write for the school paper.”

  “The Pen.”

  “That’s the one.”

  They reached the car, opened the back for their haul. “Did your parents push you to do all that stuff?”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head emphatically, making that glorious mane ripple around her pretty face, its color enhanced by the evening light. “That was all stuff I wanted to do.”

  “You make me feel lazy.”

  She looked at him with scorn. “Only because you are.”

  Jameson hadn’t laughed this much in weeks. He loved the way she could tease him, totally deadpan, and know he’d get it. He had that kind of connection with Mike. His sister. Not many others. “Can I drive home?”

  “You’ve got the keys.” She swung gracefully into the passenger side.

  Jameson climbed into the driver’s seat—without any grace whatsoever—and started the engine. “Home sweet home.”

  “You looked up any old friends since you’ve been back?”

  “Nope. But I was thinking this morning of going to see my favorite math teacher ever, Mr. Vinely, at Palos Verdes High. Want to come with me?”

  Immediately she started hedging.

  He just smiled, letting her be all flustered and stutter out reasons not to spend more nonprofessional time with him, and drove straight to the condo.

  The omelet came out perfectly, light, tender, fragrant with mushrooms and a pinch of dried thyme. The bread was beautifully crusty with good flavor, the grapes sweet, the cheeses nicely ripe, complementing the deep, smooth taste of the wine.

  They were lingering over that garnacha now, their first glass from the second bottle, seated on Mike’s balcony, bundled against the chilly air—Kendra looked incredibly hot and sweet in his Air Force hoodie sweatshirt—admiring the distant view of the ocean.

  Most important part of the meal was that cooking it together had been a blast. He’d showed her how to shake the pan, stirring, so the omelet cooked quickly and evenly. She’d rolled it onto a plate herself, only slightly clumsy. They’d laughed and talked more easily, less sparring, more sharing.

  He liked being with her. A lot.

  And right now, softened with wine, she was absolutely irresistible. Her smile slowed, as did her words. Her body had turned languid and relaxed. Jameson found himself occasionally imagining that body tucked against his in sleep. And tucked against his in...not sleep.

  “I think I’ve had enough.” She put her wine down on the small glass-topped table between them. “It’s so good, but if I keep drinking I won’t be able to drive home.”

  “You know your body.” He bit his tongue to keep from saying he wanted to know it, too, and that he thought her inability to drive home would suit him fine. But maybe it was just as well. She was already making him think about sex. If she stayed longer and he had much more wine, he’d be thinking instead about seduction.

  Call him old-fashioned, but he thought it was a lot smarter to decide whether to start a sexual relationship with a woman when he was sober. He hadn’t followed that advice once, partying here in town the summer after his sophomore year with a girl he vaguely knew who’d attended a neighboring high school. It had nearly taken a restraining order to get her to stop texting, calling and coming by the house. Dad had been livid. That’s what you get for thinking with your dick.

  Kendra blinked sleepily and stifled a yawn. He wanted to gather her in his arms, put her to bed in Mike’s room—assuming he could make himself be that much of a gentleman—and cook her breakfast in the morning. Including a pot of brutally strong coffee.

  “This has been great, Jamie—Jameson.”

  Her use of his nickname startled him pleasantly. Only a few people had ever called him Jamie. His mom, his aunts and Matty. The way it had slipped comfortably out of her mouth, then been immediately corrected, intrigued him. She was feeling closer to him. Fighting it.

  “I’ve had fun, too.”

  “I should go.” She spoke regretfully, then didn’t move.

  Jameson didn’t want her to leave either. But he was more sober than she was.

  He stood in front of her chair, offered her a hand. She took it and he pulled her to her feet, deliberately not stepping back so she’d end up close to him, too close for normal social contact. Not close enough for him. “You okay driving?”

  “Sure.” She peered up at him. “Um. You’re standing in my personal space.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No.” She shook her head emphatically, then poked him gently in the chest. “I do.”


  Oh, man. He was going to get hard in another point-oh-two seconds. “Then why—”

  “That’s the problem, see. God, I sound drunk. Do I sound drunk?”

  “Only a little.”

