Issue 7, Febraury 2018: Featuring Jayne Ann Krentz: Heart's Kiss, #7

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Hands in his pockets, he saunters over and stands next to me, his thigh brushing my knees. “So, what are you having, assuming a bartender does appear?”

  I try to ignore his closeness. “Tea.”

  “Tea?” He raises an eyebrow. “Iced or—”

  “Scalding, preferably. Yes, I’m one of those people who goes into a bar and orders tea. I’m a tea-drinking teetotaler, sad to say.”

  “I’d ask if you were the designated driver, but...” His lips are so sexy. A day’s stubble dusts his face and I struggle to focus.

  “Alcoholism runs in the family. So I just stay away.”

  “Ah,” he rocks back on his heels nodding. I could be imagining a hint of respect in his eyes. “Well, I don’t think this place will lose their liquor license if I make you a cup of tea.”

  “You?”

  With a wink, he walks behind the bar like he owns it. I open my mouth to say something, then close it when he bends down to search the shelves, allowing me to appreciate certain of his, uh, assets. He catches me staring in the mirror and I look away. He chuckles and shakes his head, returning to his task, and produces a cup and saucer.

  “Decaf?” He holds up a generic teabag.

  “No, give me the good stuff.”

  “Long night ahead?”

  “Long day behind me. But...” I look out the front window to the street beyond. The nursing home isn’t visible from here, thankfully. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep much tonight.” I face him again and catch the tail end of a somber expression on his face before he replaces it with a smile.

  “One sleepless night, coming up.” His tone is light, playful, but his words set off a firestorm of images in my head.

  “Are you sure you should be back there? Doesn’t it take some kind of training or a certificate to operate a bar?”

  “Are you doubting my tea-making abilities?” He holds a hand to his heart and feigns shock. “I guarantee this will be the best cup of,” he looks at the teabag, “generic black tea you’ve ever had.”

  He produces a container of sugar packets and a little bowl of creamer.

  “No, thanks—I like it black.” I catch the flicker of a question on his face. “Black and hot.” His eyebrows shoot up. He didn’t expect me to flirt back. Hell, I didn’t expect it myself. But the distraction is nice. I allow my gaze to linger on his smooth, café au lait skin and, good God, those lips.

  His voice, low like the purr of an engine, penetrates my haze. “What brings you to San Francisco?”

  I sit back and pull out a sugar packet, just to feel it between my fingers. “My father is dying.”

  The words settle like stones on the counter between us. “I haven’t seen him in close to fifteen years. He wasn’t...” I shift in my seat. “He wasn’t what you would call father of the year.”

  “I always wondered who these fathers of the year guys are and where they come from. I’ve never met any.” His eyes are warm and he leans forward, bringing his head just a tiny bit closer to mine. I don’t really believe he wants to hear my life story, but he’s listening intently, so I keep talking.

  “A social worker from the VA tracked me down as his next of kin when he was moved to the hospice.” I flip the sugar packet over and over, the granules inside sliding with a whoosh. He reaches out, covering both of my hands with one of his, stilling my movements.

  His skin is warm. The veins of his hand stand out in sharp relief. Strong fingers. Long. My skin, a few shades darker than his, hums in response. Neither of us moves, locked together, even the rise and fall of our chests in sync as we breathe.

  I exhale to break the spell. “I bought a plane ticket the next day. Dropped everything. Granted, it wasn’t much, but still, everything, to come out here and sit by the side of a man who...”

  I shake my head, sliding my hands out from under his. They feel different after his touch. Like they’re no longer a part of me, but part of this other woman who meets strange men in bars and opens her heart to them. I chance a glance, expecting him to be plotting an escape. He probably came in here for some harmless flirtation, maybe a hookup, and instead he finds...me.

  He pours the boiling water into my mug, then pours another for himself before rounding the bar to sit directly next to me. His legs are long and our knees touch. This tiny point of contact crackles up my body. Why is he still here?

  “Where’s home?” he asks.

  “Cincinnati.”

