by Toni Blake
“But if you don’t mind some advice about dudes,” Bethany went on, “don’t let ’em stress you out. Because most of them have weird issues you’ll never really get to the bottom of, and they aren’t worth it. Men are best used as playthings.”
Of course, next to her, Christy was rolling her eyes. “Um, hello? Jack is a prince.”
“You’re right,” Bethany said. “Jack is a prince. I’m convinced you got the last good man on earth. The rest . . .” She swiped fingertips manicured in bright red down through the air. “Meh. When it comes to guys, I go into it with an attitude of having some fun and knowing everything is temporary—it takes all the drama out of it, trust me.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Christy told Tamra. “There are still good guys out there. You’ll find one.”
And now it was Tamra joining in on the eye rolling. “Again,” she directed forcefully to her well-meaning girlfriend, “who said I even want one?”
“Well . . .” Christy said, and Tamra read her thoughts. She was remembering the night Tamra had shared with her and Cami that she was dying for sex.
Now she warned Christy with her eyes that this was not a topic up for public consumption, not even with Bethany, not even if Tamra liked her. “Well, nothing. I’m fine,” she said emphatically. “With or without a man.”
“Preach it, girlfriend,” Bethany said, holding up her hand, and Tamra realized she wanted to high five her—Bethany thought they were totally on the same page about guys. And actually, she realized as she indulged in one of the only high fives of her entire life, she was probably closer to being on Bethany’s page about these things than on Christy’s.
“What about Fletcher then?” Christy asked, and Tamra wondered what she was talking about—until she realized the question was directed to Bethany. “I thought you liked him.”
The news made Tamra draw back slightly, stunned. “Really?” she asked. “Fletcher?”
Bethany let out a self-assured laugh. “I said he was cute. And he seems interesting. But it’s no big thing, Christy. Especially considering what you told me about this wife of his who he’s so sure is coming back. I thought he just might be . . . fun to hang out with while I’m here.”
As Christy and Bethany went on talking, wheels in Tamra’s head began to turn. Bethany wanted to have fun with Fletcher of all people? And she thought men weren’t worth getting emotional over and had learned whatever magic trick it took to keep that from happening? And she somehow used guys for fun the same way so many guys used girls for fun?
On one hand, she knew she and Bethany were very different from each other. Bethany clearly had her act together, on the inside, way more than Tamra did. Tamra instantly envied her confidence, something she could sense was very real, not faked. But that aside, they had certain things in common. Christy had long pointed out to Tamra that they were both artists, which made her feel an instant connection. But more than that, she just liked Bethany’s attitude. Not taking things so seriously. Not taking men so seriously. She might be on to something. And I could probably stand to learn from her. And maybe Fletcher could, too—in a far different way—if he’d only let himself.
By the time Bethany and Christy walked away, Tamra felt almost transformed inside. Strange how quickly and easily something like that could happen, and brought on in a way she never could have predicted—through meeting Christy’s friend. Her head swam with new ideas that fit nicely together.
Maybe Fletcher could let himself have fun with Bethany while she was here. And maybe it would change everything for him.
And maybe, just maybe, Tamra could learn to let loose a little, have fun herself, without getting all caught up in all the stuff that usually held her back with men: expectations, worry, doubt, fears. Maybe she could learn to be just a little bit more like Bethany. And maybe it would change everything for her, too.
And with that brave new thought in mind, she crossed the sandy work lot toward where Jeremy took some measurements. Like earlier, he never looked up or indicated he even knew she was there until he said, “Need to run to Home Depot to get the wood and hinges for the doors. You got any problem with that?”
She sucked in her breath at his harsh tone. Then fell on her metaphorical sword. “I’m sorry,” she said. “About before. I was out of line.”
As his gaze met hers, she could see his surprise. She could also see him weighing his response.
Before he made one, she added, “I’d like it if we can put everything that’s happened up to now behind us and start fresh. Is that possible?” She spoke kindly and hoped he could feel her sincerity. Talk about making herself vulnerable in front of him.
And she didn’t even know if it was a good idea, but she was going for it—truly trying to do what she’d just suggested, start fresh. She wanted a do-over. She wanted to be different with him. She wanted to take Bethany’s advice, and Fletcher’s advice, and not take everything so seriously and see if . . . if there was perhaps some fun to be had with Jeremy Sheridan. Even if he did desperately need a shave and a haircut.
Finally, Jeremy said, “Sure.”
But he’d still sounded stiff.
So she decided to be brave, to put herself out there still a little more. “Maybe . . . we could get together, later, tonight, have dinner or something. To work on that fresh start.”
And his hesitation made her feel it before he said it—he was going to turn her down. Her stomach sank like a stone.
“Thanks for the offer. A little while ago, I’d have taken you up on it, but . . . now I’m thinking it’s probably better we keep this all business. Okay?”
Wow. “Okay.” There was nothing else to say. And even that came out more softly than intended.
“I’ll, uh, head to Home Depot now if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course,” she said quickly, still embarrassed.
