IN OVER HIS HEAD

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  "But—"

  Lexie's vehement head shaking halted Darla's words. "No buts. Now, what's this good news of yours?"

  It was obvious from Darla's expression that she didn't want to change the subject, but, after heaving a dramatic sigh, she said, "I had lunch today with a Realtor friend whose broker has been contacted by the owner of the property you're interested in. If all goes well, the land will be on the market very soon. Maybe within the next few days."

  For the first time in two weeks, a spark of interest stirred in Lexie. "How much?"

  Darla named the asking price and the spark of interest flared into real hope.

  "Believe it or not, I can actually swing that!" Lexie said.

  "You'll need to move fast," Darla warned. "I understand from my friend that other buyers have shown an interest. We'll make a written offer and, hopefully, the owner will accept it right away. If so, you'll have your half acre of heaven." She handed Lexie her margarita. "And something to keep your mind occupied."

  "Something to keep my mind occupied would really be welcome," Lexie admitted before she could stop herself.

  Darla jumped on the opening like a flea onto a hound. "I'm so sorry things didn't work out for you and Josh. I feel sort of responsible. After all, I'm the one who urged you to go for it."

  Knowing she couldn't forever avoid having the "Josh conversation" with Darla, Lexie decided to bite the bull let and just get the ordeal over with. "You didn't urge me to do anything I didn't want to. And it's certainly not your fault that he's gone."

  An image of Josh, staring at her just before he left her house, flashed through her mind. It was the last time she'd seen him. When she'd arrived at work the next morning, she learned that he'd checked out of the resort late the previous night.

  She should have been relieved, glad his early departure had erased any chance of running into him again, forcing an awkward confrontation or conversation. Instead it had felt as if she'd been sucker punched in the heart.

  "Still, I feel like I talked you into dating him," Darla said, her eyes troubled.

  Lexie gave Darla what she hoped passed for a reassuring smile. "Look, I'm twenty-eight years old. A big girl. I have no one to blame but myself for the heart bruise. I knew going in he wasn't right for me, but I stupidly followed my heart instead of my head."

  She sucked down several long mouthfuls of margarita. "Well, never again. I've made the same mistake twice. Now it's time to make a different mistake. I'm not sure what that mistake will be, but one thing's for damn sure—it will not involve another adrenaline junkie. If the guy so much as rides a bicycle without a helmet, he's history."

  "That's the spirit," Darla said approvingly. "The fact that you're talking about another guy means you're inching toward Phase Two. Now all we need to do is find you some sexy guy to have a fling with and you'll be all set."

  The word "fling" hit her like a cold, wet washcloth. The mere thought of another man touching her made her feel queasy—or maybe that was just from her freedom with the margarita on an empty stomach. Still, it seemed as if every pore ached with missing Josh.

  She mentally thunked her forehead. Josh. Josh. Josh. How to erase him from her mind? Her heart? Being at home was torture—memories of him filled every room of her house, yet, except for work, she could barely stand the thought of going out. And work offered little refuge since every time she looked at the pool or the beach—on average a few hundred times a day—she visualized Josh swimming or walking along the shore.

  Damn it, it was time to crawl out of this self-imposed exile. She'd mourned long enough. She hadn't heard a word from Josh—not that she'd expected to. But lying awake in her empty bed during the long nights, she hadn't been able to extinguish the foolish hope flickering in the deep recesses of her heart that he might call or write.

  Well, clearly he'd moved on with his life, and based on his obvious happiness on the TV, he was thriving. Now she needed to do the same. Surely this breath-stealing ache would diminish with time.

  And as for a man? Phooey! She didn't want or need a man cluttering up her life. And that was fine—she didn't have to have one. But it was time to pull herself up, dust herself off, and start living for herself again.

  "I'm not ready for a fling, but I'm ready for me," she said out loud, her head swimming a bit from the potent drink. "Who needs Josh anyway? With him gone, it's one less bell to answer, one less egg to fry."

  "No offense, Lexie, but you don't know how to fry an egg."

