"I heard you were back in town," he says.
"Yeah," I say. "Just for now, I guess. What are you doing here?"
That smile again. "I live here."
"You … oh." I thought Ryan moved away. He did, right after high school. I’m sure of it. "Did you move back?"
He nods. "About six months ago."
My eyes drift to the tattoos on his arms. One peeks out beneath his t-shirt and he has another on his other forearm. He has this look about him, now. I can’t reconcile the fact that this is the same Ryan I grew up with. And it isn’t just because I’m drunk. In fact, I’m sobering up pretty quickly.
"Why?" I ask.
His mouth drops open just a little, a flash of surprise moving across his face.
Crap, I insulted him.
"No, that's not what I mean," I say, stammering. "I meant when. Except you already said six months ago." Damn it, this is not going well. But this isn’t something that needs to go well, so what am I so worried about? Shouldering my purse, I look around. "Have you seen Melissa Simon? I was here with her, and she got a phone call."
"I haven't seen her," Ryan says. "Do you need a ride home?"
As if on cue, my phone dings. I dig into my purse and fish it out, managing to keep from dropping it.
The text is from Melissa. Where are you?
"Um," I say, fumbling. I tap out a quick reply. Parking lot. "I don't think so. She just texted."
Ryan's eyes rove over me. I can’t read his expression, but suddenly I very much wished Melissa had ditched me and I did need a ride home.
"I'll wait with you until she comes out, then," he says.
"Thanks."
I need water. And a bed. I can already tell I’m going to feel like hell in the morning, and I hate the way my head is swimming. I feel like I’m missing something, like I should say something clever. Or funny. Why is Ryan Jacobsen standing in front of me in the parking lot of the Porthole Inn? And why do my eyes keep wanting to drift down to the bulge in his jeans?
Forcing my eyes back to Ryan's face doesn’t help. He really is gorgeous. He has this look of either bewilderment or scathing judgment; I can’t quite tell which. Maybe the scathing judgment is only in my head, but immediately I start imagining what he must be thinking of me. Poor Nicole Prescott. Dumped and sent crawling back to Jetty Beach.
Oh lord, it's pity. He feels sorry for me.
"There you are!" Melissa bursts out of the restaurant and runs across the parking lot. "I was looking all over for you."
"Where did you think I'd go?" I ask.
"I don't know, mojito girl," she says. "Hey, Ryan."
Ryan gives her a crooked smile, his dimples puckering. "Are you going to take her home?"
"Obviously," Melissa says, raising an eyebrow. “Drunky McDrunkerson here needs to go to bed.”
"What the hell, Melissa?" I say.
"Okay, if you're sure you've got her," Ryan says.
"Yeah, I've got her. Thanks."
Ryan grins again. "Well then, ladies. You two have a good evening. Good to see you again, Nicole."
"You too."
I watch him walk away. His jeans cup his ass perfectly. Not too tight, like some wannabe hipster, but tight enough to show off the goods.
"Hello," Melissa says, waving a hand in front of my face. "Earth to Nicole. Quit staring at Ryan's ass."
"I wasn't."
"Uh, yeah you were," Melissa says. "I mean, he does have a nice ass. But come on, it's Ryan."
Yeah. It's Ryan.
Melissa ushers me into her car and I strap in. "So he's back in town?"
"Yep," Melissa says, casting a weird look my direction. "Maybe six months ago? He bought that old church just north of town, the one on the bluff."
"He lives there?"
"I guess," Melissa says. "I hear he's been fixing it up."
"I thought he moved to L.A."
"He did, but he came back."
I groan. "Ugh, why?"
Melissa casts another sidelong glance at me. "Not everyone hates this town as much as you do."
I let out a sigh. "I'm sorry, Mel. I didn't mean it like that." Melissa came right back to Jetty Beach after getting her teaching degree, and now she wrangles fifth graders at the same elementary school we went to. I don’t quite understand why, but Melissa loves Jetty Beach. It makes her happy. "I don't hate this town."
"It's okay," she says. "Besides, I know where we can direct all of our seething ire."
"Jason the Jackass?"
