by Aimee Carson
She shot Cutter a this-better-not-be-about-me look as her ex went on.
“I’ve got to go get this dinner started with a speech.” Steve jerked his head in the direction of a podium along the far wall, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’ll let you two get back to your phone conversation now.”
Steve headed off, and Cutter turned to Jessica, trying to decide which he liked more...the old standby roll-of-her-eyes-heavenward or the I-was-so-right look currently inhabiting her face now.
But he had no regrets about the phone call. “Smug becomes you.”
“I knew we were being too obvious.”
“How about we play footsy under the dinner table instead?”
She shot him a faux menacing look. “Only if you promise to be discreet.”
“Sunshine, Mr. Discretion is my other nickname.”
She turned and headed for their table, shooting him an amused, doubtful expression over her shoulder. “Come on, Wildcard. Let’s see if you can live up to that misnomer.”
* * *
Cutter clearly was trying to make her pay for her teasing comment.
With Steve to her left, and Cutter to her right, Jessica tried to pay attention to the conversation at the table. But it was difficult to follow the discussion with Cutter’s hand on her knee. He was debating the present-day status of racing with the man sitting beside him, and all the while his thumb was stroking her thigh beneath the curtain of the tablecloth.
It made focusing impossible; she was unable to get past the delicious circles he was drawing on the skin just above her knee.
The smell of rich, spicy tomato sauce seeped into her consciousness, and Jessica finally noticed the man delivering food to a nearby group of guests. But, on closer inspection, he wasn’t a man. It was a pimply-faced adolescent. She managed to refocus on her surroundings and saw a dozen or so teens, all wearing black jeans and white shirts, carrying out trays laden with plates of lasagna, distributing them to the tables.
Cutter leaned in to address Steve, allowing his tormenting hand to conveniently inch a fraction higher up her leg. Jessica shot him a warning look, but, without even a glance in Jessica’s direction, Cutter addressed her ex. “I was expecting pizza or hamburgers.”
Clearly oblivious to Jessica’s predicament, Steve said, “The local Italian restaurant donated the food, and the teens at the club volunteered to serve the dinner.”
Cutter’s fingers reached her inner thigh, blistering her skin, and her heart pumped harder, sweat dotting the nape of her neck as the conversation between the two men blurred.
This kind of behavior was exactly what she’d expected from a rebel bad boy. She should be disturbed by the illicit thrill shooting through her veins. But she hadn’t counted on enjoying the clandestine caresses of one man while the table guests assumed she was here with another.
Lovely. Next she’d be changing her slogan from ‘fostering honest dialogue in finding The One’ to a women’s-magazine version of ‘how to kink up your sex life.’
And she was beginning to question her skepticism of Calamity Jane, because Cutter put out her fire like no man ever had.
“Mr. Thompson?” a voice called, interrupting the conversation.
Jessica looked up to see a teen who looked vaguely familiar. Shaggy dark hair brushed his shoulders, and his oversize jeans hung low on his hips, the waistband of his orange boxers barely peeking above the denim. The brown eyes were still dark, but the belligerent look from the photo Jessica had shown Cutter was tempered with an emotion that surprised her.
Adoration.
The teen stuck out a paper napkin and a pen towards Cutter. “Can I have your autograph?”
Cutter’s thumb ceased its disturbing caress, and his grip on her leg grew tight with tension. She shot him a curious look, and the expression on his face was a shock. She’d seen him on TV in the past, meeting and greeting kids, and he’d always been friendly.
But this time, he had a faint frown.
* * *
Cutter’s head thumped with a familiar, gnawing pain, and he stared at the kid who looked barely old enough to shave. It took five seconds for full recognition to trigger his memory.
Emmanuel. The adolescent dropout. Big fan of the Wildcard. The belligerent teen who’d gone back to finish high school with the goal of following in Cutter Thompson’s footsteps.
Damn. Why would the kid still want to be a screwup like him?
