Forever Oregon #2
Page 17
“He left his manners in the Middle East.” Josie stared at the door to Big Buck’s. “Might hurt my chances for getting a job.”
“I think your lack of waitressing or bartending experience will be the nail in the coffin. But if Noah turns you down, you can work here.”
“I’d rather keep my shirt on while I work,” Josie said dryly.
And he won’t turn me down. He promised to help me.
But that was before he turned into a surly former marine.
“You’d make more without it,” Daphne said. “Or you can tell the hospital, the collection agency—whoever’s coming after you—the truth. You’re broke.”
“I did. They gave me a payment plan and I need to stick to it.” She headed for the door. “I ignored those bills for months. Besides, what kind of mother doesn’t pay her child’s medical bills?”
The kind who buried her son twenty-seven days after he was born.
Daphne didn’t say the words, but Josie knew she was thinking them. Her best friend was the only person in Forever who knew the truth about why she was desperate for a paycheck. If only Daphne had inherited a restaurant or a bookstore—a place with fully clothed employees.
“He has to agree,” Josie added. “I need that money.”
“I know.” Daphne sighed. “And I need to get to work. I have a staff of topless waitresses and dancers who depend on me for their paycheck. Good luck, Josie.”
“Thanks.” She ended the call and slipped her phone into the bag slung over her shoulder alongside her wallet and resume.
She drew a deep breath. But a churning feeling started in her belly, foreboding, threatening. She knew this feeling and she didn’t like it. Something bad always followed.
Her boyfriend headed for the door convinced he was too young for a baby . . . Her water broke too early. . .
She tried the door. Locked, dammit.
Ignoring the warning bells in her head telling her to run to her best friend’s club and offer to serve a topless breakfast, she raised her hand and knocked.
“Hang on a sec,” a deep voice called from the other side. She remembered that sound and could hear the echo of his words from five long years ago, before he’d joined the marines and before she’d gone to college hoping for a brighter future—and found more heartache.
Call, email, or send a letter. Hell, send a carrier pigeon. I don’t care how you get in touch, or where I am. If you need me, I’ll find a way to help.
He’d meant every word. But people changed. They hardened. They took hits and got back up, leaving their heart beaten and wrecked on the ground.
She glanced down as if the bloody pieces of her broken heart would appear at her feet. Nope. Nothing but cement and her boots. She’d left her heart behind in Portland, dead and buried, thank you very much.
The door opened. She looked up and . . .
Oh my . . . Wow. . .
She’d gained five pounds—well, more than that, but she’d lost the rest. She’d cried for weeks, tears running down her cheeks while she slept, and flooding her eyes when she woke. And it had aged her. There were lines on her face that made her look a lot older than twenty-three.
But Noah . . .
He’d gained five pounds of pure muscle. His tight black T-shirt clung to his biceps. Dark green cargo pants hung low on his hips. And his face . . .
On the drive, she’d tried to trick herself into believing he was just a friend she’d slept with one wild night. She’d made a fool of herself, losing her heart to him then.
Never again.
She’d made a promise to her broken, battered heart and she planned to keep it. She would not fall for Noah this time.
But oh, the temptation . . .
His short blond hair still looked as if he’d just run his hands through it. Stubble, the same color as his hair, covered his jaw. He’d forgotten to shave, or just didn’t give a damn. But his familiar blue eyes left her ready to pass out at his feet from lack of oxygen.
He stared at her, wariness radiating from those blue depths. Five years ago, he’d smiled at her and it had touched his eyes. Not now.
“Josie?” His brow knitted as if he’d had to search his memory for her name. His grip tightened on the door. Was he debating whether to slam it in her face and pretend his mind had been playing tricks on him?
“Hi, Noah.” She placed her right boot in the doorway, determined to follow him inside if he tried to shut her out.
“You’re back,” he said as if putting together the pieces of a puzzle. But still no hint of the warm, welcoming smile he’d worn with an easy-going grace five years ago.
“I guess you didn’t get the carrier pigeon,” she said, forcing a smile. Please let him remember. “But I need your help.”
NOAH STARED AT the dark-haired beauty. Her white T-shirt hugged her curves, and her cutoff jean shorts sent him on a trip down memory lane. And those boots . . .
The memory of Josephine Fairmore had followed him to hell and back. He’d tried to escape the feel of her full lips, the taste of her mouth, her body pressed up against his . . . and he’d failed. He’d carried every detail of that night in the barn with him to basic training. Right down to her cowgirl boots. He’d dreamed about Josie in a bikini, Josie on the mechanical bull, Josie damn near anywhere, while hiking through the Afghan desert. He’d spent years lying in makeshift barracks wanting and wishing for a chance to talk to her while staring into her large green eyes.
