All I Want Is You (6 page)

She suffered the desire to lean in to him, to know that maleness more, to let it envelop her. And at the same time, she endured the awkwardness of fearing he felt her yearning—­and maybe didn't feel it in return. Or even if he did, that he didn't like who he thought she was—­in a girl/guy way—­so no matter how she measured it, it came out feeling one-­sided and embarrassing.

“Okay,” he said a few agonizingly long seconds later, “now we just need to move the step stool over and do the other one.”

“The other one,” she repeated dumbly, a little horrified to find out this wasn't over, that there was more. And yet somehow, at the same time, she was secretly ecstatic inside. More closeness. More drinking in the musky male scent of him.

“The other bracket,” he clarified, stepping down to the floor.

“Oh. Yeah,” she replied, following suit.

And a short moment later, he was holding that second bracket in place, and she was rejoining him on that folding stool meant for one, and their bodies were brushing together again, and then—­dear God—­his forearm grazed her breast and sent a trail of fire blazing all through her. And if she wasn't dealing with enough physical assaults on her senses already, when he said, “Um, sorry,” it came out all sexy and raspy, his hot breath warming her skin, and she looked up to see how close their faces, eyes, mouths, suddenly were—­and surged with wetness in her panties.

After that, there was only just looking away, wondering if he'd seen the stark lust in her gaze, and waiting out the severe nearness that threatened to bury her.

“Okay,” he said a minute later, “brackets are done.” But his voice sounded as thick as her throat felt at the moment. And then they were both stepping down, and he was lifting the curtain rod back into place, telling her, “Curtains are fixed now,” but in her mind she was still looking into his eyes, drinking in his warmth, wanting him to touch her—­everywhere.

“Um, thanks.” Another heated whisper on her part. Because he was just so beautiful in that rugged, manly way. And it had stolen her breath.

And she wished like mad that she didn't need money so badly. But she did. And he knew it. And that would forever taint everything between them, no matter what happened now.

So she took an additional step away, and she lowered her eyes, and then darted them up toward the curtain, where it would make more sense for them to be under normal circumstances. And she sensed him doing the same.

It was clearly the best move.

For both of them, it seemed.

J
ACK
was glad the days were getting warmer, and the nights, too—­warm enough to sit out on his front porch and watch the world go by. Well, maybe he couldn't see the whole world from this one little street, but he thought it was a fair representation of ­people. It was the kind of on-­the-­edge neighborhood that held both good and bad, and a lot of in between.

There were the kids in the big, run-­down Victorian on the corner who broke bottles in the street, and flung obscenities at every person who passed by.

There were quiet ­couples like the Marches up the street, whom he knew only because they'd seen him doing some work on the exterior of his house one sunny winter day and Mr. March had asked for his help carrying in a heavy desk they'd picked up at a yard sale.

And there were louder ­couples like the Harringtons, whose snappish tones could be heard two doors away—­as recently as an hour ago when they'd come home around dusk.

There was a little old man named Mr. Garver directly in the house to Jack's left who liked to walk to the corner market a few blocks away rather than drive, and who had fallen in the habit of stopping to chat if he saw Jack outside. He liked to tell stories about the Korean War, which Jack figured put him in his eighties.

Mr. Garver had also told him about his late wife, Margaret, who'd passed nearly ten years ago. “Miss her every day, even now,” Mr. Garver had said, and it had filled Jack with sadness. He'd found himself wondering if it was worth it—­to let your heart go that much, to invest that much love in someone—­if, in the end, there was a pretty good chance you'd end up without them. Whether because they died or because they fell out of love with you. And he'd concluded that maybe life was easier if you just kept a certain distance from attachments that ran that deep. He didn't ever want to find himself still missing someone ten years after they'd gone.

And then there was Christy. Who he couldn't quite get a bead on. The money-­chasing part of her just didn't mesh with the rest. He wasn't even sure why he'd helped her so much lately.

Well, wait—­that wasn't true. He'd helped her because she'd seemed sweet, and because he genuinely liked her. And he also supposed he'd helped her because . . . hell, every time he was near her he felt a certain zing—­something he hadn't experienced in a while, that excitement of new attraction, chemistry—­and despite his best intentions, it drew him in.

It's okay, though.
Her problems were
her
problems, not his. He wasn't getting any further enmeshed in her life. So it was no big deal.

Even if he kept thinking about her.

Even if his gaze drifted to her house, her windows, too often.

Even if he'd found himself keeping an eye out for her car, aware of when she came and went.

Since he'd done those repairs for her a week ago, they'd exchanged a few waves, and they'd had one brief conversation on the sidewalk during which he'd asked if everything he'd fixed was holding up. She'd said yes and thanked him again.

And hell if he didn't find himself wishing he had another reason to see her again now. Something else to fix.

Darkness had fallen when he looked up to see a late model BMW turn onto the city street, coming to a rough halt in front of Christy's house. He couldn't see into the car, but a few seconds later a door slammed and the Beamer accelerated roughly, screeching away. And then he made out her silhouette standing across the street from him, and though he couldn't see her face, something in her posture gave the impression she might be a little shaken up.