Years of experience had trained Cutter how to deal with fans, but he hated the goofy, almost fanatical expression the teen was wearing. Hadn’t the kid heard the news? That Cutter had pulled a reckless stunt that cost him his career?
He beat back the urge to tell the boy to scram. Struggling to take control of his suddenly sour mood, Cutter paused until he couldn’t stand the hero worship on the adolescent’s face any longer.
“Sure, kid,” he said gruffly. He did his best not to snatch the napkin from the boy, to hurry the process along. But the need to get him to move on about his business was hard to suppress. After scribbling his signature, he stuck the paper out, hoping this would be the end of it.
But Emmanuel, wannabe Cutter Thompson, wasn’t done yet.
“I watched you bump Chester Coon on TV,” he said, taking the napkin back. Cutter’s head thumped harder, the pain piercing, and a wave of nausea hit as the kid continued, his eyes glowing with excitement. “Dude, it was freakin’ awesome!” he said, pumping the air with a fist that was like a head-on collision with Cutter’s head. “The way you slid across the finish line on your roof. Sweet! And still pulled off second place, too.”
Bile rose in Cutter’s throat as memory engulfed him, and he was back in the stock car. He could smell burning rubber, feel the heart-pounding speed, his fingers gripping the wheel.
Oblivious, Emmanuel went on, his eyes shining with hero worship. “And you were the only one brave enough to take on that dirtbag Chester Coon.”
Brave.
Sweat broke out on Cutter’s lip, but the teen continued with his relentless, blow-by-blow account. His whole face lit with a smile, Emmanuel said, “And you so totally owned that track—”
The searing pain of his crash hit like a sledgehammer. “Hey,” Cutter interjected, his voice low, body seized by ache and memory. “Don’t you have other guests to serve?”
Through the haze of agony, Cutter watched the kid step back, the excitement wiped from his face. “Sure.” Emmanuel’s face was nonchalant, his eyes flat. “Sure thing, man.”
The teen turned and headed off, and Cutter fought the violent urge to vomit. Because the kid had called him brave. But Cutter knew better.
In truth, maybe he’d always known better.
Head pounding with the return of his memories of the crash, he watched Emmanuel walk away with his shoulders hunched, and the cauldron of dark emotion boiled higher in Cutter’s gut, charring his insides. He recognized the blank look on the kid’s face. Cutter had worn it a million times himself. And the adoration, too. But his father hadn’t deserved his hero worship, and Cutter sure as hell didn’t deserve Emmanuel’s now.
He closed his eyes as his memories of the wreck, his emotions, came tumbling back. There had been no self-sacrifice on his part. Cutter had simply been incensed at Chester Coon’s gall, threatened by the driver’s hard racing as he’d challenged Cutter for the lead. Because...that track had been Cutter’s.
He’d taken a risky move, had lost his career, all because of his anger and conceit.
The aroma of lasagna, which had smelled so mouthwatering before, almost finished him off. Battling the nausea that was growing hotter by the minute, Cutter slowly became aware of the rest of the table.
Jessica was staring at him, wide-eyed, with a look of pure disappointment on her face, and Cutter’s stomach took on the festering essence of a
primordial ooze. Poisoning him from the inside out.
She finally spoke, her tone low and laced with disapproval. “What was that all about?”
He forced his expression to remain neutral. “What?”
Jessica turned in her seat to face him. “You just crushed that kid’s heart.”
Amidst all the roiling emotions, another stab of guilt slashed deep. He dropped his eyes to the table and reached for his glass of iced tea, his hand clammy. “I doubt that.”
“Oh, please.”
Cutter cleared his throat, shifting in his seat, suppressing the need to bolt. To run from the bitter truth. But Jessica was waiting for a response, so he tried to give her one. “Even if I did, he’ll get over it.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and her feelings were stamped clearly in her posture. Her back looked as if she had just traded her spine for an axle.
And although her words came out quietly, the low tone did nothing to detract from their impact. “That boy looks up to you.”
