So. She craved fun--with him. He hadn't made any attempt to amuse her, but that would change. Tonight.
"I'm going after her. If I don't win her, it won't be because I stopped fighting."
"About time." Daniel patted him on the shoulder.
Brock was too busy staring at Lyndie to pay any more attention to Jude. She stood underneath a halogen light, talking to a man Jude had never met. Not in person, anyway. But Dorothea knew the guy. Jonathan Hillcrest. A teacher at Strawberry Valley High. A few months ago, Daniel asked Jude to do a background check on everyone the pretty inn owner had interacted with.
"Take your own advice, you fool," Jude said, patting his friend on the shoulder. Then he propelled into motion, determined to earn his prize.
*
"I DREAM OF the day a man looks at me the way Jude Laurent is looking at you," Lyndie said as soon as Jonathan Hillcrest walked away. She pressed a hand over her heart and sighed.
The sweet girl had opted to stay on the patio with Ryanne, selling towels, pops, beers and CockaMoons. While Ryanne had gotten a catering endorsement that would allow her to sell alcohol in her parking lot as well, she'd decided to stick to the parameters of her license and sell within the boundaries of the Scratching Post--aka the floor plan inside and out. Better safe than sorry with Dushku around.
"How is he looking at me?" Like he wants me? Tremors overtook Ryanne as she collected five dollars from the guy in line and handed him a beer. "The way Brock is looking at you?"
"Brock isn't... He wouldn't... Stop trying to distract me. Jude is looking at you like you shine brighter than the stars."
Really?
Don't face him. Don't you dare face him. Not again. Any time she'd snuck a peek, he had been staring at her with a mix of longing and regret, hunger and desperation, and the same sensations had risen in her.
The madness had to end.
Perhaps she needed to say goodbye again?
Nope, absolutely not. He might want her, but nothing had changed between them. The more time she spent with him, the more it would hurt when they parted. So, no more hello/goodbyes. No more Jude, period.
Whoa! Going too far. He had helped her with tonight's festivities. He'd been enthusiastic and tireless, doing anything and everything she asked, all without complaint.
So, more Jude, but no more hello/goodbyes. She'd go cold turkey, treating his carnal appeal as she would any other kind of addiction. Sure, she'd probably have to endure withdrawals. The shakes, unprovoked crankiness, heck, maybe even more vomiting. She'd gotten sick again this morning, but the stomach pains had ebbed when she'd taken a hot, steamy shower.
"Uh-oh," Lyndie said. "Incoming."
Ryanne swallowed a groan as the scent of spiced rum hit her awareness. "Don't you dare leave--"
"I'll just give you two a moment. Sorry not sorry," her friend said, blowing her a kiss and hurrying away.
Traitor!
Doing everything in her power to mentally prepare for the beauty of Jude Laurent, Ryanne turned.
She wasn't prepared.
Blond hair hung in tangled waves around his rugged face, and the golden stubble on his jaw glistened in the light. He wore a black T-shirt, his muscles on perfect he-man display. His ripped jeans molded to his legs. Blue rubber boots stretched over his knees and cinched in tight so that no mud or oil could leak into his prosthesis.
She gulped. "Hey, Jude."
"Hello, shortcake."
Shortcake again. And why hadn't she realized the word hello on his scarred lips would forever make her shiver?
"By the way, I prefer cowboy," he said.
Too bad. She'd called him cowboy because she'd planned to ride him into the sunset. "I'm calling you Jude, and that's that."
"I understand. You'd rather refer to me as the praised one."
He deadpanned the line, dry humor at its finest--humor he'd so rarely displayed before--and she had to cut off her snort.
"Do you know why I call you shortcake?" He stood close to her, his head bent so he could whisper in her ear. None of the customers she served had any idea what they were saying to each other.
"Because I smell and taste like strawberries," she muttered, her heart fluttering.
"Because shortcake is sweeter when it's slathered with cream."
Her eyes widened. There was no way on God's green earth Jude Laurent had just referenced her arousal.
"I really like your cream," he purred.