And yeah, who was he kidding? His gaze would head south and he’d let himself drink in the sight of her breasts.
He closed his eyes. He’d spent two long deployments hoping for an email, a letter—something from her. He’d wanted confirmation that she was all right. But she never wrote. Not once. She’d reduced him to begging for tidbits from Dominic. Not that her brother had volunteered much more than a She’s fine. Stay the hell away from her.
But she wasn’t fine.
He opened his eyes.
“You needed help and you sent a pigeon?” He released his grip on the door and rested his forearm against it. “You could have called.”
“I thought it would be better to apply for a job in person,” she said, her voice low and so damn sultry that his dick was on the verge of responding.
Not going to happen.
There were a helluva lot of things beyond his control. His dad’s health. His grandmother’s heart failure while he was stationed in Bumblefuck, Afghanistan, fighting two enemies—and one of them should have been on his side. And the fact that the only time he felt calm, in control, and something bordering on happiness, was at the damn shooting range.
Still, he could control his own dick.
But why the hell should I?
He let his gaze drift to her chest, down her hips, and down her slim legs. He’d wanted her for five long years and here she was on his doorstep. What was stopping him from pulling her close and starting where they’d left off five years ago? He wasn’t the good guy worried about her big brother’s reactions or her reputation. Not anymore. Nothing he’d done in the past five years had left him feeling heroic. So why start now?
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. And while he appreciated the way her breasts lifted, he raised his gaze to meet hers.
“I’m not hiring,” he lied. Big Buck’s needed a waitress or two, another bartender, and a dishwasher to keep up with the crowds pouring in from the nearby university, desperate to bump and grind to house music. But if she worked here, well hell, then he’d have another reason he shouldn’t touch her. He had a rule about messing around with his female employees. It was bad business. He’d worked too hard to turn Big Buck’s into something to fool around with a waitress or a bartender.
She raised an eyebrow and nodded to the Help Wanted sign he’d put up in the window. “Someone put that
up without asking you?”
Shit.
“I recently filled the position,” he said, searching for an excuse that didn’t touch on the truth.
“I’m too late.” She shook her head. “Perfect. I guess I should have gotten up the nerve to come home a few days ago.”
He glanced over her shoulder and saw a red Mini parked beside his truck. It looked like a toy next to his F-250. And apart from the driver’s side, every cubic inch appeared stuffed with bags.
“I thought you liked Portland. Greg from the station said you haven’t been back here in a few years,” he said, knowing he should close the door and end the conversation. If he let her in, if he handed her an application followed by a Big Buck’s apron, he couldn’t touch her. That wasn’t much different from the past five years, or the ones before the going away party, but she hadn’t spent the past decade or so within arm’s reach.
“It didn’t work out,” she said.
“They don’t have jobs up there for someone with a fancy degree? I bet you could do a lot better than serving drinks.”
She blinked and for a second he thought she might turn around and walk away, abandoning her plea for help. “I took a break from school, lost my scholarship, and then dropped out,” she said.
“What?” He stared at her. “Dominic never said—”
“My dad didn’t know I’d quit school until recently. And I don’t think he told Dom,” she said quickly. “My brother has enough to worry about over there. Like not getting killed or . . .”
“Worse,” he supplied. Like losing a limb or a fellow soldier. Yeah, Noah knew plenty of guys who’d lost both. But he’d worried about losing respect for the band of brothers serving with him because they’d flat out refused to treat the woman busting her ass alongside them with an ounce of decency . . .
Except Dominic would probably have stepped in and saved the woman before she was attacked. Josie’s brother wouldn’t let the situation get beyond his control and then try to pick up the pieces.
“There are worse things than dying out there,” he added, trying to focus on the here and now, not the past he couldn’t change.
“Yes.”
He kept his gaze locked on her face as he stepped back and placed his hand on the door again. He was ready and willing to slam it closed. She could tempt and tease him, but he refused to take his eyes off her face. Hell, he knew better than to play chicken with her breasts. Right now, with the way he wanted her, he’d lose that game.
First, he needed some time to process. He wanted space to think about the fact that things hadn’t worked out for her in Portland. He needed her to leave before he pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her, and offered comfort. Before he begged to know every damn detail about what had happened.
