by Anne Calhoun
It was just for now. It was just for leave. He was on offer for a limited time, and she was going to go after everything she could get like she’d go to the court for a loose ball. “Sounds great,” she said.
They settled on an American-French fusion place with all the requisite details, a waterfall streaming down a glass wall, bare tables made from recycled wood, white plates and napkins, and lime accents in the tile and wall art.
“Something to drink?” the server asked, then rattled off an extensive list of wines and beers, all locally sourced.
“Wine?” Jamie asked, his gaze focused on the menu.
“Sure.”
“Spinach-artichoke dip?”
“Please,” she said, a little more fervently than she intended. Her stomach was attempting to gnaw its way through her spine. He ordered a bottle of wine, which the server brought with a basket of bread Charlie had to sit on her hands to avoid decimating while they went through the ritual of wine tasting. As soon as the server backed away, Charlie snagged a hunk of focaccia.
“I missed lunch,” she said as soon as she swallowed.
“It’s all yours. Ian’s been taking me to every dive and rib joint in town,” Jamie said, holding up a hand when she offered him the basket. “I’m going to sweat barbecue sauce if we play tonight.”
“After eating here I’d probably throw up if we played,” she said. A few bites of bread went a long way toward soothing her demanding stomach. But she was questioning the wisdom of coming to a nice restaurant with Jamie, of candlelight dancing on his face.
“That was a lot of money to drop in one place,” he said.
She only vaguely remembered the total, and bristled until she heard the genuine concern in his tone. “I’ve got money. The European leagues pay better than the WNBA, and I saved most of what I made. Teaching plus coaching is more than enough for me.”
“How’s your mom doing?”
This was the other problem with a dinner date. Their conversation on the court extended to trash talking and not much more. Back then, they’d known everything they needed to know about each other through the osmosis of high school, truth and rumor and secrets swirling in the air like hormones, drug store perfume, and Axe body spray.
“She’s okay,” Charlie said. “Still checking at Safeway. She remarried again a couple of years ago. Again.” She shifted uncomfortably at the reminder of how hard it was to make a relationship work when a couple lived in the same house, much less with the added strain of a taxing job two time zones apart.
“She had a tough life.”
“Bill seems like a nice guy. He’s got a steady job doing repair for Great Northern. Grown kids. I don’t know them that well. He transferred here from Pittsburgh for the job, and they’re still out East. But for the first time in her life, she’s got someone looking out for her. I sent her money once I was making some, but it’s not the same as having another person by your side. She feels safe, I think.”
“That’s good.”
Charlie straightened her silverware, remembering not once but twice reading her mother’s arrest reports and finding Jamie’s father’s signature as the arresting officer, the seething blend of humiliation and shame and anger she took out on opponents, on Jamie. Her little house was cute and renovated, but it wasn’t on the Hill. All the money earned by winning championships wouldn’t make her feel like she belonged on the Hill. Jamie, when he left the Navy, would segue easily into the civilian world. She couldn’t see him joining the Lancaster Police Department with his brother, but he’d do something.
“What are you going to do when you leave the Navy?”
“No idea,” he said frankly. “I’m planning on twenty years, so I’ve got another decade to go. I’ll spend as much of that on the teams as I can. Then maybe I’ll stay as an instructor, or work as a contractor.”
“Oh,” she said, bitter disappointment spoiling the excellent spinach dip. “That sounds good. It’s a meaningful career. Do you come back often?”
“Not really,” he said. “Mom and Dad like Virginia Beach. They’re even talking about wintering out there when Dad retires for the second time.”
She swallowed. “Special circumstances this time.”
“Yeah,” he said.
The conversation was getting more awkward by the second. Emotion layered up like a good defense: relief because this would answer all the questions she’d asked herself since high school, like had she made a mistake, was she missing out on anything, were they meant to be, and she’d screwed it up? Yes. They had chemistry and an adolescent longing to work through, but reality was totally different.
Layered over that was disappointment, growing more profound by the second. She thought she’d been honest with herself about Jamie. Turns out, she hadn’t.
“Have you walked the red carpet?”
She blinked at the random question until she connected it back to Taylor. “Once,” she said. “A Paris premiere for a movie a guy I was dating took me to.”
“You were dating someone who could take you to movie premieres?”
His voice was light, curious, but he wasn’t blinking as he watched her. She shrugged. “Premieres are supposed to be star-studded, so they invite people the paparazzi will recognize.”
“Who?” She named a top-ten ranked tennis player. Jamie’s eyebrows lifted before he shifted his weight and sipped his wine. “So you had a pretty interesting time in Europe.”
“I doubt I can compete with a Navy SEAL serving all over the world,” she said.
He leaned forward, a sharklike grin on his face. “I’ll trade you, one for one.”
Now they were back on familiar territory. “Check,” she said, verbally bouncing him the ball.
“Who was your first?”
That was a chest pass, shot hard, and she couldn’t pretend not to know what he meant. “Leo, a soccer player from Italy,” she said.
Jamie’s brow furrowed. “Did you meet him in college?”
