by Tessa Bailey
“Nah, beautiful. I’m not the least bit scary.” He bit his lip and eased closer, flat-out ignoring the distance she’d put between them, even though Rita sensed the same leash around his neck from last night. “Even if I did think about stealing you from your bed last night to apologize.”
“Apologize.” God, there was a riot taking place in her stomach. “I-is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?”
His laugh yanked her down, down like quicksand, but he sobered almost immediately. “I was a genuine asshole, Rita. Give me the day to make it up to you.”
It was either the worst idea in history or the best. After one day of his acquaintance, she’d been certain no amount of time would dull him from her memory. Creating more of those mental images and moving pictures couldn’t be wise. Common sense, however, did nothing to change the fact that spending the day with him sounded—incredible.
Even after the debacle last night, she couldn’t deny that Jasper made her feel relevant. Not so awkward. Why would he have found her this morning otherwise? His apparent interest—God, it made her feel really good. She wanted to know more about the man who’d vacillated between supreme confidence and self-loathing. Wanted to know how such a thing were possible, and, crazily enough, she thought maybe there was a chance she could relate to him, this charming, sexual live wire of a man.
There was no denying that Jasper had started a bonfire of attraction below her belly button, and that heat was so new. She imagined him slipping through the darkness of her motel room to steal her from the bed, thought of him cupping a hand over her mouth and angling his heavy body over hers, muffling her moans as he gave her a preview of what was to come. A sharp thrust of rough denim over cotton panties—and the image caused warmth to spread between her thighs. Her neck was bright red; she could feel it. Knew the tinge of color was visible. She’d never been aroused in public before, and he’d barely done anything to warrant it besides standing there.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Jasper said, voice scratching like the rough side of a sponge. “Being that I aim to take you to lunch at my grandmother’s house, though, I think I should save the better half of my apology for later.”
His perceptiveness over her condition turned Rita on even more. When had she turned so shameless? She’d seen the evidence last night of how women threw themselves at him. Apparently she was no different than any of them. Rita the Lemming. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Jasper winked at her, then indicated his bike with a jerk of his chin. “We’ll find out later, won’t we?”
Rita sputtered a little, aware that she was being railroaded but also confused by the unwanted thrill of getting back on the bike. Behind Jasper. Feeling him between her thighs. But that meant meeting someone new, more opportunities for social faux pas. More cringe-bank deposits. “I-I…no way. I’m not having lunch with your grandmother.”
He only smiled and crooked a finger.
Chapter Twelve
All right. Phase One achieved. She was on the bike.
Jasper wasn’t proud of fibbing to a visibly wary Rita to achieve just that. Painting a picture of a little old granny pining away for company with three place settings arranged just so? The reality couldn’t be farther from the truth, but with one phone call he’d started playing dirty pool last night and once the cue ball got rolling, it smacked into cushions and knocked other balls into new patterns. Nature of the beast, wasn’t it?
He wouldn’t dwell, however, and waste the extra day he’d carved out with Rita. Borrowed time was today’s theme, and he best get down to figuring out a few pressing details. Why did he get the feeling she was running from something? And why was he determined to be a roadblock she couldn’t get past? Someone she took seriously. More importantly, what if the impossible happened and Rita found him worthy of more than a roll in the hay? Tomorrow would bring her departure. It was one thing for a woman to enjoy an actual conversation with him, quite another for—what?
Jasper didn’t know what was itching inside his belly where Rita was concerned, but if the universe had any regard for his sanity, an answer would be forthcoming by sunset. It had better be. Or he’d be setting up a different kind of roadblock. The kind that stopped the correct Suburban replacement part from entering Hurley.
“How did you know when to show up at the garage?” Rita asked in his ear.
Jasper kept his eyes on the road. “It’s a close-knit place, Hurley. Four strangers hiking across the main road like a Beatles album cover tends to create buzz.”
She was silent a while. “So…someone called you?”
