Which she wasn’t. He wasn’t obsessed.
He just wanted to take the bastard down. Hard. With bruising, and possibly the occasional whimper.
“We love you, Jake. We just think it’s time for you to grow up.”
Jake tightened his right hand into a fist. He hated this part the most.
“Look, I’m only thirty. There’s still plenty of time for me to get a real job and find a nice girl with good birthing hips.”
“That’s not what we’re talking about,” Mercy said. “We’re talking about you taking something seriously. Something besides Gordon Chase.”
“Okay,” Jake said, stretching out his fingers and forcing a smile. “It’s late. I’m tired. You’re delusional. Let’s just call it a day and we can start with fresh haranguing tomorrow, okay?”
“If you need a mystery to solve—”
“I’m not investigating your fucking radishes, okay?”
Mercy’s eyes widened and Jake knew he was real close to getting his ass good and kicked.
“I’m sorry. I’m a jerk.” He put one arm around her shoulder. “I’m the jerkiest jerk in Jerkville, okay? I just don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
She reached up and cupped her hand around his chin, squeezing his mouth into an involuntary “O.” She knew he hated this, and was doing it deliberately, but he had to put up with it because he’d been an ass.
Those were the Tucker rules.
“Look, you were stupid. You let Gordon Chase get the best of you and get into that evidence room.”
“This is you being supportive, right?” Jake said, his lips still puckered under the pressure of Mercy’s fingers as she tightened her grip.
“Gordon Chase is a big stinky turd man, but that’s his problem. Karma will take care of him.” She released his face and gave it a loving, if not particularly light, slap. “You need to drop it and move on with your life. And if that means investigating my fucking radishes, then that’s exactly what you’ll do.”
She smiled her bright, cheerful smile, and Jake smiled back.
“All right. Can I go home now?”
She got up off the bar stool. “You are dismissed.”
He motioned for her to go first, flicking off the light as he followed her out of the bar.
She was right. He knew she was right. It was time to let the Gordon Chase thing go. He also knew he had no intention of doing that, but it had to be worth some points that he at least knew she was right.
He was sure of it.
Chapter Two
Flynn checked her watch. Again. It was past two, and her driver was supposed to be there to meet her at the gate at one-thirty. The rest of the people disembarking with her at Scheintown—all three of them—had already gone on their way. Their people had been there, on time, to pick them up. Now the only people in the train station, aside from the workers, were herself and The Guy.
She stole a glance at him; he was still sitting on the bench across from her, reading a newspaper. When she’d first gotten off the train, he had smiled and said, “Excuse me . . .” but she’d been looking for a chauffeur type holding a big white card with her name printed on it, and had ignored him. The Guy was hardly a chauffeur type; he was wearing a maroon flannel shirt over a black AC/DC T-shirt and jeans, for Christ’s sake. Besides that, growing up in Boston had taught her that you never smile at strangers.
Ever.
However, after dragging her travel suitcase behind her around the entire perimeter of the train station and finding no evidence of any genuine driver types, Flynn began to suspect that maybe The Guy was her driver. So, she went back inside, but by then he was sitting down, reading a newspaper. Which made her think that maybe he wasn’t her driver, so she sat down as well, figuring that if he was her driver, he would approach her.
But he didn’t. He just sat there reading, a slightly amused expression on his face. So, she thought, maybe he wasn’t her driver after all. Maybe he was just the particular brand of homeless train station bum that sprouted up from the sidewalk cracks in places like Scheintown.
He didn’t look like a bum, though. He was unkempt, but in that deliberate way that some guys did, which in the end kinda looked . . . kempt. His hair was brown and scruffy, but clean. His face held a slight five-o’clock shadow, but nothing excessively ragged. His eyes, in the one brief moment they’d connected with hers when she’d first gotten off the train, seemed bright and sharp. And he wasn’t hustling the way bums hustled, asking for money or glancing around to see if anyone had tossed out any recyclables.
To be honest, he looked like a regular guy.
Correction: He looked like a regular guy who was waiting her out.
She checked her watch again. She’d been sitting there not fifteen feet from him for over twenty minutes. Argh. She uncrossed her legs; it was warm for October, and the pant legs of the sage silk suit Freya had loaned her were getting sticky. She tapped the pointed toes of her stiletto boots—also Freya’s—against the stone floor. The sound echoed sharply through the empty station.
The Guy flipped the page on his newspaper. Flynn could see his lips tightening against a smile.
Oh, screw it.
Flynn got up, clip-clopped over to where he was sitting, and stood before him, arms crossed over her stomach.
“All right,” she said, not bothering to mask the irritation in her voice. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. My sister set this whole thing up and she’s the type to get a limo driven by a guy in a tux.”
He raised his eyes to hers. They were brown with flecks of gold, and they looked overly amused for the circumstances, but still kind. Despite her annoyance with him, the initial impression was a good one.
“Excuse me?” he said, barely able to contain his smirk.
Flynn rolled her eyes, mostly at herself. How could this possibly be going so badly so soon? How was that fair?