"That's good, I like that." She puts the car in gear and backs out of her spot. "I think at this point we can both admit, getting out of the house wasn't what you needed tonight."
I shrug, fumbling with the seat belt.
Maybe not. But then again, maybe it was just the thing.
Nicole Prescott.
When I decided to run into town for a few things, she was the last person I expected to run into.
I saw her stumble out of the Porthole Inn, clearly more drunk than not. She looked great, of course. She always did. Her shirt was sort of careless, a bit of it tucked into her jeans, the rest hanging loose, hinting at her gorgeous curves. Her hair was a mess, but all I could think about was how that's what she would look like after a night of fucking her.
Great, two seconds into seeing my childhood friend, and I’m already imagining her naked in my bed. I should not be thinking of Nicole that way.
I shouldn't be thinking of any woman that way.
I haven’t seen her in about three years. The last time, she literally didn’t see me. We were in a coffee shop in Seattle and she looked right through me—no recognition whatsoever. I was all set to smile and say hi, see if she wanted to catch up. She was alone, no sign of douchebag Jason. But her eyes passed over me and she walked right by, as if I wasn't even there. I was too surprised to say anything. I wasn’t expecting her to jump in my arms or anything, but shit, we'd known each other since we were kids.
Of course, I do look a little different.
I walk away from the restaurant, wishing Melissa hadn't shown up. No, it was good Melissa showed up. Nicole was drunk. The way she looked at me told me I needed to get the hell out of there, immediately. The last thing I need is to get involved with a local girl. Or any girl.
I don’t pay much attention to town gossip, but I heard Nicole was back in town. I'll have to ask my mother why—she'll certainly know. I wonder if it has anything to do with douchebag Jason. Maybe she left him.
I don’t hold out much hope. When Nicole and Jason didn't break up in college, I figured that was it. They'd get married and have little blond-haired douchebag kids. She seemed happy, I guess. I wouldn't really know. We hung out as kids, but somewhere around puberty, we drifted apart. I was the awkward skinny kid who didn't grow facial hair until I was almost nineteen. She developed early and had every boy in town jacking off to fantasies of her.
It wasn't much of a surprise when she and Jason started dating—and I couldn't pinpoint why, but it never sat well with me. By then, our friendship was nothing but a memory, something that happened to people who were so different, we didn't even know each other anymore. I wasn't jealous, exactly. Sure, Nicole was hot as hell, and I did my share of jacking off to fantasies of her. But Jason was a cocky asshole, and I knew he'd never be good enough for her. Unfortunately, it wasn't my call.
Now she’s back. By the state of her makeup, she was crying. I shouldn't care why. Nicole isn’t mine to worry over. I have enough to deal with in my own life. I’m doing really well, and I don’t want to shake things up.
Still, just the sight of her got me hard. What was that about? I adjust my pants as I walk away. I told myself already, I need to back off, and do it now. Despite the way she made me stand at attention, I know I can’t get involved with someone right now. Or maybe ever. I moved home to Jetty Beach to get better. The slower pace of life is good for me, as is living near my family. I've made a lot of progress, but I’m not ready to let someone in again.
I doubt I ever will be.
Even if that woman is Nicole Prescott. And she looked like a fucking beautiful drunk angel.
I hop in my car and head north, out of town. The drive to my house isn’t long. It isn’t a house in the traditional sense, but I’m not a traditional guy. I bought an old abandoned church when I moved back to the beach, and spent the last six months renovating. My parents think I’m nuts, but they never really understood me. My dad refers to me as the "artsy-fartsy one.” My mom is just happy to have me living close enough to check on me constantly. As far as the building, the bones are good, and the lighting—oh my god, the lighting. Huge windows look out on the ocean on the back side, these gorgeous things with peaked tops and original glass. As a photographer, I’m a bit obsessed with lighting. The way the sun streams through those windows is perfect. I tried explaining that to my dad when I bought the place, and he nodded appreciatively. He didn't really understand, but I didn't expect him to. He still thinks I’m just messing around with my camera, and probably wonders when I’m going to get a real job.
My phone rings and I answer through the Bluetooth. "Hey, Mom."
"Sweetie, where are you? Are you home?"
