Whitney wasn’t about to be outdone. “I’ll cut you open and give you the most fantastic pair of breasts you’ve ever seen.”
Despite the fact that all of that sounded horrifying—and this from a woman who’d undergone hours of ink at a time—Gretchen had to smile. “I think maybe you guys got some wires crossed. I didn’t ask Jared to stay.”
“I know.” Whitney gave a slow, careful nod. “You’re too smart for that. I used to think I was the best there is when it comes to handling a man, but you’ve got skills I’m scared to ask about.”
“We thought for sure we were going to lose him. Again.” Kendra waved a customer ahead of them to where Julie stood behind the counter, gaping at the scene being enacted at full volume. “And just when we were finally starting to break through.”
“Seriously, you guys.” Gretchen ducked under the counter and led the two women to a semi-private corner of the café. “I don’t know what he told you, but this has nothing to do with me. Jared and I are done.”
Whitney’s lips lifted in a smirk. “That’s not what he says.”
“And what, exactly, does he say?”
“You know. Things. Mushy things. About how he couldn’t possibly move away now that he has you in his life, blah, blah, romance.”
What blah, blah, romance? As far as Jared was concerned, insults counted as sweet nothings and using her tattoos as a lance to provoke his father’s disapproval was chivalry. She wasn’t a demanding woman, but a few candlelit dinners wouldn’t have gone amiss during the course of their wayward courtship.
“I know we probably shouldn’t have come over today, but we couldn’t help it,” Kendra said. “Not until we thanked you in person.”
Gretchen recoiled from the warmth in Kendra’s tone. “It’s wrong. You’re wrong. Jared and I...” How could she accurately phrase this? “He’s a narcissistic asshole.”
Yep. That about covered it.
“Oh, we know. But he told us how you put things into perspective for him.”
“Jared has no perspective. That’s the problem.”
“He does now.” Kendra pulled her in for a hug. “You’re amazing.”
She stiffened. “I’m not amazing.”
Neither was Jared. In fact, he was a liar. Whatever tales he was spouting, citing her as his reason for staying—they were bullshit. She would never have asked him to stay. She would never have presumed to put her desires above his. That lesson had been learned and burned.
As the hug continued, Gretchen made the mistake of letting her guard down long enough for the woman to lift her lips to Gretchen’s ear.
“I mean it about the waxing. Any time you want to show that man you mean business downstairs, I’ll personally make sure it happens.”
* * *
Jared pulled open the front door to be greeted by his favorite militant roller-skating pixie. Emphasis on the militant.
“What are you telling people about us?” She didn’t wait for an invitation. Without so much as a hello, she stalked into his living room. “Why does everyone keep thanking me for convincing you to stay in Pleasant Park?”
Jared knew it was in his best interest to pacify her. He knew that few men—if any—were given this many second chances in their lifetimes. He’d already squandered so many, and none of them had mattered even a fraction as much as the one squaring off to face him in front of his newly acquired dog-hair-resistant couch.
But he couldn’t help it. Matching her stance, he replied with the most level voice he could muster, “Probably because they know it’s true.”
Her mouth fell open, and it took all of his self-control not to cover it with a kiss.
“I did not ask you to turn down that job for me.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t have put me in that position in the first place.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
“And being all conciliating now isn’t going to change my mind.”
“You’ve made that abundantly clear.” His breathing came shorter and tighter, a physical manifestation of the battle being waged within. Everything hinged on Gretchen at least hearing him out. “And I will never pressure you to do or promise anything you don’t want to. But that doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”
Gretchen’s color mounted, and he was struck with the incongruous thought that he would never get tired of seeing her like this. He would never wish to make this woman angry on purpose, but her passions—all of them—were a beautiful thing.
“So that’s your plan? You’re going to saunter around, fixing people’s broken parts and playing the borough god until I realize how amazing you are?”
“Well...”
“You’re going to stay in Pleasant Park for the rest of your life, watching and waiting for the day I come to my senses?”
He couldn’t resist. “Now who’s the conceited one?”
She looked very much as though she’d like to throw something at him, and she took a moment to scan the room, looking for a projectile. He could tell when she finally took stock of her surroundings.
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped, the fight ebbing away. “You decorated.”
“I figured as long as I’m making this official, it wouldn’t hurt to unpack a few things.” Not everything, of course, but he’d managed to put a few colorful prints on the walls and even placed some personal photos on the mantle.
“You even bought furniture. You have a couch.”
“Don’t get too excited. I still don’t have a bed, though I did move the cot up there. It’s going to take some time for me to adjust.”
She softened, and Jared almost let out an audible groan of relief. Keep softening. Keep letting me in. I’m begging you.
“The tent is gone?”
He nodded. Down and packed and hopefully relegated to the past, where it belonged.
She sank onto the couch. “That’s good. I’m glad you’re moving on.”
