by Toni Blake
But Jeremy shook his head. “It wasn’t an anger problem—it was an asshole problem.”
Outside the cell, Reece leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. Finally he said, “Shit, dude—I like you. And I wanna help you out. But . . .”
Jeremy let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Or maybe he’d been holding his breath for weeks, months, possibly even years.
Something colored Reece’s voice, and it was . . . burden. Most people in Jeremy’s life never quite let that out, let it show. They cared about him and knew he’d been through bad things. But Reece . . . Reece didn’t know him or his past.
“This isn’t me.” The words left him in a murmur, unplanned.
“What?” Reece asked.
Jeremy looked up, met Reece’s gaze for the first real time since he’d walked in here. “This isn’t me,” he said again. “But after I got back from Afghanistan, things changed.” Then he let his eyes drop to the floor between them. He didn’t like letting weaknesses show.
“Damn, man,” Reece said. “I saw your tattoo, so I knew you were military.” Jeremy had gotten a U.S. Marines emblem, along with the words Semper Fi, tattooed on his right biceps only after returning home. Something about trying to hold on to that hero persona. But stamping it on his arm hadn’t made him any more of a hero than he’d been in the first place. “I didn’t know you’d been in Afghanistan, though.”
Jeremy didn’t reply to that because he had nothing else to say. He’d already said too much. He didn’t regret defending a helpless animal. But he regretted garnering anyone’s sympathy. Silence stretched between them, expanding to fill the room like something heavy and smothering.
“Can we make a deal?” Reece said a long moment later.
Jeremy flicked his gaze tentatively upward to the guy outside the bars. “What’s the deal?”
“I’m gonna bail you out,” Reece said. “And I’m gonna talk to the guy who owns the boat and whose son you attacked and try like hell to get him to drop the charges because you’re a military veteran and my friend. And you can keep staying at the Happy Crab. But in return, I’m putting you to work. On some projects around town. My girlfriend is the town planner and she’s looking to hire someone for some heavy lifting, landscaping, and light construction. You be able to handle that?”
A job. Someone was offering him a job.
One that had nothing to do with protecting people, thank God.
And hell, that felt unexpectedly good. “Yeah,” he said simply.
“All right,” Reece told him. “Your first few paychecks can go toward paying off your bail and back rent on the room. Can you handle that, too?”
“Sure,” he said again.
Reece just looked at him for a long, sizing-up kind of minute—probably trying to decide if he’d made the right call here. Jeremy didn’t know the answer any more than Reece did. Finally Reece commented, “You don’t say much.”
“Nope.”
At this, Reece just laughed, then pushed to his feet. “Hang tight, I’m gonna go bail you out.”
But as he started to walk away, Jeremy decided there was one more thing he should say, even if he kept it quiet, short. “Reece,” he said.
Reece stopped and looked back.
And Jeremy added, “Thanks.”
TAMRA wrapped a sweater around her and warmed her hands on the big mug of hot tea she’d just made for herself. It wasn’t that cold out, but fall had brought cooler nights to Coral Cove, the temperatures dropping after dark, and she found herself wanting to bask in the softer air.
It was late—nearly one A.M.—and she sat in the garden she’d created behind her small beach cottage on Sea Shell Lane. She’d had the yard enclosed with a tall privacy fence almost as soon as she’d moved in—common in Florida because so many people had swimming pools. Yet no one had known her well enough at the time to ask why, and even though she’d made friends since then, no one had particularly inquired about the choice.
She’d wanted to create a sort of private paradise, a serene place for her and her alone, and since that time, her garden had been an elaborate work in progress. Always in progress—she was always adding things, changing things. Just last week she’d added snapdragons in a sunny spot, which she knew would grow taller and more robust than they ever had the chance to do in northern climes, and several pottery birdbaths she’d crafted hung from the branches of various trees. She sat surrounded by orange marmalade and white plumeria and giant elephant ear plants as a soft sea breeze riffled through a set of windchimes she’d made as well, and the sweet scent of the bougainvillea draping the west wall wafted past her.