  “The ’Natti,” he smiles, as if he has some fond memory of the town. Which I highly doubt. “And what do you do there?”

  I chuckle. “Isn’t that the question of the hour? I’m currently, as we like to say, in-between positions.”

  He grins, stirring two packets of sugar into his tea. “You’re keeping your options open?”

  “I’m not a flake. I work hard, mostly retail, I just haven’t found my—thing. My last job was selling used cars.”

  He stops stirring for a moment, then resumes.

  “It’s okay to laugh.”

  “No, I’m just trying to picture it.” He closes his eyes and tilts his head in a move I find completely adorable.

  “Can I interest you in a lovely, pre-owned sedan? It only has two-hundred fifty thousand miles on it?” I shake my head and blow on my tea before taking a tentative sip. It isn’t one of the fancier brands I splurge on even though I can’t really afford them, but the hot liquid feels so good going down. It enters my bloodstream, unsnarling some of the knots and loosening me all over, the way I imagine alcohol might.

  I didn’t realize I’d closed my eyes, but when I open them he’s staring at me, raw desire etched onto his face. It takes me aback. I’d thought he was intense before, but that was only a preview. He seems caught off-guard as well and focuses on his mug, taking too big a swallow for liquid that hot.

  “Best you’ve ever had?” he says, wincing slightly.

  I chuckle. “Like you need the ego boost. But, yes, it’s the best I’ve ever had.” I say it in a mock sexy voice, aiming for playful. He stares at my mouth, then takes another gulp.

  “Careful,” I say, as he winces again. “You need that tongue, am I right?”

  He licks his lips and the energy in the room changes on a dime. The low crackle of attraction is now supercharged. I suddenly regret my attempts at flirtation. I am so far out of my league here. If I’d had any sense, I would have packed up and left when he first walked in. I’m a farm team kind of girl, and he is definitely major league.

  My track record with the majors is pretty much a disaster. I tried it once, a long time ago and still bear the scars. Worse, they still hurt. So yeah, Cinderella may get a ticket to the ball, or a coupon as the case may be, and she may even dance with the prince, but that whole happily ever after scenario doesn’t happen for girls whose childhood address was the Budget Inn. Princes don’t want girls with my kind of baggage. It’s certainly not Louis Vuitton.

  I turn to face the counter, removing my leg from contact with his. The energy simmers back down to non-lethal levels and we’re just two strangers drinking tea in a bar.

  “Thanks.” I sip the tea for a minute, then push away from the counter and stand, determined to leave before things get out of hand again.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “It’s quarter to two. I’m pretty sure this is last call.” I drain the last drops from my cup. If I don’t get away now I may end up doing something I regret. The last thing I need is more scars.

  I’m turning to go when he touches my shoulder. I freeze. Everything inside me crackles like a live wire.

  “I never got your name,” he says, maintaining the contact. When I turn to him, his gaze is potent, but there’s something else behind it. Something I can’t define and don’t want to.

  My eyes drop to his lips. A vision of how the night could go runs on a projector in my head. I tell him my name, he tells me it’s pretty. I’m pretty. Would I like to come up to his room, or could he come to mine? He has a wide s
election of the finest soft drinks to tempt me with. I say yes, because, really—who wouldn’t? And the night is amazing. Or not, but considering the sparks shooting from a simple touch through the polyester of my sweater, it’ll be amazing.

  And then, I’ll start asking him questions. I won’t be able to stop because I won’t want him to leave, or for me to have to make the walk of shame. I’ll pepper him with questions and I’ll pretend they’re just light, getting to know you chatter, but really I’ll be gathering enough information to stalk him on Google later. I’ll imagine we can start dating, a long-distance relationship from wherever he lives. Of course, I could barely afford to get here so there’s no way I can handle a long-distance relationship and, geez, who said anything about a relationship anyway, wasn’t this supposed to be a one night stand? He’ll figure out I’m crazy. He’ll figure out I have issues and realize that he’s a prince, he doesn’t need this shit.