And as she watched him get in that beat-up red truck that went rumbling away, she wanted to just sit down on the ground and cry. Seemed like no matter what she did when it came to men, it was wrong. Trust them and you get hurt. Don’t trust them and you put up a wall that keeps them away. With Jeremy, she’d followed the instinct to protect herself and been too gruff, and now that she was trying to let go of that, it was too late—she’d driven him away. Her timing seemed backwards.
It always had.
Maybe that’s why I never try. I know I’ll just screw it up.
Deep in her heart, she knew she was destined to be alone and might as well just accept that and move on with her life.
VAGUE shouting, darkness, gunfire.
Hot—it was so fucking hot. Thirst clawed at his throat like dry, scaly fingers.
Running, running. Through a labyrinth of small stone structures, bleak and dank and humid.
More gunfire. Waiting to be hit, waiting to experience that, to find out how it felt.
But the gunfire never hit him.
Other people, yes. Whoever he was running with. Cries of pain came, but he kept running, running, away from it all—only to eventually realize he was alone, the lone survivor. But was being the lone survivor really . . . surviving?
Jeremy jolted awake with a gasp. He lay in bed in his room at the Happy Crab, drenched in sweat. Jesus God, it wasn’t real. He let himself begin to breathe again.
Except . . . it was real, in a way. The part about surviving that had hit him in the nightmare. He wasn’t the lone survivor, of course. But when you saw so many good men go down, when you lost so many good friends . . . well, surviving it didn’t feel exactly like some grand victory. It felt . . . at best, random, and at worst, like a mistake.
He’d made mistakes. Mistakes no one knew about.
Reaching up, he ran a hand back through his bushy hair, his scalp wet with perspiration. Sometimes it surprised him to realize just how much hair he had now, too lazy to get it cut.
Not lazy lately, though. He tried to let the thought make him grateful for changes inside him. But at the moment it was
a little difficult to get to grateful. I’ll work on that tomorrow. Right now, he needed to get out of his head. If he let himself fall back asleep right now, it would only happen again. Or so the pattern usually went.
He hadn’t had any nightmares in a couple of weeks. Again, he tried to be thankful for that, but it was hard so fresh on the heels of one, and he suffered a fear that they’d never go completely away, that a part of him would always be stuck there, in war, in darkness, in gunfire. Though maybe he deserved to be.
He forced himself to sit up in bed.
Then he got up, walked to the mini-fridge across the room, and grabbed a bottle of water. Unscrewed the cap, took a drink.
Setting it down, he found a pair of loose gym shorts and pulled them on over his underwear, then walked to the door and opened it up. Cool air and the salty scent of the ocean rushed over him, reviving him a little. And reminding him he was in a very different place now. Very different from Afghanistan. Even very different from his hometown in Ohio, where it had gotten so easy to hide, and so easy to . . . atrophy.
The thought made him step outside. It was the middle of the night in Coral Cove and the only sign of life was the all-night neon of “The Happy Crab Motel” sign, that bright red crab smiling in the dark. Beyond that, across Coral Street, the beach lay in blackness—he couldn’t see it, but he could smell it and hear the soothing sound of the surf rushing in, then flowing back out, rushing in, flowing back out.
Pulling the door shut behind him, he started away from his room in bare feet. He wasn’t going far—just wanted to walk around a minute, soak up the breeze, keep clearing his head.
The parking lot asphalt beneath his feet was neither cold nor hot—just solid, hard. But enough of a connection to the earth to give him a still stronger sense of being alive, and being someplace far different than his nightmares took him.
He strode across the empty street to the beach, its perimeter dotted with tall palm trees, fronds swaying in the wind. He stood at the base of one, looking up, drinking in the calming rhythm of the tree’s movements—it seemed to mimic the ocean waves.
A glance up the street brought the golf course vaguely into view and took his thoughts back to what had happened with Tamra yesterday. Yep, if anything drew him fully out of the past and into the present, it was her. Here he was, doing his damnedest to pick himself up, change his life—and this woman just seemed determined to knock him back down. And every time he thought she was softening to him, she swayed back the other way—her moves as unpredictable as a palm frond in the breeze.
For the first time in two long years, he was out among people, learning how to be human again—but damn, she made it difficult. If she’d had any idea how challenging it had been just to have a conversation with Christy Knight and her friend—especially given that Christy had known him as a far different guy—would she still have come down on him like that?
Of course, it wasn’t her job or anyone else’s to give a shit about his issues.
And maybe he hadn’t been so nice to her in the beginning, either. But back then, he’d just been starting to function around other people again. And he’d felt less at ease about his life even just a couple of weeks ago than he did now.
So it wasn’t her fault he’d acted like an ass when they’d first met.
And it wasn’t his fault she’d been a jerk to him yesterday.
But when it came to his boss, he was done trying. Done being drawn to her. Because that had clearly been a bad idea.
And the way he’d so brazenly flirted with her that first day on the jobsite when he’d fallen on her—really bad idea. He’d been following old instincts that had actually felt familiar, surprisingly easy. Something about her had brought out the bad boy in him, made him want to rub and polish away her rough edges and get to what was underneath. But it wasn’t happening, wasn’t gonna happen.