“Rough night?” he called.

“You could say that.” Her voice sounded small.

Quit noticing that part. “
At least you don't have mice anymore,” he reminded her matter-­of-­factly. “And your toilet works.”

“You're right. Thank you.” But she still sounded a little beaten, and—­hell—­it pulled at his heart more than he liked.

So as she turned to head inside, without planning it, he heard himself say, “Want some ice cream?”

She stopped, peered back toward him in the darkness. “Huh?”

“I said—­do you want some ice cream? I was about to fix myself a bowl. Chocolate.” It was the truth, about planning to fix himself some—­but the sharing part came as a surprise, to him as much as her.

“Okay,” she said, and it made him feel good that she sounded a little cheered by the invitation, reminding him that during life's rough spots, sometimes it was the little things that kept you going.

As he watched her walk toward him, he couldn't deny how pretty she looked—­she wore a summery blue dress with white sandals and her cheeks appeared sun kissed, like maybe she'd been out in the bright, warm sun they'd had the last ­couple of days. A breeze lifted the blond locks from her shoulders as she ascended the steps onto his porch.

Though it was only as Jack stood up and opened his front screen door for her that he realized—­she was coming into his house. Which contained an office filled with the latest, greatest computer and enough other high tech gadgetry and charts and paperwork that even a glimpse of it might tell her he was more than just a handyman.

“Kitchen's that way,” he said, pointing and pretty much herding her in that direction before she could start sneaking peeks anywhere else.

As he grabbed the carton of ice cream from the freezer and started scooping from it into two glass bowls, she commented on the new sink and faucet he'd put in and asked what else he'd done in the room. He pointed out other changes he'd made in the kitchen, and as they passed back through the living room, he took pride in showing her the hardwood staircase he'd refinished, and some beams he'd exposed by removing a dropped ceiling someone had put in, probably during the seventies.

And he'd thought he'd done an admirable job of distracting her from the doorway to his office—­when something even much more damning came into view: a picture of his wife.

 

“Curiouser and curiouser!”

Lewis Carroll,
Alice in Wonderland

Chapter 5

W
ELL, SHE
wasn't
still
his wife. And the picture shouldn't have been out, but his mother had unpacked it when helping him move—­it was one she'd framed and given to him, of him and Candy on their honeymoon in Hawaii. When he'd spotted it, he'd picked it up and stuck it on the bottom shelf of a bookcase, figuring he'd put it away later. And he'd given it little thought since then.

Less than two years after that magical honeymoon, the bad parts had taken place—­the gut-­wrenching parts. To this day, he remained unsure how much of their relationship had been real and how much fabricated.

“Let's go back outside—­it's still nice out,” he told Christy, ready to usher her right back out the door before she spotted this other big thing he'd kept from her. Not that it was any of her business actually, not any more than who she dated was his. So it
wasn't
exactly like he'd
kept
it from her—­but now he realized he preferred her not knowing.

Even though he knew he could just blow it off, just say, “Didn't work out,” or “Got married too young,” the fact was that he didn't want to talk about it
at all
, to her or anyone else. He didn't particularly like being reminded of his own pain, or that he'd failed at something that big.

Outside, they settled in the wooden swing he'd hung from the wide porch's awning a ­couple of months ago. It situated them closely together, reminding him of the day he'd moved her curtain rod. She smelled sweet, like something slightly flowery, slightly fruity, and he liked it too much.
Just be careful here, dude.

He asked if she knew Mr. Garver, and she relayed some funny stories about her downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Hart, who he'd quickly figured out was a busybody. They talked about the odd combination of scents created by the distillery and the flavor factory nearby, and she declared the one floating through the air tonight “strawberry bourbon, I think.” She asked him why on earth he'd chosen a house in this crazy, run-­down neighborhood to refurbish, and he'd told her, “Price was right. And I think with a little positive attention, this neighborhood could turn around.”

“You're very optimistic,” she said skeptically.

About
some
things.

Just then, Mr. Harrington could be heard yelling, “You're fuckin' insane, Lori! Fuckin' insane!”

And they both let out a laugh at the absurd irony—­even if the laughter was tainted with a little sadness. “Yep, it's a great place,” she quipped.

“Mr. Garver's cool, and the Marches are nice,” he countered. “And you're not half bad, either.” He found himself playfully nudging her bare ankle with his tennis shoe. “And who knows—­maybe I can sell this place to a nice family who'll really tip the scales.”

“If the kids on the corner don't beat them up and scare them away.”

He laughed again, because he couldn't help seeing her point—­but he also couldn't be sorry he'd chosen this particular house, for lots of reasons. It had character—­and the ­people here had character. And the most compelling character of all was Alice herself.

When their bowls sat empty on the wood planks below their feet, she said, “Thanks for the ice cream, but I should go. Work in the morning, and . . . it's been a rough night, like you noticed.” And as they both got to their feet, she added, “You made it better, though, so thanks.”

“Don't worry about that guy,” he told her easily. “You're better than him.”