  I’ll have memories of one night that will haunt me for years. Years of wondering, years of hoping, following his Facebook updates to find out when he changes his relationship status. When he gets married. How many kids he has. The topic of their first-grade science project.

  I shiver as Trevor’s face pops into my head. Specifically, the smile on his face in his wedding photo. He’s looking at his wife like she’s made of gold. I’d always wanted him to look at me that way. She’s definitely princess material, she’s even wearing a huge, poofy, princess dress.

  The man in front of me is waiting for my answer. I can practically see the crown on his head. I shake my head. “Names are overrated.”

  His eyebrows shoot up.

  “I’m not—this isn’t a challenge. You seem,” I rake my gaze over him searching for the right word. Incredibly sexy. Gorgeous. Orgasm inducing. “Nice.” I wince for him. “But, um, my life is just too complicated for names...and things. You know?”

  He takes a step closer. So close our toes are almost touching. His hand on my shoulder occupies almost all of my attention. “So, no names. Maybe we could use code names, like call signs.”

  “Or superheroes?”

  He grins. “What’s your super power?”

  “Trouble,” I answer immediately.

  “I was thinking you looked like trouble.”

  “You would not be wrong. What about you? What’s your super power?”

  He shrugs. “Amazing tea making?”

  I laugh and despite my best efforts not to, reach out to straighten his already perfect collar. “You know, I think you’re dangerous to a girl’s health.” I get trapped in his eyes. “Danger, that’s what I’ll call you.”

  “Danger and Trouble.”

  I release him, pulling out of his grip and backing away. Take a mental picture of him standing there. The desire to stay is so strong, I know I’m making the right decision to leave.

  “A match made in heaven if I’ve ever heard one,” he says.

  I turn and walk away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My legs are leaden as I drag myself the short distance back to the hotel. Each step is agony. The bell of a streetcar chimes nearby. If I run, maybe I can catch it. Ride it to the end of the line. It must "chapter-sub"end at the ocean. I could just sit there and stare at the endless, black water. Let the lapping waves soothe the ache in my chest.

  When I arrive, the Montagne’s lobby is once again empty. With the hours I keep, I haven’t seen many other guests. Either everyone here goes to bed early, or they’re all out enjoying the nightlife.

  The one guest I did meet has not been far from my mind all day.

  I find myself moving towards the bar, unable to stop the forward motion of my feet. Once again no one seems to be manning the place. All the stools are empty and I pretend the disappointment I feel is something else. Exhaustion maybe. Why would he be here? And even if he was, it would be to pick up someone else. Someone new. After all, I blew him off.

  “You’re not the bartender,” a voice calls out from a table at the side of the entrance. Dark eyes glint above a roguish grin. Tonight he’s in a pinkish shirt with a navy jacket and pants. It’s sort of corporate and sort of hip and all the way sexy.

  My mouth wants to smile, but I try to stifle it, resulting in a weird mouth dance that probably makes me look like I’m having a stroke.

  Was he waiting for me?

  “I’ve already done the search,” he says, standing. “Just to save time.”

  “How thoughtful of you.”

  He approaches the stool he sat at last night. Once I get a whiff of cologne, my brain scrambles. I take a step back and walk behind the bar to get some space. But the counter between us might as well not exist. Even from several feet away he crowds me. His presence takes up all the space in the room, and singes me with combustible heat.

  He leans forward, his forearms on the counter. “A cup of your finest tea, barkeep.”

  “At your service.” I bow with a flourish and turn to search for the mugs, mindful not to bend at the waist and stick my ass in his line of sight. I’ve never been behind a bar before, but this one has little to no organization. The shelves are a riot of bottles, glasses, stacks of paper, napkins, jars and boxes.

  “Need a hand?” His voice comes from directly beside me, causing little earthquakes to rattle inside my body.

  I usher him forward with a sweep of my arm. “You’re the professional, after all.”

  “Go on, have a seat. I’ve got this.”