“You’re here to pick me up. I ignored you. I thought they’d send a real driver. I mean, not real . . . You’re obviously real. I mean . . . Gah!” She flashed her fingers out in frustration. “I apologize if I offended you. Can we go now?”
He folded the newspaper and set it down on the bench. “What makes you think I’m here to pick you up?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Was he playing with her?
“You’re here. I’m here. No one else is here.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “With a line like that, it sounds like you’re trying to pick me up.”
She threw her arms down at her sides. “I don’t mean that kind of pickup. Look, are you from the Goodhouse Arms or not?”
He chuckled, pushed himself up from the bench, and walked toward her luggage.
“In my defense, I tried to speak to you when you got off the train,” he said. “You zoomed past me like I was holding a copy of The Watchtower.”
“I thought they would send a real driver guy. You know. With the hat and the suit and a little sign that had my name on it. How was I supposed to know they’d send the . . . ?”
She trailed off. She had no idea what purpose this guy would serve at an inn. Maintenance, maybe?
He saved her, though, because he didn’t seem to be listening, just looking around, holding her one bag in his hand.
“Where’s the rest of it?” he asked.
“The rest of what?”
“Your luggage.”
“That’s it.”
He lifted her bag as though it were as light as a shoe box, which she knew it wasn’t. She’d packed it within an inch of its life.
“This is it?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yes, that’s it.” Flynn smoothed her hands over her suit jacket. “Why?”
“I was raised in a family of women. It takes no less than four suitcases for any one of ’em to get the mail. No way this is all you have.”
“You know, some women do know how to pack.” Which she did. The two thousand dollars’ worth of label-wear that was being shipped to her the next day wa
s Freya’s doing; Flynn had everything she needed—which pretty much amounted to jeans, sweaters, flannel lounge pants, and her favorite shampoo—in that suitcase. Still, the condescending look coming from the man holding it set her off.
“Do I need to remind you that my family owns the Goodhouse Arms now? Which makes me your boss?”
Flynn tugged her blazer straight and tried to stand a little taller. How did Freya do this all the time? No wonder she was so cranky. Flynn was already tired of playing the big, bad businesswoman, and it had only been five minutes. Freya did it all year round.
To make matters worse, The Guy wasn’t buying it. He stood there, a half smirk on his lips, his eyes running over her face and then briefly down her body in an attempt to size her up as an enemy, and when his gaze met hers again, exuding confidence, she knew he wasn’t the least bit intimidated by her even if she was his boss.
“You’re selling it, aren’t you?” The Guy said finally, his voice quiet.
Flynn felt her throat close a bit and cleared it quickly. “What?”
“The Arms,” he said. “You’re selling.”
“No.” Her voice squeaked a little on the word, so she cleared her throat. “What makes you say that?”
“So, you’re not selling it?”
She stared at him. Why was the maintenance guy grilling her? “I just got here.”
“Well, it’s been a day or two since you got the news, right? You’ve had time to think about it. People like you usually have a plan for these things.”
“People like me? What is that supposed to mean?”
“Rich people. People with money. People who get their money by buying and selling other people.”
She narrowed her eyes and let her voice dip into warning tones. “Excuse me?”
“Your father is in real estate development, isn’t he? Isn’t that what he does—sells properties to the highest bidder?”
She put her hand over her heart, which was picking up speed. “Have you been researching my family?”
He chuckled. “A small town with Internet access is a very dangerous thing. We know everything but your bra size and your zodiac sign, although I’m guessing Pisces. You carry a lot of tension in this area.” He gestured his hand to indicate her shoulders, then leaned closer. “I’m not going to guess your bra size. I think that would be inappropriate.”
“Do you have some kind of medication you’re off schedule for?” she asked.
“I notice you still haven’t answered the question. Are you selling or not?”
Holy crap, he was unsettling. “What makes you ask something like that?”
“Well, evasiveness in answering questions, for one.” He motioned toward her suitcase. “Minimal luggage, so you’re not expecting to spend a lot of time here. You’re dressed like you’re about to hit the runway, not the office.” He glanced at Freya’s hand-me-down Kate Spade bag dangling from her fingers. “No briefcase, no laptop, just a purse. You don’t look like you’re here to work.”
Flynn felt her stomach tighten. “What exactly do I look like I’m here to do, then?”
He cocked his head to the side and studied her for a moment. “You look like you’re here to appease the natives until the sale goes through.”
She felt her mouth drop open, and her brain froze. She was sure there were a million poised, reasonable responses to his taunting, but “You’re fired” was the only thing that came directly to mind.
Unfortunately, Freya had absolutely forbade her from firing anyone during the first week.
Fire the wrong person, she’d said, and you’ll start a stampede. All they’ll find is your beaten, battered body under a thousand resignation letters.
“Look, Mr. . . .”
“Tucker. But you can call me Jake.” He grinned. How was it possible for him to be so mean yet look so friendly? He was like a polar bear, one of those really cute ones at the zoo that would carve you up for dinner in a heartbeat if it weren’t for the bars.