It had indeed become her secret haven, the place she went to just be with her own thoughts, find peace when she needed it, feel more peace when she already had it.
Sometimes she napped in the hammock strung between two tall palm trees, but tonight she sat curled up in one of the white Adirondack chairs she’d placed in a semi-circle around the fire pit she’d installed. She used the fire pit often when the weather was cool enough, but not the other chairs.
She looked at them now, wondering for the first time why she’d even bought more than one when she never invited anyone into her garden, never let it be enjoyed by anyone but herself.
Of course, her friends had seen the garden—they’d either peered out at it through the French doors at the rear of the cottage, or they’d helped her carry things in and out through the side gate. Fletcher, who lived right across Sea Shell Lane from her, was always quick to notice out the window if she was toting in new shrubbery or big bags of potting soil and coming over to help. And her friends always seemed complimentary and even in awe of the space she’d tucked away back here when they had occasion to view it—but they never invited themselves over. Even Christy, who was so perky and sociable and lived right next door. Tamra couldn’t help thinking that, while it had never been said, on some level they knew it was a place she’d created only for herself.
Wouldn’t you like to have them over? Wouldn’t it be nice to have drinks around the fire with Christy and Cami? Wouldn’t it be pleasant to roast marshmallows and make s’mores with Fletcher? Or maybe invite John and Nancy Romo, the nice older couple a few streets away, over for a glass of wine?
Yet something in her core tensed slightly at the idea. She didn’t know why. And yet it remained there, floating heavy inside her.
Her discussion tonight with Christy and Cami had been oddly warming. She usually just found it annoying when her friends pushed romance on her, suggesting she should be out chasing men and making her feel almost abnormal not to be doing that. But tonight, even as uncomfortable as she’d been blurting out frank truths about herself, it had touched her when they’d openly wanted to be closer to her, know her better. And it had made her realize how many walls she’d put up—not just around this garden, but inside herself, too.
Yet . . . when all was said and done, she was still happier here alone. Happier to just be completely at ease, completely comfortable, by herself.
There’s nothing wrong with it. Enjoying your own company is healthy. You can’t love anyone else until you love yourself. And though it had taken a little time after her unconventional upbringing on a commune in Arizona, she really did love herself now. But she still didn’t trust easily. And she wasn’t sure there was an upside to changing that. It was better to take care of yourself, and easier to stay happy and productive if you didn’t put yourself at risk with people.
How on earth would inviting Cami and Christy back here for a drink put you at risk, for heaven’s sake? It wouldn’t, that simple. So maybe this wasn’t even about risk. Maybe it was just about personal comfort and ease. Everyone needed a place that was strictly their own and this was hers.
Now if only your stupid body would quit aching with lust. She prayed this was only a phase, one that would end quickly. And good Lord, she still couldn’t believe she’d told Christy and Cami about that tonight. Word vomit. Even if
it had it resulted in making her friends feel more connected to her, it had still been word vomit.
She’d been trying to deny it even to herself for a while now. But the truth was that she suffered the warm spread of sexual desire flowing through her like hot lava almost all the time lately.
She’d suffered it this morning during a walk on the beach, where she’d seen all the things she normally saw there—but now she suddenly saw them differently. Felt them differently. She’d witnessed a couple kissing on a blanket and envied what they shared, hungered for what they experienced. The feel of wet sand on her toes, the cool ocean water lapping up onto them, had affected her in different ways than ever before, affected other parts of her body.
And she’d thought about it this afternoon when she’d worked in the art studio in her cottage. Digging her hands into the same clay she always worked with had held a fresh . . . awareness. Touching it had made her want to touch other, far different things. A man’s body.