He had. He really had. Pleasure flushed her cheeks. He'd also given her a compliment she hadn't had to request. And such a dirty one, at that, nearly melting her bones.
"I meant what I said earlier. We don't work well together?" A question now?
"Thanks for asking. We do, and I'd like a chance to prove it. As your long-term boyfriend."
Boyfriend? Long-term? The words reverberated in her head as her heart kicked into an erratic beat. "Are you a pod person? What happened to my Jude?"
His eyelids hooded in an instant. "Your Jude?"
The flush spread lightning-fast. "Zip it. That was a slip of the tongue, nothing more."
"Well, I always like when you slip me your tongue. I like it a lot. By the way," he added, before she had a chance to respond, or melt into a puddle of goo. "I accept your challenge."
Moving faster than her reflexes could block, he draped her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Ryanne squealed and, going into some kind of erotic shock, beat her fists against his back. "You put me down right this second, you Neanderthal." Sexy behemoth. "I'm working."
"I signaled Brock. He's going to sell the drinks and towels." Jude continued striding forward, maneuvering through the crowd. When he reached one of the pools, he bellowed, "Everyone out!"
A new chorus of cheers rang out. Catcalls and whistles resounded. People called:
"Get her wet, Jude!"
"New rules, all clothes must come off!"
"Take him down, Miss Ryanne. Girls rule, and boys drool."
That voice she recognized. Loner. He now worked as Brett's part-time assistant, and he'd come out tonight to show his support.
"Jude," Ryanne intoned. "Don't you dare. If you do, I will personally--"
With a shrug, he dumped her into the oil. Thick slime oozed over her shirt and pants, quickly soaking the material, wetting her skin. Sputtering, she tried to stand, slipped, managed to catch her balance, then slipped again when Jude smiled. Breath exploded from her lungs as her butt hit the ground.
Jude laughed, actually laughed.
Not wanting him to escape her wrath, she acted quickly, hurling two scoops of oil at him. The substance splattered over his face and dripped onto his chest. He spat once, twice, then turned a faux glare on her, but his navy blues glittered with amusement.
First a laugh. Now genuine happiness. Who was this man?
Being without you has been the worst kind of hell.
He climbed into the pool, but Ryanne didn't give him time to gain his bearings. Remaining on the ground, batting her lashes innocently, she smiled a wicked smile--and swiped out her leg, knocking his ankles together. He tumbled to his butt, landing right beside her.
She should hop out and run, never looking back. This was Jude, and bad things happened when they got together...such bad, naughty things. But she had to beat him at something.
Gasps of horror sounded outside the pool.
"Did Ryanne kick our Jude?" someone called. "Don't she know he's disabled?"
"He's bigger and stronger than any of you," Ryanne called right back.
Jude smiled at her. A smile without reservation. A radiant smile. Inside, she melted.
Resist!
"Just for that," he said, "I'll consider letting you win."
Oh, he would, would he?
Ryanne stood, somehow remaining steady, and walked toward him. He reached overhead and removed his shirt, revealing a chest that would forever star in her fantasies. Female spectators cheered. As Ryanne wavered--and okay, ye
s, ogled him--he removed one of his leather wrist cuffs, revealing a strawberry tattooed underneath.
"I wasn't going to show you this, but..." He shrugged. "A man has to use whatever weapons he has in his arsenal."
She gasped. A strawberry. Not for the town...but for her?
He cares about me!
"I love it," she whispered.
"Good." He lashed out his arm, using his drenched shirt as a whip. The end wrapped around her wrist, drawing another gasp from her. He yanked, forcing her to slide closer to him. In a flash, he had her wrists tied and draped around his neck.
Before she had time to process what he'd done, he pushed her down. Looming over her, he slapped a palm beside her temple once, twice, three times, splashing oil every which way.
"She's out," he shouted, then gifted her with another smile.
Cheers. An announcer calling, "Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. Jude Laurent, everyone!"
"Jude, you gotta teach me that move," Cooter Bowright pleaded.
Ryanne glared up at her beautiful captor. "I thought you were going to let me win."
"No, I said I'd consider letting you win. I considered it, and figured it'd be a bad idea. You're already too pretty and too bossy. We don't need to add cocky to the mix."