“You’re going to make me admit to being nosy, aren’t you?” He took a right turn and Rita leaned along with him as he’d instructed before leaving the garage. “Men like to be described with words like mysterious. Or devil-may-care. If you could swap one of those for nosy, I’d appreciate it.”
Her hum created a vibration along his spine. “You’re both of those things, too. That’s why I’m poking around.”
“Well, good. I’d hate to be nosy by myself.”
Laughter drifted over the back of his neck. “Thanks for the permission. I think.” Her fingers flexed against his stomach. “Tell me about your eatery. Does it have a name?”
“Not just yet,” he hedged, even though it felt good simply having someone ask. Not one person had since he’d begun the addition. “As you well know, I’m not much good at naming places. Kind of hoping it’ll name itself.”
Her laughter sent pleasure filtering into his stomach, like sand through a colander. “What’s your game plan?”
“I get the feeling my game plan isn’t going to meet your standards,” he said. “Mostly since you used the words game plan.”
“My standards have…shifted of late.”
“Well. Shift them a little more, because I’m planning on setting the tables and opening the doors.” He ran his tongue along his upper row of teeth. “Doesn’t sound very sexy, does it?”
“Are you going for sexy?”
“I’m always going for sexy.” Damn, he liked hearing her laugh. It was throaty, like she’d just gotten over a cold but hadn’t quite regained her voice yet. And at the same time, it always contained a touch of surprise. She was surprised to be laughing. “See, my plan last night was to show you the addition. If you hadn’t upended up my intentions with that kiss, I’d have done it.”
The thighs around his hips flexed, forcing Jasper to talk his erection from the ledge. Easy, buddy. We’re going to Grandma’s house. Come back toward the window. “That is a pity,” Rita mumbled.
“Now I definitely didn’t say that.” Jasper revved his engine when a friend passed by in a truck heading in the opposite direction. “Pity doesn’t belong in the same breath as kissing Rita.”
Her stomach shuddered at the small of his back. “Just…tell me about the restaurant addition.”
“Stop trying to steer the conversation toward sex, would you?” She jabbed him in the ribs with a finger and he smiled. “I’d rather show you. Tonight, maybe.”
She didn’t respond until they pulled to a stop in front of his grandmother’s house. “Maybe.”
As was her custom, Rosemary Ellis made her appearance before he could switch off the bike, sweeping out onto the porch with arms spread wide, trying to give the whole world a hug. “Oh, you did it. You brought a girl.” His grandmother tipped forward, slapping both hands onto her knees with a big expulsion of huhhha.
Jasper dismounted the bike and assisted Rita with the same, removing the helmet from her head when she made no move to do it herself. Kind of loving doing it for her, too. He’d never given much thought to a woman’s hair before, but as he took off the helmet, Jasper found himself easing little strands free so they wouldn’t pull in the process. What did she look like brushing it? Probably ripped through it, impatient to move on to something else.
Rita didn’t notice his attentions, however, because she was transfixed by the petite ball of en
ergy on the house porch. Rosemary, in her puff-painted sweatshirt—which appeared to depict a pug, but she couldn’t be sure—was jogging in place, jazz hands aloft. His grandmother had a habit of listing everything in her sight lines. “Bike is parked. There’s a girl. Black jeans. Okay, okay. Whose grandson is that, you ask? Well, it’s mine. Okay, then.”
“She calms down after a few minutes,” Jasper murmured for Rita’s ears alone. Then louder, “Now, don’t go breaking out the childhood picture albums, Rosemary.” He gave Rita’s hip a squeeze to propel her toward the stairs. “Unless they’re the ones where I’m naked. Even as a kid, I had a great ass.”
Rosemary hooted, even though her cheeks went bright pink. “Get that manner of talk out of your system now. It won’t be welcome at my lunch table.” She zigzagged toward Rita, patting her on the shoulders like she was trying to subdue flames. “Helmet hair.”
Oh, boy. “Rosemary, this is Rita. Rita, Rosemary.”