  “I knew it.” She pulled her hair back into a ponytail in one fist, then let it fall. “I better go home before I do something stupid.”

  He wanted to ask like what? But he knew. They both knew. She was tipsy and he was not about to—

  Well, maybe.

  “Mmm, smell that?” She closed her eyes as a breeze wafted over them and inhaled rapturously, swaying closer. “Eucalyptus. I love that smell.”

  He gave in. Her lips tasted like sweet grapes, rich wine and Kendra. He could savor that flavor for hours.

  But he wouldn’t be able to because Kendra’s eyes shot wide open. She backed away, tangled with the chair legs behind her and started tipping. He grabbed her waist and hauled her upright, shocked at her pallor.

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Kissed you or saved you from falling?”

  “The first.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “I...” She frowned, holding a hand to her head. “I said you shouldn’t have.”

  “You didn’t answer.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I’ll try again.” He pulled her full against him this time, felt her mouth opening under his, her lips softening, an extremely effective aphrodisiac—except he didn’t need one.

  “Jameson.” She gasped his name. “We should not be doing this. No, I should not be doing this.”

  “Wait. You shouldn’t but it’s okay for us to?”

  “No. No.” She pushed his arms away. “None of it is okay. You don’t understand.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.” She put a hand to her throat, looking as if she was trying to calm her breathing.

  “Hey.” He gathered a handful of hair to tug gently. “You want me to drive you home, lovely and slightly drunk Kendra?”

  “No, no, no, I’m fine.” She turned and sprawled over the chair. He lunged for her too late; they fell in a tangled heap onto the deck.

  “Jameson, your knee!”

  “Not hurt. I’m okay.” He untangled himself and helped her sit up.

  “Thank goodness.” She burst into a sudden giggle that almost sounded like a sob. “I guess I’m not that fine after all.”

  “Trust me, you are quite, quite fine.” He got to his feet and pulled her up. “But because I am an officer and a gentleman, I will take you home and not lay another finger on you.”

  “No?” She sounded confused.

  “No.” He guided her through the sliding doors back into the apartment, which seemed antiseptic and stuffy after the sweet night air. “Unless you want me to?”

  “I should go home.”

  He grinned, noticing she didn’t answer him that time either. Okay. He’d drive her home tonight, let her sober up and wake alone in her bed tomorrow morning.

  But next time they got together, they were going to take the next step in exploring this powerful chemistry that had been between them since they were kids.

  Only this time their interaction would be totally adult.

  8

  KENDRA DRIED HER face at her bathroom sink and drank yet another glass of water, staring at herself in the mirror. The second he’d kissed her tonight, it had all come back. How had she forgotten? She’d dreamed about Jameson in high school. Sexually.

  It was after that awful day their freshman year at Palos Verdes High School, when he’d asked her to the spring dance. He hadn’t bothered her for a while, not at all that year, so Kendra had been surprised when he’d walked up to her. She’d immediately gone on guard, ready for whatever crap he tried to dish out.

  Except, he’d looked more nervous even than she was, nervousness they’d both tried to cover with defiance. She wondered now if his friends or brothers had forced him into the prank, because he had clearly not been enjoying himself. Not like when he’d put glue in her hair.

  He’d asked her harshly, rudely, certainly not in any way she could have taken seriously. On the last word, his voice had cracked, he’d glanced to his left, down at his feet. She’d laughed, asked why she’d want to go anywhere with him and stalked off, still laughing. Because as she’d watched his face, seeing the cracks in his bully facade, it had come to her that what her parents had been telling her all along was really true. The only power Jameson Cartwright had over her was power she gave him.

  A short-lived victory. Because that night she’d dreamed about him in a way that gave him the same power he had over half the girls in school, including her best friend, Lena.

  It was the night of the dance, but the dance was over. She was standing alone on the beach in a new dress. It had been dark, warm, the waves quiet, sand soft. Then Jameson was beside her; she’d felt no fear or surprise. It was as if she’d been expecting him. Barefoot, they’d walked to the water’s edge, where he’d turned and kissed her, tumbled her onto the wet sand. His hands had begun an exploration that brought her body alive for him with pleasure that shocked her even in fantasy.