  I most certainly should not have a seat. I should leave, go back to my tastefully decorated room, and go to sleep. But my butt hits the stool without protest. My butt is not interested in being anywhere else at the moment.

  “How did it go today?”

  I take a deep breath. Whatever polite non-answer I was going to give dies on my lips under the force of his expression of sincere concern. He seems worried about me. Like he cares. It leaves me so off-kilter I tell him the truth.

  “His organs are shutting down. He’s signed a ‘do not resuscitate’ order so it won’t be long.”

  He frowns and puts two mugs on the counter.

  “Part of me is relieved—the world is better off without him. But part of me wishes I’d gotten what I came for.”

  “What was it you came for?”

  I stare at my hands. The middle three fingers are crooked from where my father slammed them in the bedroom door after I’d tried to run away from his fist. I catch Danger looking at the misshapen digits and form them into a fist. “I was looking for a reason why. Some kind of explanation. Something that would make it make sense. Why did he hate us? Why did he hate us so much?”

  My hands are shaking so I slide them into my lap. “I think I came here believing that I had to forgive him before he died. My life has been stuck in so many ways. I watched this documentary about forgiving and moving on and when I got that phone call.... I thought I had to come here and try.

  “But you know what he said, while he could still talk?” Danger’s eyes are on me, they haven’t left my face. He’s listening. The words spill from me, providing way too much information, but he’s really listening. “He said I should have stayed home.” I meet his eyes as my voice starts to waiver.

  “He wouldn’t admit to anything. Said I was crazy, that he never hit me unless I deserved it. That my mother was—” I shake my head. Shrug. “So, maybe he was right. Maybe I should have stayed home.”

  A steaming cup of tea slides toward me. I wrap my hands around it, relishing the sting of the heat. The stool beside me shifts as he settles into it, and I shake off the melancholy.

  “But enough of that. What about you, Danger? Why are you here?”

  He stares at me for a long time before a slow smile spreads across his face. He’s going along with my change of subject, though I have the sense he wanted to say something else.

  “I live here.”

  “Here as in San Francisco or here as in...”

  “The Montagne.”

  “You can live here?”


  He nods. “The top three floors are residential.”

  “Wow, so, why do you live in a hotel?”

  He fidgets uncharacteristically, like this is a topic he’s uncomfortable with. I can’t imagine how expensive it must be to live in a place like this. I’m starting to feel like we’re not just in two different leagues, we’re playing two different sports.

  “It’s convenient. You pick up a phone and there’s room service. Laundry and housekeeping are included. What’s not to love?” His voice is light, but there’s pain tucked away there in the words he’s not saying.

  “My room here is approximately the size of my car—it’s gorgeous, I love it, but it’s tiny. And normally way, way above my budget, but I got in on the special deal.”

  “I didn’t know there was a special deal.”

  “Some place called Delilah’s Travel Agency sent me a coupon in the mail. It was really weird—handwritten calligraphy on fancy paper—but I called and it was legit.” I look around the space. “I guess it would be kind of nice to live here.”

  My gaze is on the ceiling when he reaches out to push a chunk of hair behind my ear. I gasp as his fingertips graze my sensitive skin. Close my eyes. The energy crackles between us like a lightning strike and I’m ready to forget about baseball, forget about royal hierarchies and years of social media stalking and just give in to the thrumming in my veins that’s begging for more of his touch.

  His thumb is skirting the edge of my bottom lip when a jangling sound draws our attention to the doorway. A young Asian woman in tuxedo pants, a white shirt and bow tie tears into the room like a Tasmanian devil. Her hair is in long purple dreadlocks pulled back in a ponytail and her makeup consists mostly of glitter.

  “Ohmygosh! Customers! I didn’t think anyone would be here so late, I just stepped out for a second to check my—Time works so differently here. Sorry, it’s my first day and so I didn’t realize—oh wow! You already have drinks, that’s so crazy.”

  She whirls behind the bar, a tornado of sound with clanging bracelets and tiny bells woven into her hair.

  “You’re the bartender?” Danger asks.