Seriously. Who was this man?
Well, whoever he was, he needed to learn a valuable lesson. Mess with the bull, get the horns.
Ryanne slid her legs up between their bodies, an easy task considering they were both covered in oil, and flattened her feet on Jude's chest. Holding his wrists to maintain control, she kicked her legs straight and sent him soaring over her head. Only then did she release him, laughing as he landed on his back behind her. She scrambled to her knees and crawled over him.
One, two, three, she slapped her hand beside his temple, splashing oil over his face.
"He's out," she said with a smirk.
First he gaped up at her. Surprised she had such devious moves--and that his spine was still intact? Then he laughed. A full on, nothing held back laugh. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and his entire chest rumbled. He was so beautiful, like a work of art epitomizing happiness. She remained on top of him, utterly stunned. He'd always been sexy and beautiful, but now also...devastating.
His gaze met hers, and though his laughter faded, his smile remained. "Thank you. I haven't laughed like this in...ever."
"You mean you didn't laugh like this with Constance?" As soon as the question left her, she bit her lip, wishing she could take back the words.
He answered after the slightest hesitation, scratching his chin and saying, "Well, she never beat me up."
"Hey! I didn't beat you up."
"My relationship with her was different from my relationship with you," he continued. "We were parents so young, the bulk of our attention devoted to our kids. You and me are all about fun."
Her jaw dropped, realization striking her with the force of a baseball bat. Jude Laurent had just shared personal information about his wife, without reservation or regret. And he'd admitted he had fun with Ryanne.
He placed a soft, sweet kiss on her cheek. "Do you want to tell me goodbye? I've grown fond of your method." As she sputtered for a response, he gave her another kiss. "You're important to me, shortcake. You and I...we want the same thing, and I'm going to prove it."
CHAPTER TWENTY
BY NOON THE NEXT DAY, Jude had created a nest in bed. Everything he needed surrounded him. Pillows. Bottles of water. A bag of hand-cut chips he'd taken from the bar. Baby book. Pen. Laptop. He was home. His real home. The one he shared with Brock, but had so rarely visited lately, instead choosing to spend his nights at the Strawberry Inn, where he could be near Ryanne, even if they were separated by walls.
Last night, after oil wrestling with her, he'd returned to the cabin to give Ryanne time to think about everything he'd said. Because he was a gentleman. Sometimes. And because he'd been hiding from life far too long.
He'd tossed and turned all night, his mind in turmoil. Finally, he'd known what he had to do.
Today, he would slay his demons and become the man Ryanne needed him to be.
He leaned against the headboard, his laptop at his left, feed from the bar constantly playing--all was still and quiet. The baby book Carrie sent him rested on his lap. He'd already flipped through the pages once, but he'd done it quickly, simply glancing at every photo without reading what Constance had written underneath.
Miraculously, he'd survived.
Now he flipped through the pages slowly, reading every word, studying the minutest detail on every picture. In fact, he'd been staring at a picture of Constance and the girls for over an hour, misty-eyed. His beautiful wife had been blessed with silvery white hair and a smattering of freckles, and she'd hated both. As a child, she'd been teased mercilessly, called Ghost Girl and Freckle Face. Jude had loved running his fingers through her silken mass of curls, and tracing his tongue over her freckles.
She'd been adorably short and naturally thin, so delicate he'd sometimes suspected a strong wind would knock her over. He'd felt like a giant in comparison, but also invincible. Protecting and defending her had been an honor and a privilege.
He ran his finger over the photo, tracing the length of her arm, before shifting his gaze to the girls. They'd had his hair, sandy-blond with a slight wave, but they'd had Constance's eyes, as green as emeralds. In the picture, they were three years old, full of life, love and laughter. The princess and the tomboy, two halves of a whole.
The caption read: Daddy is overseas and had to miss the girls' birthday party. While he couldn't be there in body, he made sure to be there in spirit.
In Constance's hand was a photo of Jude wearing a birthday hat. He'd had the photo printed, glued it to cardboard and cut out his image, then anchored feet to a popsicle stick and mailed the whole thing home. How he'd hated being away, missing important events. Some nights he'd lain awake, eaten up with guilt.