His grandmother shook Rita’s offered hand so rapidly it was a wonder it didn’t tear clean off. “Nice to meet you. Good. Come on in.”
Jasper gestured for the two women to precede him into the house, and Rosemary acknowledged the move with a gasp, a hand fluttering in the general area of her throat. “Such a gentleman,” she cooed.
Now, he loved his grandmother. Far as he was concerned, the town’s motto should be, “Hurley: Birthplace of Rosemary Ellis.” But as a man, Jasper could look back and see—while he’d been growing up—she’d overcompensated for his parents’ general lack of interest by going in the extreme opposite direction, praising his most minimal of efforts. He loved the hell out of her for it, too. Now, though, he often wondered if Rosemary’s encouraging words had been authentic, or if his parents had had the right idea about him.
Not enough to stick around for.
Schooling his features into a casual expression, Jasper nodded toward the entrance. “Granddad joining us today?”
It was one of the rare times Rosemary stopped moving—whenever Jasper asked about his grandfather, who never bothered to leave the living room when Jasper paid a visit, while they kept to the kitchen and dining area. Occasionally on his birthday or Christmas, the old man gave him a scowl, but even that was a feat in itself. Weekday lunch would be pushing it.
Jasper didn’t blame his grandfather for having a difficult time looking at his only grandson, a man who’d sunk hard-earned money into a shit heap. No, he didn’t blame his grandfather for the hostility, but he wanted like hell to change it. Maybe not to approval—that would be a lot to ask for after twelve years—but something akin to forgiveness would be worth the time he’d put into the eatery.
As soon as they were inside the house Rosemary was off like a shot, parading back and forth between the kitchen and dining room with covered plates and condiments. Rita made the mistake of stepping into her path and the older woman nearly bulldozed her. “Um,” Rita started, her back pressed against the wall. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“As it turns out, yes. There is a turkey warming in the oven, needs carving.”
His grandmother paused long enough to address Rita. “I find these days that women don’t know a teacup from a turnip. You know what you’re doing in the kitchen?”
“I-I hope so,” Rita seemed to force out. “Otherwise culinary school was a big waste of money.”
Jasper stopped short of heading into the kitchen himself. “Culinary school.” He pictured Rita in an apron and a hat, but couldn’t make it fit. Not at first. Not until he thought of her hand holding a spoon, lifting the spoon to her mouth. Smiling to herself over what she tasted. Okay, yeah. He could see that. Liked it, too. “When you said you worked at a restaurant…”
“You thought I meant as a waitress?” She was pressed so far back against the wall that Jasper wondered if she were trying to fit through the wood grains. “You’ve known me one day and you can barely say that with a straight face.”
“I’m smiling because I’m thinking of you tasting soup.”
Her lips flinched. “Why would you smile about that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, now.” Rosemary’s interested gaze darted between them, as if they were engaging in table tennis. “Is that a yes to the turkey carving?”
“Yes,” Rita blurted, as if she’d also kind of forgotten they weren’t alone. “Of course.”
She bypassed Jasper on her way into the kitchen, and he followed. If a movie director had shouted, “Act smitten! Go completely over the top!” that was probably how he looked trailing after Rita, noting how at home she looked entering a kitchen. He stood by the door and watched as she took stock of the place in one booted-heel turn. Opening a drawer, she even found the carving knife on the first try. Was it crazy that he had the urge to see her move around his kitchen like that?
Deciding he’d better make himself useful, Jasper grabbed a pot holder and removed the turkey from the oven, nudging the door shut with his foot and setting the bird down on the counter. “Don’t forget to take out the wishbone.”
“I’m not a monster.” Rita plugged the electric carving knife into the nearest outlet. “Does your grandmother usually cook Thanksgiving dinner for a casual lunch?”
“She’s the reason for my gym membership.”
Rita’s answering chuckle was sliced in half by the whirring blade. Jasper watched in fascination as she held it over the turkey, the way a television surgeon holds a scalpel. Focused. Confident.