  "Well, I'm going to learn. And I'm going to buy my piece of land and build a house on it. And stay right here in Florida. And be happy, damn it. Happy."

  Okay, her head—marinated though it was in margarita—was convinced. Now she just had to work on her heart. And she'd do that. As soon as she found all the pieces.

  * * *

  Josh stood in the center of the arena, listening to the thunderous applause. Accepting the gold buckle, he held the trophy above his head and circled slowly. Wes Handly, who'd come in second, tipped his hat, and Josh returned the gesture of mutual respect. He circled again, absorbing the moment, recording it in his memory, storing it alongside all his other great rodeo memories. And that's exactly what they were—memories. Now officially part of his past.

  "Stick a barbecue fork in me, I'm done," he murmured to himself. He'd beaten Wes, and he could leave the arena for the last time with no regrets. It was time to start making some new memories. And he knew exactly where and with whom. He just needed to tie up a few loose ends, and then the rest of his life could begin.

  With a final wave he exited the arena, pausing to shake Wes's hand.

  "That was a great run, Josh," Wes said. "You gonna give me another shot at you?"

  "No way. You're on your own. I'm restin' on my laurels."

  "And your bruised ass," Wes said with a laugh.

  Josh grinned. "It ain't as bruised as yours."

  "True." Wes settled his Stetson back on his head. "A bunch of the boys are headed out to one of them fancy casinos. Wanna join us?"

  "No, thanks. I've got other plans."

  "Oh, yeah? Blonde, brunette or redhead?" Wes asked with a knowing smile.

  "Bright red. And she's real sleek and trim and fast. Just the way I like 'em."

  "What's her name?"

  "The Quest."

  Wes grimaced. "That's a heck of a name for a woman."

  Josh slapped Wes on the back and grinned. "I reckon it would be. But it's a real nice name for a sailboat."

  * * *

  Lexie sat in her kitchen, listlessly dunking her tea bag up and down in her favorite yellow ceramic mug. A shaft of sunlight fell across the kitchen table, and a sigh escaped her. Here it was, a beautiful morning, blue skies, warm sunshine and her day off—and she was utterly miserable.

  She looked down at the burned fried eggs on her plate. What sort of culinary curse afflicted her that she couldn't cook an egg without it coming out of the pan looking like a hockey puck? She'd offered the blackened mess to Scout who had reacted with a feline hiss of outrage and a baleful glare at Lexie.

  Her glance wandered toward the calendar hanging on the cream-colored wall next to the refrigerator and another sigh eased past her lips. He'd left exactly one month ago today.

  An entire month. Damn it, why did she still hurt so bad?

  Because you love him, you jerk, her pesky inner voice chimed in.

  Damn, she hated that inner voice. It never shut up. And it was always right. How annoying was that?

  All right, she loved him. But surely the feeling would go away soon. Wouldn't it? Nope, said her inner voice with brutal honesty.

  Great. Her love for Josh was going to stick around like a bad rash. What she needed was an antidote for love. Like serum for a poisonous snakebite.

  How was it that her breakup with Tony—a man she'd loved and had planned to marry—hadn't come close to hurting like this.

  Because you didn't love Tony the way you love Josh. Because with Tony you k
new you'd done the right thing and this time you're not so sure.

  Okay, the damn voice had to go. In an effort to shut it up, she pulled the newspaper toward her and flipped through the pages. A small item on page ten caught her attention: Swimmer Suffers Shark Bite. She scanned the words. A fifteen-year-old boy required seventy-two stitches to close a wound to his calf when a shark attacked him the day before in the shallows off a beach about ten miles from the Whispering Palms.

  Josh's words came back to her in rush. Sharks are dangerous … a bull might break your leg, but he won't bite it off … every time I see you going off in that boat for a scuba excursion, my gut gets tight. But I wouldn't ask you not to do it.

  A frown pulled down her brows. Maybe he'd had a point. Maybe her job did involve some danger. But surely nothing like climbing onto the back of a pissed-off, two-ton bull. Every time her mind replayed the TV footage of him riding that beast, the butterflies in her stomach grew queasy.