“I’m not moving on. I’m settling in. There’s a difference.” He didn’t sit on the couch next to her, instead sinking to the ottoman—close, but not touching. If he touched her, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop. “I promised you I’d never lie to you, so I won’t tell you that you had nothing to do with my decision to stay. But you aren’t the only reason, if that helps. I like it here. I like New Leaf and working with my friends. I like coming home to the same place every night and ordering takeout that’s always delivered by the same guy on a moped. I like who I am here.”
He half expected Gretchen to yell at him for once again making this entire thing about his wishes and desires, but all she did was sit up straighter and dangle a blue and green batik throw pillow from her fingertips.
“Holy crap, Jared—are these our sex pillows?”
A startled laugh escaped him. “Um...yes?”
“You put our sex pillows on your couch?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Has anyone else sat here since you moved everything in?”
“Quite a few people, actually. The team from the office threw me a housewarming party.”
The pillow flew. Only by ducking at the last second did he avoid a direct sex-pillow blow to the face.
It hadn’t been Gretchen’s intention to make Jared do anything but apologize. Apologize and maybe explain himself and possibly beg her to take him back, at which point she had grand visions of herself crushing his hopes underneath her heel.
She most certainly did not intend to start a pillow fight. She most certainly did not intend to let him win.
But he did.
She threw one pillow after another, aiming for his face and hitting mostly air. She would have kept going, but the sex-pillow reservoir didn’t run deep, and Jared leaped up from his seat and tackled her before she could get a good grip on the l
ast remaining one.
At least she had the satisfaction of seeing one of the pillows rip open, sending what were probably hand-plucked chicken feathers flying. Even Max joined in, unable to withstand the fun without taking a pillow into his mouth and shaking it until it presumably died.
Of far more immediacy, however, was Jared on top of her, Jared all over her, Jared kissing her until she sank into the couch cushions, swallowed by them both.
“Gretchen, I’m so sorry.” His hands ran a constant, soothing pattern over her face and her hair, as if he was afraid she might disappear under his touch. “I know I’m difficult to get along with and a horrible human being in general, but I thought I’d be okay as long as I didn’t hurt you. I thought I’d be okay as long as you were there to reel me back in.”
She struggled to sit up, but his lips found hers again, stealing her words. The weight of him on top of her made it all too easy to forget where she was and what she’d come to do. All she wanted was to continue feeling the rippled musculature of his back under her fingertips, bask in the heat of entangled legs and hips that rocked against one another with a yearning neither one of them could deny.
“Jared—stop.” She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him gently back. The action separated their faces but only increased the pressure below. With a moan of discontent she could tell Jared shared, she pulled her legs out from under him.
“What you just said, that’s the problem. I can’t be responsible for your actions or lack thereof. That’s not a relationship. That’s a jail sentence.”
“You’re wrong.” When she opened her mouth to protest, Jared grabbed her hands, unwilling and unable to let her go. “The problem with that scenario isn’t that I’m asking you to be my reality check—it’s that you haven’t asked me to be yours in return.”
“You want to be my reality check?”
He brushed the hair from her face, lingering at her ear, his touch featherlight. “You think I don’t see you, but I do. I see you more clearly than I’ve ever seen anyone before. And I know you, Gretchen. I know you inside and out.” He smiled and shifted so that she was practically ensconced in his lap. It was comfortable there. Safe. “In fact, I knew the only way to get you to actually talk to me was to make you so mad you’d throw common courtesy and your better judgment out the window.”
“You bastard. You told Whitney and Kendra all those lies on purpose.” She wriggled in an attempt to get out of his lap, but his arms held her firm. Like chains. Like a jail sentence of the best possible kind.
“I know you hide behind your tattoos and tough-girl attitude the same way your grandmother hides behind her hoarding and her irritability—and that underneath you’re both soft, vulnerable, strong, incredible women. I know you’d never be happy away from your family or your roller derby team, and that you belong here in Pleasant Park and not some stuffy DC apartment catering to my demands. I know you’re scared shitless of trying to finish culinary school because you don’t know what’s supposed to happen after that, but I also know you’re much better than a bunch of part-time jobs that don’t fulfill you.” He kissed her lightly on the nose. “And most importantly, I know that you love me.”
“You can’t possibly know all that.”
He placed his forehead against hers in an achingly intimate gesture they both knew meant that he loved her too. “But I do. And despite my flaws—or maybe because of them—I know that you’re the only woman in the world who could make me happy. All I ask is that you let me repay the favor and make you happy in return. I’m a good student, Gretchen. I promise to try every day.”
“You make a very convincing argument,” she began. “But—”
His hold on her stiffened so suddenly at her words, she almost felt as though she could shatter in his arms. She kissed him softly, sweetly, an openmouthed command that he let her finish.
“Relax, Jared. I was just going to say that we need to find a better way to declare our love than by pointing out each other’s flaws. It’s not normal.”