I thought moving back to Jetty Beach might mean my mom didn't check up on me so often, but that isn’t the case. She calls me at least once a day. I know she has her reasons. It doesn’t seem to matter how often I assure her I’m okay. I’m pretty sure she believes me when I say I’m fine, but she seems afraid it won’t last. Hell, I’m afraid of the same thing sometimes.
"I'm good. I'm heading home now. I'll be there soon."
"That's good to hear."
"Do you need something, or are you just calling to check up on me?" I tried to show my mom how to text so she could send me a quick message if she just needed reassurance. Technology is not her thing. I’m pretty sure she was born in the wrong era. She belongs in the fifties or something.
"I made pie."
"That's great, Mom." She’s always baking something. See? Fifties. "It's kind of late for me to come over, don't you think?"
"Yes, it's late. I'm headed to bed soon."
So why did you call me to tell me you made pie?
"All right." Before I can stop myself, I ask about Nicole. "Hey, Mom, I ran into Nicole Prescott tonight. Did you hear she's back in town?"
"I sure did," she says. I recognize the sound of her conspiratorial voice. Yep, she knows exactly what’s going on. "I saw her mother the other day at the bank. Apparently Nicole and that Jason boy she was dating broke up."
"He's not really a boy anymore," I say, although try convincing my mom of that. Everyone under thirty is still a kid as far as she is concerned. I hesitate. I don’t need to know. But I have to ask. "Did you hear why?"
"I think there was another girl," she says.
A twist of anger rolls through my chest. He cheated on Nicole? Who does that?
Douchebag Jason, apparently.
"That sucks," I say.
"Did you remember about the meeting?" Mom asks.
"Meeting?"
She lets out an exasperated sigh. "Yes, Ryan. Meeting. You agreed to help run the Jetty Beach Art Festival, remember?"
I groan. I did agree to that, didn't I? I was having a few beers with my dad when Mom brought it up, so it didn’t seem like such a bad idea at the time. Jetty Beach has an art festival every year. It used to be run by the owner of the largest art gallery in town, but he retired last year. The committee still wants the event to continue, but they need more volunteers. I'm pretty sure my mom volunteered me before she even told me about it. She was rather adamant that I agree.
"Mom, I'm not sure I have time for this right now."
"Oh, nonsense," Mom says.
"There's a lot of work to do on the church building. There's literally a hole in the wall near my bed. I can see outside."
"You have plenty of time," she says with a little laugh. "I think this will be good for you. Besides, this is an art festival. Isn't this your area? Maybe you could show some of your photographs."
I grin despite myself. I have some photographs I can certainly display, but most of my work is not something I'd show my mother. "I don't know."
"The meeting is tomorrow, honey. It's at the Old Town Cafe. Ten o'clock."
I pull up the long driveway, my tires crunching on the gravel. "Okay, okay, Mom."
"Good. Love you, baby boy."
"Love you too, Mom."
I grab my jacket and go inside, tossing my wallet and phone onto a side table near the door. The air is cold, but man I love this place. The high ceiling with exposed wood beams, the tall windows, the gorgeous hardwood floors. There are a hundred perfect places to shoot. Word got around to some of my past clients that I have this great studio, and I’m having no problem getting people to drive out here for photo shoots.
The ocean waves are muffled, but I can hear their steady rhythm through the walls. My mind drifts back to Nicole, tear-streaked and despondent. I know what it feels like to have your heart crushed. Jason might be a douchebag, but she was with him a long time. She must be pretty devastated. Yet there was something in her eyes—a fire in her. I felt it in her gaze when she looked at me. And the way her skin felt when I grabbed her so she wouldn't fall…
I run a hand through my hair and adjust my pants again. Damn it, why is every thought of Nicole getting me hard?
I walk through the studio to the doorway that leads to my apartment, off the side of the main building. It’s small—a sitting area, a compact kitchen, and a bathroom through another door. My king sized bed looks a little ridiculous in the middle of the room, but I like having a lot of space to stretch out, so I made it fit. Besides, it’s just me. I don’t need much space.