“Well, Mr. Tucker—”
“So it’s a no on calling me Jake, then, huh?” He nodded. “Trying to keep that professional distance. I totally understand. I will warn you, though. Everyone else calls me Jake. That’s a lot of peer pressure to resist.” His eyes were so filled with amusement, they were actually twinkling at her. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re going to sell.”
He smiled, keeping his eyes on hers, and she could see that underneath all the wise-ass crap, there was something more going on inside. That’s when it finally dawned on her where that twinkle was coming from.
He was deliberately baiting her.
And he was enjoying it.
Jerk.
“Mr. Tucker, I’ve just spent five hours on a train, and I’m tired. I’d like to go back to the Goodhouse Arms, get settled, and start working. Now, you can take me there, or I can call a cab, but either way, this discussion is over.”
He kept his gaze locked on hers, but Flynn had no idea what was going on behind those speckled eyes. Hell. She’d been there less than a half hour and already she’d made an enemy. Well, that was fine. She wasn’t there to be liked. She was there to do a job. And, eventually, she was sure, she’d figure out exactly what that entailed. In the meantime, if she could just get the maintenance guy to stop looking at her like that . . .
She took an unconscious step backward to put more distance between them, and the stiletto heel of Freya’s left boot betrayed her, turning under her and sending her skittering to one side. She flailed both arms, but she knew it was no use. She felt herself falling, and closed her eyes as she prepared for the inevitable harsh clash between her ass and the cold stone floor.
Then, suddenly, she felt herself being pulled upright. She opened her eyes to see Jake Tucker’s face just inches from hers as he set her right, his hands warm and secure on her upper arms. She stared up at him, swallowing hard. She didn’t want to say, “Thank you,” because that would imply gratitude and debt and she was still kinda pissed off at him, but she didn’t know what else to say. Good job? Well done?
You can let me go now?
He released her suddenly, as though realizing himself that he’d held on to her a moment too long. He laughed self-consciously and motioned toward her boots.
“I never understood how you girls balanced on those things,” he said.
“Well,” Flynn said, “apparently not all of us do.”
Their eyes met and there was another strange moment of . . . something. Flynn didn’t know what it was, but it made her dizzy and she didn’t like it. Maybe it was allergies? Was it possible to be allergic to a person?
Well, if her presence here in Scheintown had taught her anything, it was that anything was possible.
“Ready?” she asked.
Jake Tucker nodded. “Never been readier.”
He turned and headed out of the train station, carrying her suitcase, so she had no choice but to follow him. He was moving at an easy stride, but his long legs carried him much farther per step than hers would have even without the stilettos, and Flynn had to hustle to keep pace. She finally caught up to him as he was laying her suitcase in the back of a huge, weather-beaten red pickup truck, which a kinder person than she might refer to as “classic.” He opened the door for her and held out his hand to help her climb up, but she ignored it, managing to maneuver herself fairly well on her own, although there was a moment there where it was touch and go. Stupid boots. Once she was securely inside, he shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side.
They enjoyed a verbal cease-fire for a while. Flynn had nothing to say to him, and it was obvious he was only interested in badgering her, so she stared out the window as they drove in silence. The road from the train station into the village was windy and green, lined by farms and trees and low stone walls that wound lazily around the hilly terrain. She knew it was supposed to be charming, but it just creeped her out.
“Nature,” she muttered, imagining all the bugs and rodents and slithery litt
le things lurking in all that manure-fertilized green. Yugh.
“Hmmm?” Jake Tucker asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
They passed through the village, and Flynn began to feel better. Scheintown wasn’t exactly the hub of civilization, but there were sidewalks at least, and cute little boutique shops and charming Colonial streetlamps and a brick post office and an honest-to-goodness general store on the corner. There were still a fair number of trees, but they sprouted up from little stretches of ground between the sidewalk and the road, the way God intended. Flynn released a breath.
She could do this.
Maybe.
Then the truck pulled up in front of the biggest, whitest, most unabashedly imposing building Flynn had ever seen, which she swore looked down on her with marked distaste. The tremendous wooden swinging sign out front had The Goodhouse Arms hand-painted in swirly black letters—which also, somehow, seemed to judge her. below the big letters, similar but smaller ones spelled out Inn · Restaurant · Tavern. Just below that, in letters so small only Flynn could see them, was the simple line, You are in way over your head. Go home.
“Oh, God,” Flynn groaned.
The walkway to the front door was paved with stones that had probably been there since Colonial days, and brilliant green bushes popped with roses on either side. Flynn white-knuckled the dashboard and stared. She couldn’t do this. There was no way she could do this. She didn’t know anything about history or hotels or management or anything. She’d had at least fourteen jobs in the last eight years, and while she could flip pizza dough and announce the weather on the radio and hand out flyers in a chicken suit, none of those skills prepared her for this. Places like this were run by uptight people in expensive suits who could pull off being condescending to snooty travelers wanting to sleep in the same bed as George Washington, not unemployed dilettantes like her who couldn’t hold down a job her daddy hadn’t safety-pinned to her shirt.
Crazy in Love Page 3