And she’d felt it still more while weeding beneath her banyan tree just before the Sunset Celebration. Rich soil on her fingers, even the trowel in her hand, had held a newness for her, a strange yearning she couldn’t seem to shake free of. Being in her garden usually brought her an enormous sense of peace—she’d filled it with things she loved, after all—but today the overriding emotion had been frustration.
At thirty-five, she hadn’t thought much about sex in a long while. She knew most women were more into sex, but she’d just never suffered that compelling need for it that so many seemed to.
In her teens and early twenties, there’d been guys, experiences—but since then, not so much. And mostly, she’d been okay with that. Until now. The spot between her thighs ached even as she sat clutching the mug between her hands. People acted like sex was so fun, but when your body wanted it and couldn’t have it, well . . . she didn’t see anything fun about that at all.
Maybe it’s the birth control pills. She’d started taking them just recently—her doctor’s remedy for an irregular cycle that often came with bad cramping. And it had worked—thank God. But she knew the pill affected various hormones and wondered if this new rush of sexual need had perhaps been instigated by the change.
And while a part of her suffered the urge to pull up her skirt, bare herself to the bright moon peering down from a clear, dark sky, and just take care of her own needs, the thought made her feel . . . more needy than sensuous. She knew plenty of people took care of the issue that way, but the very idea made her feel lonely. And she didn’t want to feel lonely. She’d felt lonely in Arizona. She’d felt lonely all through her growing up years, even with people all around her. She’d finally quit feeling lonely when she’d left—because being alone wasn’t what made you lonely; it was about something else. And why do something that would make her feel lonely in any way whatsoever? She’d rather lose a little sleep over the physical frustration and just pray, again, that it would subside.
Was it possible, though, to be content in her private world here and . . . still feel a little empty inside? That didn’t quite add up, did it? It’s the sex issue making you feel empty, that’s all. Your life is great otherwise.
And even if there was something missing . . . well, maybe it was just easier not acknowledging that. She’d built a wonderful little life for herself here—so she was going to keep right on telling herself that it was enough, all she needed to be happy.
CAMI had arranged for an empty lot along Coral Street, which ran down the strip of land that stretched between the beach and the bay, to be paved and made into a municipal parking lot. It would serve the “Coral Street Business District,” as she’d recently dubbed the area she was busy bringing back to life. Three days after Tamra had “gotten dressed” to “go out” with the girls, she was joining up with Cami, Reece, Fletcher, Christy, Jack, and anyone else who was willing to pitch in, for the task of planting shrubbery and perennials around the small lot’s perimeter to make it visually appealing.
With Fletcher’s help, Tamra unloaded the signs she’d hand-painted for the lot from the back of her small SUV.
“Ready for a day of work in the sun?” Fletcher asked cheerfully.
Her friend was an unusual man. His small brown beard and ponytail made him look like a time traveler from 1969, he made his living by walking on a tightrope every night at the Sunset Celebration, and he stayed unusually positive no matter what. Case in point: His wife had left him nearly four years ago, turning his world upside down, and he had no idea where she was—and yet for some insane reason he remained happily convinced she’d come back any day now.
Tamra worried about Fletcher because he was a good friend and she cared about him. She feared his pie-in-the-sky attitude about his marriage would leave him with a seriously broken heart one day and that his denial was only delaying the inevitable.
“Definitely,” she answered him. In fact, she hoped some hard physical labor might be just the thing to take the edge off her sexual frustration. It was like a monster inside her, clawing at her constantly.
“You know,” he said, “if you don’t mind my saying, you don’t seem yourself lately.”
Oh crap. Her sexual deprivation showed? “Of course I’m myself,” she assured him, trying for a light laugh. “Who else would I be?”
He shook his head, not buying it. “I don’t know—you just seem . . . on edge.”
Yep, her sexual deprivation showed. Great. And it occurred to her that she could explain it to Fletcher—he was an evolved enough man that he wouldn’t be creepy or perverse about it. In fact, the idea made her wonder for the first time if he didn’t suffer similar issues himself given how long his wife, Kim, had been MIA.