His smile tugged at her chest, pulling a band so tight she thought she might burst.
“It’s not my fault,” he vowed. The first, he hoped of many. “You have such wonderful flaws.”
Epilogue
“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.” Jared looked at the table setting with a smile. Candles, tablecloth, napkins one of them would have to launder later...all the luxuries were there. Of course, he would have been just as happy eating off a mess kit in the dirt, but who was he to deny Gretchen a chance to don an oversized Kiss the Cook apron and whirl around the kitchen? She already told him what she had on underneath.
It wasn’t much.
“Oh, but I did.” Gretchen emerged from the kitchen bearing a silver platter. As promised, the apron she wore came to the tops of her thighs, her arms bare save for the straps of a bright pink bra that kept slipping down on one side. “This is a very special occasion.”
She set the platter down gently and gestured for him to lift the lid. As he’d become something of her guinea pig lately, feasting on strange French foods that seemed awfully dependent on dairy, he was curious what would make today so much different than before.
The smell assaulted his nostrils before he caught sight of the vibrant red creature nesting in a bed of lettuce. Sweet, crisp with remnants of the sea, rich with the promise of butter.
“Ta-da!” she cried.
Jared pushed back from the table, horrified. “You killed him. I can’t believe you really killed him.”
Gretchen leaned over him, reaching for the lobster with her bare hands and cracking him right in half. Steam curled enticingly from the center. Wally’s center. His poor little lobster center.
“You’re a monster,” Jared accused. He grabbed a lobster fork from the platter and pointed it at her, wielding it like a sword. “What kind of a person are you? Wally and I had an understanding. Wally and I were friends.”
Her throaty laughter did little to put him at ease. He blamed it on all the horror movies she’d made him watch lately. The smart brunettes were always the most vicious.
She picked up a piece of meat and popped it in her mouth, emitting low, sensual noises that would normally have her pressed up against a wall in seconds. “Just taste him. Such soft meat. So fresh. So tender.”
“Did you at least give him a painless death? Or did you cast him, alive and screaming, into the pot?”
She stopped, her hip resting against one side of the table. “Just what kind of an understanding did you and Wally have? I’m feeling a little jealous right now.”
“That’s none of your business. He happens to be an excellent companion when I can’t sleep. He listens to me without judging. Unlike some people I know.”
“You hang out with Wally at night?”
“Hung,” he corrected her sadly. “I don’t think talking to a Tupperware container of leftovers will have the same effect.”
“Oh, Jared.” Gretchen ran toward him, and Jared was forced to drop the fork or risk stabbing the love of his life. “I would never do anything to hurt your beloved pet. I picked two lobsters up in the city before practice yesterday. One for my culinary professor. And one for you.”
He caught her easily, even though his arms were necessary only as a brace. The tight grip of her legs around his hips was more than enough to keep her anchored there for as long as they needed. She clamped her legs tightly.
It wouldn’t be long.
“Does this mean he let you retake the final? You passed?”
She kissed him, her lips soft and slick from the butter. “They agreed to exchange the Incomplete for a diploma this afternoon. Gran was so happy she cried.”
Looking at Gretchen’s eyes, brimming with emotion, he assumed she wasn’t the only one. One of the many delightful surprises he’d uncovere
d in the past few months was that the fierce, confrontational Badgerton women were a pair of watering pots. Gretchen even cried over commercials.
“Maybe we should take dinner over to her house to comfort her,” he suggested. “I’m not sure I can stomach seafood anymore. It feels cruel. What if Wally knows? What if he can smell it on us?”
She laughed against his lips and wound her arms tighter around his neck. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m going to do now that I’m done with school?”
“No. I already know.”
“You can’t possibly.”
He slipped his hands around her body, cupping her ass, feeling nothing but the taut, annoying, impenetrable fit of her favorite roller derby shorts. “You’re going to do what makes you happy. And you’ll be good at it. Or maybe you won’t. It doesn’t matter either way.”
“Why? Because I have a rich, successful plastic surgeon to take care of me in the meantime?” she teased.
“No, Gretchen.” He growled, taking possession of her mouth at last. “Because work isn’t a substitute for joy. Success isn’t a substitute for love.”
And life, he knew, really did exist in all the spaces in between.
* * * * *
About the Author
Tamara Morgan is a contemporary romance author of humorous, heartfelt stories with flawed heroes and heroines designed to get your hackles up and make your heart melt. Her long-lived affinity for romance novels survived a BA degree in English literature, after which time she discovered it was much more fun to create stories than analyze the life out of them.
Whether building Victorian dollhouses, consuming mass quantities of coffee and wine, or crying over cheesy 1950s musicals, Tamara commits to her flaws like every good heroine should. She lives in the Inland Northwest with her husband, daughter and variety of household pets, and only occasionally complains about the weather.
Where no great story goes untold.
The variety you want to read, the stories authors have always wanted to write.
The Derby Girl Page 28