He flipped to the next page--a picture of him with the girls. He cradled a plastic baby doll in his arms while Bailey and Hailey played doctor, checking the doll for a rash and giving her a shot of water, aka medicine.
This caption read: Time for a checkup!
He remembered holding his newborns in his arms, counting their fingers and toes and rubbing his freshly shaved jaw against their chubby baby cheeks. The girls had smelled like heaven...until they'd dirtied their diapers. Then they'd smelled like hell.
Jude chuckled and once again admitted Virgil was right. He wouldn't have given up his years with Constance and the girls to save himself from the agony and anguish he would suffer later. Not for any reason. He cherished every second he'd spent with his sweetheart and little sweets.
But all too soon, his laughter turned to sobs. Life wasn't supposed to be this way. Daddies weren't supposed to lose their children. Husbands weren't supposed to lose their wives. So why had he lost both? A simple case of bad luck? Fate? No. Hell, no. Fate hadn't forced a frat boy to go to a bar, drink too much and drive home. Fate hadn't led Constance to put the girls in the car at night and drive...who knew where. He could only guess. Both girls had suffered with a cold. They must have run out of medicine, and Constance, who hadn't had a babysitter, had felt she had no choice but to take both girls with her to pick up more.
The same pang he'd felt since their deaths sliced through his chest yet again, but it wasn't quite as sharp this time, and the pain didn't linger. He'd lost his family because of choices. The choice made by Frat Boy. The choice made by Constance. Every decision mattered, because in the end, there was no changing the past.
I can change my present and my future. He could have forever--with Ryanne.
The loss of his family had knocked him down hard. He'd stayed down for two and a half years. With Ryanne's help, he'd finally found the strength to stand.
He wasn't sure when or how it had happened, but at some point, he had risen. He was no longer defeated, but ready to fight for better. No longer d
espondent, but hopeful. He had a purpose again. A life with Ryanne Nicole Wade.
He could make her happy. And in turn, she could make him happy.
Who was he kidding? She was already making him happy, even though she was nothing like Constance. She wasn't shy, but bold. She wasn't fragile, but strong. Strong enough to knock him on his ass. She wasn't subdued, but witty. Her warped sense of humor was a perfect match for his own, now that he had a sense of humor again.
He couldn't live without her.
He'd have to tell Carrie and Russ he wouldn't be moving to Texas, ever. He would be staying in Strawberry Valley, and he would be fighting for his happily-ever-after.
A knock sounded at his door, echoing through his bedroom. "Hey. You spanking the monkey in there?" Brock called.
With a snort, Jude climbed from the bed and hopped to his desk to place the baby book in a drawer. "No monkey spanking. You can come in without burning your corneas."
His friend marched inside, dark circles under his eyes and a week's worth of black stubble on his jaw. He had a smile as wide as ever, but for the first time in a long time, this one appeared genuine.
"What?" Jude demanded, instantly suspicious. No one had a more warped sense of humor than Brock. "What did you do?"
"Only the best thing ever. You're about to fall to your knees and thank me for being the best friend you've ever had, will ever have, can ever have. I put Daniel to shame, and I'll expect you to tell him so."
Jude fought to maintain a stern expression. "What did you do?" he repeated.
"Called in the best crews throughout the US and offered the most obscene amounts of money for quick, quality work. As soon as the oil wrestling ended last night, we started. You and your crews had already done the bulk of the work, but we were able to clean up the parking lot and create a brand-new one. It's red brick, with a yellow brick path--details don't matter right now, you'll get to see for yourself. Anyway. It's the coolest parking lot you've ever seen. Also, we finished up the repairs inside the bar. Crews worked all night and all morning. Just finished up, in fact."
His brows drew together as he wavered on his foot. He hadn't anchored his prosthesis in place. "I've been watching the camera feed. No one--"
"I hacked your feed, because I wanted to surprise you," Brock said, his grin widening. "Ryanne should be able to open tomorrow night, after the mortar dries. Go ahead. Tell me I put Daniel to shame."
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