No, he needed her gone. Because he’d learned one big life lesson from his time with the marines: he wasn’t a hero. He couldn’t let old habits take over, pushing him to save her. He wanted Josie’s hands on him, her lips pressed against him . . . not her problems dumped at his feet. And if Josie was back in the town that had insisted on labeling her wild, holding her solely accountable for losing her panties in a hay wagon ride, then something had gone horribly wrong in Portland.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t—”
“I need a job, Noah.” She wasn’t begging, merely stating a fact. But desperation and determination clung to her words. Never a good combination.
Noah sighed. “Do you have any waitressing or bartending experience?”
“Not exactly.” She forced a smile as she uncrossed her arms and riffled through the worn black leather shoulder bag. She withdrew a manila folder and handed it to him. “But I brought my resume.”
Propping the door open with his foot, he took the folder and opened it. He read over the resume and tried to figure out how a series of babysitting gigs related to serving the twenty-one-and-older crowd.
“You took a year off between working for these two families.” He glanced up. “To focus on school?”
“No.” Her smile faded. “I can serve drinks, Noah. I’m smart and I’m good with people. Especially strangers. And now that you’ve taken the “country” out of Big Buck’s, I’m guessing the locals don’t camp out at the bar anymore.”
“Some still do.” And they gave him hell for telling his dad to remove the mechanical bull. Five years and the people born and bred in this town still missed the machine that had put the “country” in Big Buck’s Country Bar. Some dropped by to visit the damn thing in his dad’s barn. But he’d bet no one had ridden it like Josie in the last five years.
He closed the folder and held it out to her. “Why are you so desperate to serve drinks?”
“I owe a lot of money.”
Another fact. But this one led to a bucket of questions. “Your father won’t help you?”
She shook her head. “This is my responsibility. He’s giving me a place to stay until I get back on my feet.”
The don’t-mess-with-me veneer he wore like body armor cracked. If someone had hurt Josie . . . No, she wasn’t his responsibility. Whatever trouble she’d found—credit card debt, bad loans—it wasn’t his mess to clean up. He’d spent most of his life playing superhero, first on the football field, later for his family, and then for his fellow marines. But his last deployment—and the fallout—had made it pretty damn clear that he wasn’t cut out for the role.
He couldn’t help Josie Fairmore. Not this time. And he sure as hell couldn’t give her a job that would keep her underfoot. He couldn’t pay her to work for him and want her at the same time. It wasn’t right. Maybe he was a failed hero. But he still knew right from wrong.
“Look, I need experienced waitresses and bartenders.” He stepped away, ready to head back to the peace and quiet of his empty bar.
“So you haven’t filled the positions?” she asked.
“I—”
“Please think about it.” She removed her foot, offering him the space to slam the door. “If you can’t help me, I’ll have to take Daphne up on her offer to serve topless drinks at The Lost Kitten. And I’d rather keep my shirt on while I work. But one way or another, I’m going to pay back what I owe.”
She turned and headed for the red Mini. He stared at her back and pictured her bending over tables. One look at her bare chest and the guys at The Lost Kitten would forget what they planned to order. He hated that mental image, but jealousy didn’t dominate his senses right now.
He’d witnessed a woman sacrifice her pride and her dignity for her job. He’d fought like hell for her and he’d failed her. He couldn’t change the past. What happened to Caroline was out of his hands now. Even if he wanted to help, he couldn’t. She’d disappeared. If and when Caroline resurfaced, she’d be the one charged with a crime. Unauthorized absence. And his testimony? The things he’d witnessed? It wouldn’t matter.
But Josie was standing in his freaking parking lot.
“I’ll give you one shot,” he called. She stopped and turned to face him. Her full lips formed a smile and her eyes shone with triumph.
“A trial shift,” he added. “If you can keep up with a Thursday-night crowd, I’ll consider giving you a job.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Come back around four. And don’t get too excited. Your babysitting experience won’t help with a room full of college kids counting down the days until spring break.”
He closed the door and turned to face the dark interior of his father’s bar. Giving her a shot didn’t make him a hero. But it would give him a chance to figure out why she needed the money.
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About the Author
After several years on the other side of the publishing industry, SARA JANE STONE bid goodbye to her sales career to pursue her dream—writing romance novels. Sara Jane currently
resides in New York, with her very supportive real-life hero, two lively young children, and a lazy Burmese cat. Visit her online at www.sarajanestone.com or find her on Facebook at Sara Jane Stone.
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Also by Sara Jane Stone
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Caught in the Act
Full Exposure
Search and Seduce
Command Control
Command Performance
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