He’d been wide awake after that bad dream, but now he was tired and ready to give sleep another whirl. And a brisk wind was suddenly beginning to kick up anyway, rustling the palms overhead harder now.
A few steps through cool sand led him back to the sidewalk, then the street. As he crossed, he caught a bit of movement from the corner of his eye and glanced toward the now-dark Hungry Fisherman to see his buddy, the big gray cat, lurking in the shadows. It surprised him when the cat began padding toward him, taking long steps with that big, gangly body.
“Got nothin’ for ya tonight, pal,” he said, knowing the cat sought food.
Despite that, the big tom fell into step with him as he headed back to his room. And when Jeremy opened the door and went inside, the cat did, too—before he could stop it.
Jeremy looked down. “Nope, bud—good try, but that’s not gonna work.” And with that, he picked the cat up, opened the door, and put him outside.
Then he got back in bed, pulling the covers over himself without bothering to take his shorts off. Tamra stayed on his mind a little, but sleep came quickly anyway.
When he awoke some time later, it was to the sound of rain. A windy, blowing rain that pattered against his window, making its way up under the awning that ran the length of the building.
And then he heard a meow.
Oh hell.
Go back to sleep. He shut his eyes again.
And heard another meow.
Ignore it. He focused on the sound of the wind and rain, tried to let it lull him back into slumber.
But the big cat kept right on meowing.
With a tired sigh, Jeremy sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Damn cat.
Walking to the door, he unlatched the chain and pulled it open. The damp, gray, one-eyed cat came trotting in like he belonged there.
Jeremy looked down at him, the room dimly lit by the neon crab sign in the distance. “Don’t get too comfy, dude. You’ll get me thrown out of here.”
Then he lay back down. And a moment later felt the soft pllllmp as the cat silently bounded up onto the bed. Damn, did he think he owned the place?
When a slight, warm pressure came alongside Jeremy’s thigh through the covers, he realized the cat had now gone so far as to curl up beside him. Oh brother.
“This is only for one night.”
In response, the cat began to purr.
“I’m a dog guy, got it?” he said.
Of course, Captain didn’t answer. So Jeremy just rolled over, intent on going to sleep—and the cat resituated behind his bent knees, filling the space with a solid warmth that hadn’t been there before.
Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow?
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
Chapter 7
THE NEXT morning, Jeremy waited until he was dressed and heading out for work to put the cat out. “Stay outta trouble,” he said in parting as he headed toward his truck.
He could have walked to work easily, but he chose to drive, not only because he often ended up needing the truck to run an errand or haul something, but because it seemed like a good routine to get into, an official way of “going to work”—driving there, like the majority of Americans did every day.
Slamming the slightly rickety pickup door, he walked up to the hut to find that Tamra had begun painting it a retro beachy coral color. Other accents, like the borders on each green, would be done in the same shade, reflecting the town’s name and echoing a vintage Florida feel.
She greeted him with a smile. “I’m excited to start the painting—makes it seem like real progress, like it’s really coming together.”
So she was bending over backwards to be nice, huh? Well, fine, but he wasn’t biting. Because sooner or later, she’d pull back the bait. So he’d just save them both the trouble and not take it in the first place. “Great,” he said, but didn’t bother meeting her eyes. Or taking in the rest of her, either. Even if he’d already noticed that she looked cute today in slightly shorter-than-usual shorts and a fitted yellow tee that hugged her curves and showed just a hint of cleavage.
But quit noticing her cleavage. She’s your boss, not a woman to be trifled with—she’d made that abundantly clear.
He knew his short response had injected a little tension into the air, but he didn’t care. Even when she tried again. “I think this will be a good system—you build and I paint.”
“Sounds good.” He added a brief nod this time, but that was it.
And he sensed her disappointment, but he didn’t care about that, either. Especially when it made her start getting less friendly again. It was what he’d expected, in fact. She’d proved his predictions true.
And that was how their days began to go. All work, no play.
Even as the tension continued to rise between them, daily, sometimes hourly.
Of course, it wasn’t easy to act distant all the time. And they were completing a big project together. So as it progressed—as the hut was completed, as other pieces took shape—there were moments of shared . . . something.
It should have been shared joy, or a shared feeling of accomplishment. But instead it was as if they were each forced to celebrate silently, refusing to acknowledge the teamwork involved.
When they completed the final touches on the hut together and stood back to look, Jeremy felt a pride that wasn’t quite complete if you didn’t share it with someone. He glanced over at her and almost smiled. But he couldn’t quite go there.
And he sensed her wanting to smile, too, but instead, as their gazes met and then dropped quickly away from each other, she said, “It looks great.”
He still didn’t smile, either, as he said, “Yeah, it does. We did good work.”
She nodded stiffly. “You did a good job. I . . .”
“What?” he asked when she stopped.
She sighed, shifted her weight from one tennis shoe to the other. “I . . . know we’ve had our differences, but I would be remiss if I didn’t give credit where it’s due. You’re a good carpenter.”
Huh. Jeremy hadn’t expected that. It was gratifying to know that someone—okay, maybe not just someone, but her in particular—saw that he was good at something. So for the first time in days, he let himself relax, let an honest, easy smile spread across his face. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate that.”