I wonder if Nicole made it home okay. I take off my shirt, toss it in a basket, and pull a pair of sweats from my dresser. I glance at the letter I left sitting there, unopened. I’ve had it for a long time. Maybe soon I'll be able to bring myself to open it.
Not today.
I shake my head and drop my jeans, then pull on my sweats. I have to put Nicole out of my mind, and keep her there. I need to stay focused on myself. On staying healthy. I feel bad for her, but she’ll be fine—and if she isn’t, I’m the last thing she needs.
Morning comes far too early. My phone, dinging with emails, wakes me well before I am ready to crack my eyes open. My head hurts, and my mouth tastes nasty, but considering I dropped into bed still in my clothes, it could be worse. I grab my phone from the nightstand. Twelve emails already, half of them from my boss, Sandra.
"Okay, okay, I'm up."
Sandra has been great about the whole mess. I actually broke down crying in her office after I found out about Jason. I probably should have called in sick that day. Coming home to another woman straddling your boyfriend in your bed should qualify you for sick leave, right? I tried to soldier on, hoping work would keep my mind off the fact that my life had exploded. Later that afternoon, I found myself sobbing on the other side of Sandra's desk. She offered to let me go home, but I didn't have a home to go to. My home was Jason's home, and that wasn't going to work. In the end, I arranged to work remotely for a couple of weeks while I figured things out. I packed a bunch of clothes and drove to my parents’ house.
It’s been a few days, and I definitely need to start getting my life back together. The weeknight drinking isn’t helping.
I tap out a few quick replies, and haul myself out of bed. My hair is a disaster, matted with last night's hairspray, but I don’t bother with it yet. I just need to get some work done. I grab my laptop and leave it on the kitchen island while I go in search of something caffeinated.
Without much hope, I dig through the cupboards. After my mom turned fifty, she became some kind of health nut. My dad grumbles about it, but even he has to admit the two of them look better than they have in years. My mom runs a lot, and does yoga. I don’t mind not having pasta or bread in the house, but the shocking lack of coffee is getting r
idiculous. She even tossed her coffee maker. I’m going to have to go buy a French press or something, because this no coffee bullshit is not okay.
"Morning." My mom's concerned voice comes from behind me as I rifle through another cupboard.
"Morning," I say. I give up on my quest for caffeine and sit down at the island with my laptop. "How do I have seven new emails? I just checked five minutes ago."
"Can I get you something?" Mom asks.
"Coffee?"
She presses her lips into a little smile. Her hair is pulled up in a bun, and I can see the streaks of gray in her dark blond hair. She’s dressed in a tank top and yoga pants, her feet bare.
"Aren't you going to work?" I ask.
"Not today," she says. "I'm taking your dad to the doctor later, so I took the whole day off."
"The doctor? Why? Is Dad okay?"
My dad is a contractor. He built half the houses in Jetty Beach. Dad grew up in Orlando, and Mom calls him her city boy, but he loves small town life. He’s a hard-working man, his hands rough and calloused from years of swinging a hammer. Aside from the time our whole family got the flu when I was ten, I can’t remember my dad ever being sick.
"Oh, he's fine," Mom says. "He's had some shoulder pain lately so I finally convinced him to get it looked at. But we both know he'll skip the appointment if I don't go with him."
I smile. That is certainly true. "Okay, but seriously, Mom. This moratorium on coffee has got to stop, at least while I'm here."
Mom pulls out a barstool and sits, resting her elbows on the kitchen island. Dad remodeled the kitchen a few years ago, with beautiful white marble countertops and custom cabinets.
"How long do you think that will be, honey?"
I freeze. I've only been home for a few days. Has it been more? I glance over at the calendar hanging on the wall. What day is it?
"I don't know," I say, feeling defensive. "My life sort of got dumped in the toilet. Are you so anxious to get rid of me?"
"No, of course we don't want to get rid of you," Mom says. "We just want to make sure you have a plan."
I gaze at my laptop screen. She’s right. I need a plan. I love plans. Checklists, spreadsheets, timelines. I am literally passionate about that stuff. But for the first time in my life, I don’t have any of it.
Must Be Love: (Nicole and Ryan) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 1) Page 2