And then it all went away. The easy flow of a woman doing what she loved just dropped like a water balloon on the floor. With the juggering knife buzzing in her hand, she stared down at the turkey, but Jasper could tell she wasn’t really seeing it. “Rita?”
Her answer was a great, gulping sob, and he felt it, dead center in his chest. Jasper reached out and grabbed the knife a split second before she dropped it.
Chapter Thirteen
Her hand was vibrating with the familiar buzz of the carving knife. And then it wasn’t. But the gentle prying of the instrument from Rita’s hand did nothing to cease the tectonic plates shifting underneath her skin. Half of her consciousness was still in the kitchen with Jasper—who was speaking too softly to be heard over her internal earthquake—but the other half was back at Wayfare. Not the night of the fire. Way before that. To a night when Miriam had stayed late in the hopes of perfecting Rita’s soufflé technique.
* * *
“Wait for the ingredients to blend…let the eggs marry with the milk.” Miriam winked at Rita. “They just met. You can’t expect them to hop right into the sack without a little coaxing.”
Rita rubbed bleary eyes, seeing double when she opened them again. “Is it okay to just admit you’ll maybe never be good at one thing?” Her tone was as flat and characterless as her last five attempts at a soufflé. “I hear it all the time. Out…there. Outside the kitchen. People say, I can’t walk in heels. Or, I can’t draw for shit. But they’re fine with it. Maybe I can just be fine with sucking at this one thing.”
“Rita.” Miriam said her name the way a hearth lights. Welcoming, glowing. “Your one sucky thing is already charades. You have no choice but to keep trying.”
“If I was less exhausted, I would have seen the flaw in my analogy.”
Miriam handed her a big silver ladle. “Take six.”
* * *
“My soufflé still blows,” Rita said, curling her fingers into the counter.
“What’s that, beautiful?”
Rita almost hit the ceiling when Jasper’s gruff voice broke into her reverie, coming very close to knocking the turkey to the floor. How long had she been standing there without saying a word? And why was Jasper holding the carving knife? More importantly, why would she rather go streaking through the fish market on a Monday then take the knife back from him? A weight was pushing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. Her hands shook—or they did until Jasper set down the electric blade and grabbed them.
Jasper looked at her hands a moment, as if unsure how to proceed, then he placed them carefully on his wide, steady shoulders. Watching to gauge her reaction, he started to sway, side to side. Almost like they were dancing. It was ridiculous, yet it dulled the sharp edges of her panic. But panic over what? Carving a turkey? She’d performed the task a thousand times in her life. “I don’t know what happened.”
He pressed a thumb to the small of her back, moving it in a circle, and the remaining tension swirled down the drain. “You don’t have to figure it out now.”
“I think I might have to. Sooner rather than later.” The dazed quality of Rita’s voice made her sound as if she were speaking inside a closed shower stall. It could have been the cool blue of Jasper’s eyes—the lack of judgment there—or the sudden lack of strain after her flashback. Maybe even the dancing. She didn’t know. But words passed from her lips, quietly and without permission. “I don’t think I can cook anymore.” Or try to be like her. “I don’t think I ever could, anyway.”
His lips moved against her forehead. “Now, those seem like big decisions to make at a casual lunch.”
The laugh fizzed up her sternum and broke free. “You probably wish you’d been a little less nosy, now. That’ll teach you.”
“Young people. Dancing in my kitchen.” Clapping hands went off behind Rita. Oh, God, she’d actually forgotten they were at Jasper’s grandmother’s house. These people were virtual strangers to her. Tomorrow they would be a memory, and yet she’d totally just had a fucking panic attack in their happy, cactus-themed kitchen. They’d be talking about her for years to relatives and neighbors. You’re right, of course. We never should have handed her that blade. It could have been so much worse. A tragedy, to be sure. Please pass the salt.
Rita pushed back from Jasper, who seemed oddly reluctant to let her go when he should literally be calling the local sanitarium. She held a hand to her forehead, searching for a way to make herself appear normal. “I, um—”