The excellent wine wasn’t solely responsible for the blush heating her ears. “No, after I turned pro.”
He sat back, blew out his breath. “You didn’t have sex until you were out of college?”
She shook her head. “Not until I had my diploma in my hand, a signed contract, and a prescription for birth control.” Because the Pill could fail, but money in the bank and a degree meant she’d always be able to take care of a child.
Jamie fiddled with his silverware for a moment. “Did he treat you right?”
She’d had too much wine, loosening her tongue, washing away her filter. “He was good,” she said. “Really good. He was patient. Gentle. Said he was honored,” she added before she got a good look at Jamie’s eyes, simmering dark pools of regret and a little anger.
“Did you love him?”
“Yes,” she said. “And he loved me.” The difference somehow seemed profoundly beyond her ability to explain, even before she had two glasses of wine in her system. She’d loved Leo. She’d been in love with Jamie.
“What happened?”
“We weren’t in love. There’s a difference.”
“I know,” he said, quiet, meaningful.
“What about you?” she said, bouncing the ball back hard.
“I’ve never really dated.”
“Just hooked up?”
The look in his eyes stopped her heart. It was so easy to forget or underestimate Jamie’s competitive streak. He hid it well, masking it with the values his parents taught him: the gentleman’s code, honor and respect and teamwork. But underneath it all was the soul of a man who would take no prisoners when it came to working off a deployment. She didn’t feel sorry for the women who’d been on the receiving end of Jamie’s pent-up sexual energy. If anything, she was jealous.
“I was waiting for the right woman,” he said.
Her heart gave an odd skip, waiting for whatever he was going to say next, but he just signaled for the check. “What’s my share?” she asked when the waitres
s handed him the leather folder.
“I’ve got this.”
“Jamie.”
“Finish your coffee, Stannard,” he said as he thumbed through his billfold.
She was too full to argue with him, so finished her coffee while he paid, then let him pull back her chair and guide her to the door with one hand at the small of her back.
It was twilight again, the sky filling with vivid blues and purples as the stars flicked on overhead. “I can’t play,” Charlie said.
“Too full?”
It wasn’t that. She’d worked all week, been steamrolled by a fashion dynamo, had a good meal, a couple of glasses of wine, a cup of coffee. Right now she didn’t feel like competing against Jamie. “Just not in the mood,” she said. “Want me to take you home?”
They’d reached her car, but rather than walking around to the passenger side, he backed her into the driver’s door. “Yes,” he said.
Her brow furrowed, because she’d been hoping he’d say no. Then he closed the last couple of inches between her mouth and his, and kissed her, his tongue hot, slippery, suggestive. “Take me home, Charlie.”
Oh. Oh, oh, oh.
His eyes were dark, wild, passionate as Charlie drove them back to her house but his behavior was completely sedate, even gentlemanly. She parked in the driveway and loaded herself up with her purse and laptop bag, then reached for the bags from Taylor’s shop. Shaking his head, Jamie unloaded her purse and bag, shouldering her bright green purse without a hint of self-consciousness. “You really won’t ask for help, will you?”
For most of her life, there hadn’t been anyone to ask. She flashed him a quick smile. “Thanks,” she said, and led the way up the walk to the front door.
“Where do you want these?” he said when he shut the door behind them.
“One of the dining room chairs is fine,” she called from the bedroom. She hung the cocktail dress over her closet door and ran her fingertips down the bag, the silk’s slightly rough texture teasing her fingertips. She really couldn’t imagine the next couple of days. She’d been to awards banquets before, receptions, given speeches. But none of it carried the freight of the next couple of days. Being a member of the European Women’s Championship Team didn’t matter when the slightest disdainful look from a member of the Lancaster Garden Club could cut her to the bone.
Even that would pale beside the pain she’d feel when Jamie left again, if she didn’t guard her heart as carefully as she guarded the basket.
Chapter Six
She rubbed her forehead, off-balance, worn-out, lost. But she couldn’t blame the tangle of emotions slowly knotting in her belly on life. That was all Jamie. And her. If it were just Jamie, she’d cut through the knot and end it. The only thing that hadn’t changed in the last decade was that the problem was them.
“Hey,” Jamie said softly. He was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, his arms folded, his feet bare.
She tried to imagine him in the white uniform she’d seen on television shows, his jaw ruthlessly shaved, his shoulders broad and straight in the tailored coat, shoes polished to a sheen so bright they’d reflect the lights at the Metropolitan Club. “Do you have many…?” she asked, vaguely gesturing to her left shoulder, her brain shorting out on the image.
“Service medals and ribbons? More than some, fewer than others.” He studied her for a long moment while she tried to think of something else to say. “If you’re tired, I can go.”
Maybe it was time for a little honesty. “I am tired,” she said. “I don’t want you to go though.”
His expression, solemn and tender, didn’t change as he pushed away from the doorframe and crossed the short distance to stand beside her. “Shoes off,” he said as he eased her jacket from her shoulders and hung it up on an empty hanger, then went to work on the buttons of her blouse. With methodical, slow movements he slipped each button through its hole, gently tugging the shirttails from her waistband and unfastening her cuffs before slipping it down her arms to leave her in her trousers and bra.