  The phone rang and, relieved to have her thoughts interrupted, she reached over to snag the handset from the counter. "Hello?"

  "Lexie, it's Darla."

  Her heart fluttered at Darla's voice. Could this be the call she'd been hoping for? She'd made her offer on the piece of land yesterday, but she hadn't expected to hear back so soon. "Do you have news?"

  "I do."

  Even though Darla only spoke those two words, something in her tone skittered dread down Lexie's spine. "Please don't keep me in suspense."

  "I'm afraid that the owner accepted another offer, Lexie. I'm so sorry."

  "Another offer?" she echoed in confusion. "But I offered the asking price!"

  "And unfortunately another buyer offered more."

  "Well, I'll just make another, even higher, offer," she said, her mind frantically trying to calculate how much more she could afford to spend.

  "There's nothing we can do. The owner has already accepted the other offer."

  This could not be happening. Lexie pressed her palm against her forehead in a vain effort to stem the throb setting up behind her eyes. "Maybe the other deal will fall through?" she suggested in a hopeful voice.

  "That is, of course, always a possibility," Darla said slowly, "and I would certainly let you know, but I don't want you to get your hopes up, Lex. The other buyer is paying cash, so the deal can close quickly. Within a few weeks."

  "I see." She felt like a balloon someone had just let all the air out of. "Who's the buyer?"

  "I don't know … but does it really matter?" Darla asked, her tone gentle and sympathetic.

  Darla had a point. "No."

  "Listen. I'm going to scour the listings and we're going to find you another piece of land. A better piece. I'll print out some possibilities today at work, then we'll go out for dinner tonight and look them over. There's a lot of land for sale in Florida, Lex."

  True. But she'd only wanted one, tiny piece of it. One tiny specific piece. And now it was gone. "Thanks, Darla, but—"

  "No buts. We're going out tonight and that's final. I'm showing up at your door at six sharp. Wear something sexy, because after dinner we're hitting a few clubs."

  "But—"

  "No buts. The only excuse I'll accept is if you already have a date with Ben Affleck. Do you?"

  "No." The word came out as a snarl.

  "Then chin up, and I'll see you at six."

  Before Lexie could say another word, the dial tone sounded in her ear. Clicking off the phone, she closed her eyes, then dragged her hands down her face.

  She wanted to cry, to scream out her frustration, maybe even get up and smash a coffee cup or two, but she remained dry-eyed, silent and seated, trying to come to grips with the numbing, knee-buckling fact that her dream of building her house on her cove was gone.

  She wasn't certain how long she stared off into space before the insistent ringing of her doorbell roused her. She rose and made her way to the door on leaden legs. With the way her luck was running, this was probably someone coming to tell her that her car had fallen into a sinkhole.

  But what the heck. Her heart was broken, her land was gone, and she forgot to apply sunscreen yesterday so her damn nose was peeling. How much worse could this day from hell get?

  She pulled open the door and instantly discovered the answer.

  A whole lot worse.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^

  Lexie stared at Josh, standing on her porch. Josh with his weight propped on a pair of crutches, his right leg wrapped from the knee down in a cast, and a hell of a shiner surrounding his right eye.

  What on earth had happened? When she'd seen him on TV, he'd been fine. Had he competed in another rodeo?

  She ruthlessly cut off the barrage of questions and gave herself a mental slap. Not your problem, Lex.

  Yup, what a relief this guy was no longer on her radar screen—him and his cast and crutches and bruises. 'Cause if he were still on her radar screen, her stomach would be clenching and her heart thumping at the sight of his injuries. And she didn't feel the least bit clenched or thumped. Nope. Not a bit. And the fact that she couldn't find her voice around the lump in her throat? Just an aberration. And that moisture pushing behind her eyes? Just the fact that she hadn't dusted lately.

  Raising her gaze from his cast, their eyes met. Dozens of memories she'd thought she'd sorta, kinda, almost filed away under "the past" bounced through her mind. Damn it, why did he have to darken her doorstep and resurrect those images she'd worked so hard to bury?