But she thought better of it. Especially here, now, with people all around. Bad enough she’d spilled something that personal to Cami and Christy—but at least they were women.
So finally she just said, “Nope, fine,” and hoped it didn’t come out sounding too stiff. Besides, the one thing about Fletcher that bugged her was his tendency to push her toward finding someone to date. Of course, everyone seemed to do that lately, but Fletcher had been at it longer than most. And she knew they all meant well, but why couldn’t they understand that it just wasn’t that easy?
If she ever met someone, she wanted it to happen naturally. And she didn’t want to settle. So many women settled, just because they were desperate to be validated by having a man in their lives. She wasn’t that desperate and never would be, her recently activated sex drive be damned.
Within a few minutes, work had begun—an ample crowd of Coral Cove residents had shown up to help with the project, so Tamra suspected it would be a short day. Cami commandeered the whole operation—clipboard in hand, she went from person to person, giving out instructions. And soon enough, wheelbarrows were being pushed this way and that, shrubs and decorative grasses were being unloaded from truck beds, and dirt was being shoveled.
Normally, Tamra would be among those digging in the dirt, avid gardener that she was, but since so many others were on hand, Cami asked her to take charge of getting the signs she’d created in the ground. A main sign was to be placed at the lot’s entrance, and two more, indicating the lot was for patrons of Coral Street businesses only—as opposed to beachgoers—were to be erected at each side, facing the parking spots.
Tamra knelt, working with a large trowel, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face and shoulders, glad she’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail as usual—when a deep, shockingly rude voice sounded in her ear. “Can you get outta my way?”
Caught off guard, she looked up. She couldn’t see the face of the man standing next to her—it was blocked by a large juniper bush. She saw only dirty brown workboots and two burly hands wrapped around a large burlap-covered ball of roots towering above her. “What?” she asked.
“I said, ‘Can you get outta my way?’ This thing’s freaking heavy.”
She just blinked, her back going ramrod straight where she squatted in f
ront of him. “Can you not be so rude?”
“Jesus Christ, woman. Just move before I drop the damn thing on you.”
Tamra tried to hold in her gasp. But given this Neanderthal’s manners, she feared he might make good on the threat, so as much as she didn’t like obeying orders from rude strangers, she grudgingly stood up and got out of his path. Then watched as he plunked the bush on the ground next to her feet.
She looked from the bush to the Neanderthal, now that she could actually see him, and—oh Lord, was she mistaken or was this the same Neanderthal who’d been hauled away from the Hungry Fisherman in handcuffs the other night? Same scruffy beard, same longish, messy hair.
“That bush had to go right there, huh?” she asked. “Right at this exact moment?”
His expression didn’t change—he wasn’t the least bit cowed by her scolding. “That’s where it goes,” he said. “It’s heavy, so why should I move it twice?”
“Well, maybe because I was already working there,” she pointed out, raising one critical eyebrow in his direction.
“Was it that hard for you to move?” he asked in the same tone, as if she were being unreasonable.
“Well, I—”
“Wait, don’t answer that,” he said, holding up one hand. “Didn’t know I’d be dealing with the princess of Coral Cove over here. But now that I know, I’ll steer clear of you.”
And with that, he turned and sauntered away.
And Tamra stood looking after him, bewildered. Where had this guy come from and what was his problem? And why did she actually feel a little like she was in the wrong here when she knew good and well that she was in the right?
No one had ever in her life accused her of acting like a princess. She just wasn’t that girl—not by a long shot. And she sure as hell didn’t like it. Who on earth did Mr. Scruffy Beard think he was, anyway?
Normally, she would turn around and go back to what she’d been doing. But she was so taken aback that she suffered the unusual urge to seek out some friendly faces rather than stand there alone stewing over some asshole she didn’t even know. Spotting Cami and Reece talking with Fletcher and Christy, she crossed the parking lot toward them.