Cutter gripped his tea glass, his fingertips blanching from the pressure, resisting the urge to crush the glass with his hand. Or at least hurl it against the wall. But he couldn’t do that. Because here he sat, fool that he was, next to Jessica at this quaint little community party.
A brand-spanking-new gymnasium—funded by her honorable ex-husband—and full of nothing but do-gooders and one adoring, deluded juvenile fan.
And then there was him. Cutter Thompson.
Just who the hell was he?
He sucked in a breath and then quietly blew it out, loosening his grip on his drink, forcing himself to let it all go. He’d built a life out of not caring what people thought. It was how he’d survived. “Since when is some kid’s misplaced idol worship my problem?”
Anger clouded her eyes. “But you at least have to try—”
“Sunshine,” he said, cutting her off, aware of the stares of their table companions as the two of them argued. He couldn’t take it anymore, hating the look of utter disenchantment in her face. But he hadn’t asked for the teenager’s hero-worship. He used to want it. But not anymore. He used to think he deserved it.
And it was a hell of a thing to look back on his career and realize he didn’t.
“I don’t owe anybody anything,” he said. Her flush grew brighter as he continued. “And just because some starry-eyed kid—”
She held up her hand. “That starry-eyed kid needs as many positive male influences in his life as he can get,” she said, staring at him. “He’s growing up without a father.” His conscience took another thrashing, and Jessica’s tone was laced with accusation. “Which means you, of all people, should be extra kind.”
Extra kind?
He raised an eyebrow. “Sunshine,” he said softly. Her persistent optimism defied reason. “Do you think the rest of the world is gonna treat him with kid gloves because of his awful childhood?” She frowned, a small furrow appearing between her brows, and he knew she knew the answer was no. “Exactly,” he said.
Cutter had learned it over and over again. And just when he’d thought he couldn’t take any more, the world had turned around and kicked him in the ass again. And as a teen he’d raced those cars, angry and getting into trouble, until he’d learned that no one cared. But he hadn’t really learned anything. Because he’d let his anger control him again...and lost his racing career.
And there was no undoing that now.
With a defeated sigh, he passed a frustrated hand through his hair. “The kid might as well learn that when life sucks, you just have to deal with it.”
Her face grew dark. “That’s a horrible—”
“That’s right,” Cutter said as he stood, his chair scraping on the wood floor, the need to retreat overwhelming him. “It is horrible.” He looked down on Miss Perpetual Pollyanna. “Life can be horrible.” They stared at each other for a moment longer, until Cutter went on. “I’m not hungry,” he said, tossing his napkin on his empty plate. “Enjoy your meal.”
CHAPTER TEN
THE next afternoon Jessica made her way around the side of Cutter’s house, sandals crunching on the sunlight-dappled gravel walk. His sports car was parked in the driveway, so she knew he was home. But he wasn’t answering her knock at the front door. Which meant he was either in the backyard...
Or he was refusing to talk to her. With Cutter, you just never knew.
Gnawing on her lower lip, she rounded the corner of the house and spied him by the pool, hosing off the deck. Her stomach vaulted, flipped and then landed. Only now it was positioned lower in her abdomen. She stopped and let the sight of swaying palms, green grass and the sea-green waters of Biscayne Bay beyond soothe her nerves. Which would have worked if the handsome man had been dressed in more than a bathing suit, chest and legs exposed.
And if the memory of how they had ended last night wasn’t embossed in her brain.
If ever there was a sign that Cutter Thompson was the kind of man she needed to stay away from, she now had proof. After he’d cut that poor boy off at his knees, and Cutter’s face had closed down, it had taken Jessica about two seconds to realize that he had emotionally and mentally checked out.
Problems? Time to clam up. Bothered about something? Insult someone and retreat into your emotion-free hole. It didn’t take a doctorate in psychology—or even regular viewing of the daytime TV talk shows—to realize that in every relationship, he would do the same thing.