  A sheepish half grin pulled up one corner of his mouth, flashing that damn sexy dimple. "Are you going to invite me in?"

  She wanted to say no. Wanted to slam the door in his face, to shut him out of her life and mind. Whatever his reason was for blowing through town and stopping by and flashing his dimple, she didn't want any part of it. Because he would just leave again. How many times was she expected to bear the pain of saying goodbye to him?

  Raising her brows, she lifted her chin and forced a coolness into her voice. "I suppose I'd better invite you in. If I don't you might lose your balance on those crutches and topple into the flower bed." She stepped back to give him room to enter the foyer.

  "Thanks." The rubber tips of his crutches sounded a soft splat against the ceramic tile.

  "Would you like some coffee?" she asked, closing the door, trying her darnedest to ignore her traitorous heart, which seemed to thump out in Morse code, He's here! He's here!

  "Coffee would be great."

  She followed him into the kitchen, absolutely not noticing how at-home he looked in her house, instead forcing herself to note the fact that he handled himself on those crutches like a pro. No doubt due to lots of past practice from a long line of rodeo-related injuries. Yup, good thing he was no longer her problem. She might love him, but that would fade in time.

  Yeah, like in a hundred years, her inner voice snickered. While he settled himself in the kitchen chair he'd always occupied during their fling, she measured out scoops of fragrant grinds into the filter. Why was he here? And why didn't he say something? She at least had a reason for her silence—the big lump blocking her throat. What was his excuse?

  She added water, then switched the coffeemaker on. Unable to put it off any longer, she turned around and faced him. Their eyes met. Just looking at him, her heart tumbled down to her toes, taking her stomach and a few other vital organs along for the ride.

  When he still remained silent, annoyance trickled through her. Whatever he wanted, it was time he spoke up. Then left her alone. And clearly she was the one who was going to have to get things moving along here.

  She cleared her throat. "So you injured yourself in the rodeo. I have to admit, I'm having a very hard time not saying 'I told you so.'" Humph. Take that and stick it in your Stetson, hotshot.

  "Didn't get hurt in the rodeo."

  She pointedly eyed his cast. "Slipped on the deck while sailing the Mediterranean?"

  "Nope. I fell at the airpor
t. Here. Last night. Tripped over my damn duffel bag." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Was all your fault, I'll have you know."

  Her eyes goggled. "My fault? That you tripped?"

  He nodded solemnly. "I'd set down my bag to dig out my cell phone. I was dialing your number when, through the windows, I saw this gal getting into a cab. I didn't see her face, but she had your curly brown hair. I thought it was you—"

  "It wasn't."

  "I realized that when she turned her head, but unfortunately I'd already started forward. I tripped on my duffel and went down like a hog-tied calf. What followed was more embarrassing than anything I've ever faced. People all gatherin' around and starin', then the ambulance arriving. Talk about feeling like the south end of a horse." He shook his head. "I spent the whole friggin' night in the emergency room getting X-rayed and outfitted in this cast. Definitely not the way I'd hoped to spend the evening. I would have called you, but I, uh, know how you feel about getting calls from the hospital. So I waited until I was discharged, and … here I am."

  "Yes, here you are." Looking big and vital and wonderful, albeit bruised, making her heart perform acrobatic leaps. "May I ask why you're here?"

  Without taking his gaze from her, he slowly rose, then hobbled toward her. He stopped when only a foot separated them, then leaned forward, bracing his hands on the countertop on either side of her, caging her in. She pressed her backside harder against the counter, but there was no escaping, unless she wanted to give him a shove. Given the facts that he was injured, and her traitorous body was very happy to have him standing so close, she opted against the shove. Instead she gazed into his serious eyes and prayed he couldn't hear her heart pounding.

  "I'm here," he said in a low, husky voice, "because this is where you are. And where you are, is where I want to be."

  Elation and something akin to panic collided in her. Clearly he wanted to continue their fling. And while her body and mind were all for it, her heart wanted no part of the inevitable battering it would receive when he left again. And damn it, she resented that he obviously believed he could just pop into town and drop by. As if they were still involved. As if their fling hadn't ended.