  She’d woken in a rush of arousal and adrenaline, hand already between her legs, seeking something she didn’t yet understand. Clumsily she’d stroked herself, feeling the desire intensify, thinking of Jameson’s kisses, of how his hand had traveled briefly to where hers now lay, leaving a burning trail on her skin.

  Her body had seemed to rise up, catch fire, and she’d let out an involuntary cry. The force of that first orgasm had stunned her. For days after she hadn’t been able to look at Jameson, hadn’t been able to reconcile her dread and their enmity with this new awareness of him and of what her body could do.

  How could she have forgotten that watershed moment in her sexual development had been caused by Jameson Cartwright? And yet, if she’d had to choose one memory to bury in her subconscious, that would undoubtedly have been it. Easier than keeping it around to analyze, safer than the risk of finding out she could be on the same puppy-love train as everyone else. Not being attracted to him had been a kind of power, and she wouldn’t have wanted to give that up.

  Kendra gulped another glass of water, wiped her mouth and launched herself onto the bed that had belonged to her parents in the room it had taken her a year to move into after they died, even though it was the best room in the house, with huge windows facing the sea and the city, spreading out across the valley to the feet of the Santa Monica Mountains. She lay on her stomach, arms and legs spread wide, relieved her head wasn’t spinning, though she was still pretty tipsy.

  Jameson Cartwright.

  She moved to her side. Her hand slid slowly between her legs. She was already wet.

  Jameson.

  With a moan of surrender, she rolled to her back, stroking efficiently now—she was no longer fourteen. Her breath stuttered in. She lifted her hips as the pleasure rose, imagining Jameson lying over her, his hard body sculpted to perfection, his penis searching, finding her, pushing inside. She imagined his pleasure, his groans of ecstasy, his mouth and tongue finding hers.

  The orgasm came quickly, a fierce burst that stopped her breath, then contractions she panted through, wanting him with her there in bed with a desperation that almost frightened her.

  She came down alone, rolled again to her side, pulling up the covers, looking out toward the glittering lights of L.A. for a long, long time, until her mind calmed, her breath slowed, eye blinks becoming more leisurely, body relaxing toward sleep.

  Who knew how many hours later, Kendra lifted her head from her soft cotton pillowcase and blinked blearily toward the door of her bedroom. Had she heard the front doorbell?

  She stretched under the covers and yawned, peering at the clock
. Seven-thirty. Too early for the mailman or a delivery. She must have been dream—

  Ding-dong.

  Huh? Kendra pushed off the blankets and rolled clumsily out of bed, groaning. Who would show up at this hour without calling first? Too early for deliveries. Someone at the wrong house? There’d been workmen across the street. Maybe a new recruit had come here by mistake?

  Padding through the small hallway connecting the master bedroom to the rest of the house, she checked in with herself for hangover symptoms, happy not to feel more than a twinge at her temple. Drinking all that water had been a good idea. She crossed the foyer, opposite the sunken living room with floor-to-ceiling windows like the master bedroom.

  Ding-dong.

  “Okay, okay.” She peered through the front door’s peephole and—

  Ducked.

  Oh, my God.

  Jameson. She wasn’t dressed, she had morning-after breath and bedhead, plus she’d been masturbating over him last night. What the hell was he doing here?

  Okay. She was a professional. Her client needed her. She would simply reforget the memories of that erotic dream, and forget for the first time how he’d taken her in his arms and with the mere touch of his lips sent her spinning into a place of new and exciting feel—

  Um. This forgetting thing wasn’t working.

  She opened the door a crack. Jameson was holding a bag from Bristol Farms, the upscale grocery with a store in neighboring Rolling Hills Estates. He was showered, shaved and dressed in a light gray shirt that made his eyes even more dazzling than usual.

  “Hi, Jameson.”

  “Hungry?” He held up the bag. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I brought blueberry muffins, orange-cranberry scones, cinnamon rolls and chocolate croissants.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  Jameson frowned. “Too much?”

  “You brought me breakfast?”

  “And coffee. And orange juice. And bananas. And raspberries with a carbon footprint the size of Sasquatch’s.”