Steve hadn’t been fond of expressing himself either, and Jessica was one-hundred-percent sure that it had been the beginning of the end of their marriage. But even at his worst, Steve had never been this reticent. He’d even been willing to marry her.
And he would never treat someone as callously as Cutter had Emmanuel.
Last night Jessica had gone to bed livid, woken up disturbed and then spent the rest of the day trying to sort through her emotions. Which was a frustratingly difficult task. Because when it came to her feelings about the man standing on the teak deck, Jessica vacillated wildly. It was like riding a pendulum, swinging back and forth, trying to figure out when it would stop. She just wasn’t clear if, when the pendulum finally came to a halt, she’d even like the real Cutter Thompson.
Lovely. Wasn’t that a depressing thought?
Water jetted from the hose, hitting the wood with a forceful stream as Cutter herded the leaves from the pool area and under the tall hedge that provided a living privacy fence. Jessica smoothed her hand down her peasant blouse, steadying her nerves, and stepped up onto the deck.
Cutter shot her a glance and then returned his gaze to his task, his expression still shuttered.
Nice, this should go well.
“You here to read me the riot act again?” he asked.
Jessica curled her fingers against her shorts. “No,” she said, crossing closer to him. “I came to discuss our plan for the last session.” Among other things, but she wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of Emmanuel. Easing into it seemed best. “I want to make sure we end the publicity stunt on the right note.”
He lifted a brow, and Jessica was stumped. The facial cue could have meant anything. Was he questioning her topic, or waiting for her to explain what note she wanted to achieve? Or perhaps, considering the way things had ended between them last night, he was simply noting the irony of her statement.
She let out a quiet sigh and gave up on the impossible task of translating his expression. “Steve and I discussed you after you left the gym.”
After a brief pause, he released the lever on the hose, shutting off the water, and turned to face her. Despite the guarded look in Cutter’s eyes, he didn’t ask what they had talked about. She suspected he was too proud to ask.
Or maybe he didn’t care.
But she told him anyway. “Steve read me the riot act and said I should c
ut you some slack.” She chewed on her lip before going on. “He also said I was wrong for calling you out in public like that.”
Cutter gave a nonchalant shrug and depressed the handle again, eyes on the aim of his hose. “We didn’t raise our voices. It wasn’t a big scene.”
It had felt massive to her, and his insistence on treating it with a casual air made the nervous tension worse instead of better. But the cool mist created by the spray of water felt good. She gave a halfhearted lift of her shoulder. “Better than getting caught making out behind the bleachers.” Her stomach clenched.
She shouldn’t have said that.
But at least she finally got an authentic response, the old Cutter reappearing with a dry twist of an amused mouth. “Sunshine, if anything, our fight just confirmed we’re sleeping together.”
This surprised her. “Do you always get into fights with the women you’re involved with?”
“I’ve never been involved with someone quite so demanding before.”
She hiked a brow dryly. “They must not have expected much.”
“I guess I had other things to recommend me. It certainly wasn’t my sparkling charm.”
Despite her nerves, and the crackling tension, heat flared in her belly. Oh yeah, she’d been privy to a good bit of the things he did well. Had tossed every one of her plans aside when she’d signed on for more.
The tangle of emotions in her chest grew tighter, cinching into a knot.
“Have you ever been charming?” she said.
Cutter turned his hose on the next section of the deck, and the pause lengthened, filled only with the sound of water beating on wood. The moment stretched so long, Jessica thought he wasn’t going to respond. But when she was about to ask again, Cutter finally spoke.
“I spent my preteen and teenage years angry at the world. Angry at my dad for leaving. I was even angry at my mom.” He cut her a sideways glance. “It didn’t leave much room for charm.”
She studied him. The similarities between Cutter and the sullen teen from last night were impossible to ignore. And that seemed a nice segue into making that point to the stubborn man. “I’m sure Emmanuel feels the same way.”