“Wash or dry clean?”
“Wash,” she said.
The blouse went in the basket on her closet floor. She balanced herself with a hand on his shoulder as he took off her trousers and hung them up next to the jacket. She wore utilitarian cotton underwear, nothing sexy or fancy, just keeping her covered. Jamie didn’t seem to care one way or the other, just took off her bra with the same pragmatic approach, and guided her to lie facedown on the bed. “Do you have any lotion?”
“Sure,” she mumbled into her folded arms, “but I keep sweet almond oil in the bathroom. It’s good for rubdowns when I get sore.”
All she could think was that this was a really bad idea. It wasn’t basketball and it wasn’t sex, but since tonight had been all about bad ideas, she couldn’t bring herself to stop. For a moment she wondered if this was how her mother slid down the slippery slope, one questionable judgment sliding into another, but then Jamie came back with the bottle, dropped it beside her, and stripped off his shirt.
Electricity sparked along her nerves, staticky and hissing in the long moments while he straddled her hips. The bottle cap clicked open, then closed. The sound of palms rubbing together, then he put his big hands to the slope where her neck met her shoulders and pushed.
Hard.
Her brain shut off, the circuits connecting so the sparks lengthened into a steady hum of desire. His big thumbs dug into her shoulders, finding the tight spot at the base of her neck, the knot where she held her tension, just above her shoulder blade. She winced, stiffened, then felt the pop as the muscle released and she relaxed just a little bit more.
“You’re wound up like a top,” he said above her.
She made a rather embarrassing sound in response, because yes, she was, but his relentless assault on her muscles was rapidly reducing her to a limp noodle. “I miss the massages the most,” she mumbled. “I don’t miss the ice baths or the stretching or the weight room, but I really miss the massages.”
His response was also wordless, coming from deep in his chest, but the important part was the steady sweep of his hands, finding each tense spot and working it out. He didn’t hesitate to use the strength in his arms or his body weight. He knew she could take it, would tell him if he needed to avoid a long-standing injury. By the time he reached her bottom she was in a drift zone, hearing only her deepening breathing and the slick swipe of his hands over her skin.
“Okay?” he asked, his fingers curled in the waistband of her panties.
“Sure,” she said blurrily, and lifted her hips.
Professional massage therapists worked at hips and thighs under the drapery of a sheet. Jamie just spread Charlie’s legs and started pressing his fingers into the muscles around her hip socket and tailbone. She tensed and grunted when he worked the heel of his hand against her glutes, consciously relaxed, and was rewarded a few moments later with a good pop as the muscle released.
“Where did you learn to do this?” she asked.
“I’ve gotten my share of massages,” he said. “I have a working knowledge of the musculoskeletal system.”
“In other words, you hooked up with a massage therapist,” she said, amused.
“I like learning new things,” he said, his angelic voice contrasting with the hot pressure of his fingers against her hamstring.
She huffed out a laugh.
“Tight hammies,” he commented.
“I don’t stretch as much as I used to,” she admitted as he switched to her other buttock and thigh.
By the time he reached her feet she was all but purring, so when he gripped her hips and rolled her to her back, she flopped like a rag doll. “Better?” he asked.
“Much.” Her body was loose, warm, arousal humming along her nerves, tightening her nipples. If he pressed his oil-slick fingers between her legs, he’d find her hot and ready. “C’mere.”
“Not yet,” he said, straddling her hips again.
On the surf
ace the massage was just that, pampering the muscles holding collarbone to shoulder, rib cage to spine. Except for the moments when he massaged her breasts, oiled up her nipples. Except for the tight possessiveness of his hands as he pushed his thumbs into her hip crests, opening her pelvis with each strong touch, reminding her of the hollow ache inside her. She was moaning softly by the time he reached her quads, restlessly pulling her calves away from his hands, shamelessly spreading her legs.
He laughed, low and dark. “Do you think you’re ready for me?”
Like he didn’t know, like they both didn’t know the answer to that question. “Come here and find out,” she said, crooking her finger at him.
He crawled up between her legs, spreading her with his knees, caging her with his hands braced on either side of her shoulders. He peered down into her face.
“Like this,” she said, and reached for the button of his jeans. Trapping her under him, he let her work his jeans low on his hips and get him out. “No,” she said when he reached for the top drawer in her nightstand. She gripped his cock and pulled him toward her, too shy to say what she wanted. “Like this.”
Once he figured out what she meant, he shoved off his jeans with alacrity and straddled her ribcage. She smeared the precome around the tip of his shaft with her thumb as he pushed her breasts together, then guided his cock into the channel between them.
They both moaned at the first slick glide into oil-sheened skin. “Fuck,” he said, and did it again. “Charlie. Yes. Fuck.”
His balls, tight and high against the base of his shaft, brushed her breastbone with every stroke. She watched his face as he got lost in it, a flush darkening high on his cheekbones as he stared down at the erotic sight.