She peered up, looking all pretty and innocent as usual. “Am I?” she asked. “I'm not sure anymore.”

And maybe he still wasn't entirely sure himself, either, despite having said so—­yet as they stood face to face in the soft light of his front porch, the pungent aromas of strawberries and bourbon wrapping around them, he found himself . . . inexplicably leaning in, placing his hands on her shoulders, and lowering a soft kiss to her forehead.

She looked up, their gazes locking, her eyes as big as two bright round moons shining on him in the night. And he wanted to kiss her so badly—­this time on the mouth—­that he could taste it, could taste how hot and sweet it would be. His muscles ached with the wanting; his chest tightened.

But then he took a step back from her.

And he reached for the screen door handle.

And he said, “ 'Night, Alice,” just before stepping inside and quietly pushing the front door shut.

Despite himself, he was getting too close here. But no more. No more.

S
OME
days Christy didn't feel like she knew much. She didn't know how to help her grandpa—­not to mention herself—­with money problems. She didn't know how to date wealthy men with any success—­every such endeavor so far had fallen somewhere in the range of quiet, lackluster failure to raging disaster. But the one thing she knew was that when she'd said goodnight to Jack two evenings earlier, he'd given her the best forehead kiss ever.

She'd felt it trickling down through her like soft, luscious raindrops that somehow seeped into each and every needy pore of her skin as he'd closed the door . . . and she'd nearly floated down the porch steps and across the street. In ways, she still felt it now—­as if his lips had left some indelible mark there, tattooing her forehead with his gentle affection.

Why, oh why, oh why? Why did
he
have to make her feel that way? Why couldn't it be James, the banker she'd had the most boring dinner of her life with last week? Why not Brooks, who, like his name, had just been too yuppie and arrogant for her, forcing her to eventually tell him so? It had been Brooks who had raced off into the night while Jack had watched from his porch. Why had she met the one man who really melted her soul—­that quickly—­when she couldn't have him? And when she'd been in the midst of making herself look like a woman who was only after money.

Wait, you don't just
look
like a woman after money—­you
are
a woman after money.

Ugh—­what a sobering realization, and one she still hadn't gotten comfortable with.

She sat curled up in a baby-­doll tee and Hello Kitty pajama bottoms, trying to watch TV. She wished she could talk to Bethany about all this right now, but she'd gotten a text earlier informing her that her roommate probably wouldn't be home tonight—­she was with a hot guy she'd sold some fruit to at the market and things were going well.

She and Bethany were so different in ways—­Bethany was cool with casual sex, Bethany was cool with being poor, Bethany was cool with . . . well, with most things, now that Christy thought about it. Christy envied her for being so laid-­back and together.

When her cell phone rang, she was happy for the distraction from her troubles even before seeing who it was—­until she glanced down to discover it was Grandpa Charlie calling. Not that she didn't like hearing from him—­she just wasn't in the mood to be even more reminded of the current doom and gloom hanging over them both.

“Hey, Grandpa,” she said, putting a smile into her voice as she answered.

“Hey there, darlin' girl, how are ya tonight?”

“Fine,” she lied. “Just fine.”

“Having a good spring?” he asked.

And . . . she could lie some more, but since Grandpa Charlie and she had always been close, she made the split-­second decision to tell him the truth. Or at least part of it. “Well, Grandpa, just between you and me, things kinda suck.” She let out a laugh at the end, though, trying to inject a little levity.

“What's so sucky, honey?” he asked. “I mean, besides the obvious.” They both knew that neither of them had recovered from her parents' untimely deaths—­and now they both shared the cash flow issue, too.

“Boys,” she confided in him. “They're so . . . stupid.” Which didn't entirely sum up her troubles—­but in a way, it did. And sometimes it was best to just keep things simple.

Grandpa Charlie gave a good-­hearted chuckle, the kind that made her miss being around him. “That they are, my girl. That they are.” Then he added, “You know what you should do? Ditch 'em all for a while and head south. Come see your old grandpa and have yourself a vacation. I bet you could use one.”

“Wow, could I ever!” The very thought of it—­the beach, a getaway—­sounded amazing. Albeit pretty unthinkable. Even though she hadn't seen him since the funerals and hadn't had anything resembling a vacation since her mom and dad had died. To dip her toes in the sand or feel the Florida sun on her face sounded beyond heavenly.

“Then come on down. Weather's beautiful here right now. And you sound too tense for someone so young.”

She sucked in her breath, hating to remind him of the sad truth. “I'd love to, but . . . I don't see how I can. Money and all. You know the situation.” And it was even much worse now, given
his
situation.

So it surprised the hell out of her when he said, “You know, every now and then in life the smartest thing you can do is just . . . do what you want to do. And trust fate to work things out.”

Christy just sat there. She knew her Grandpa was in full possession of his faculties, but at the moment it sounded like he was giving her shockingly bad advice. “Um, Grandpa, saying I did this—­saying I took off work for a week or two and spent money I don't have—­how would I pay my bills next month?”

“Like I said,” he told her, “just have faith it'll work out.”

“Uh, while I appreciate the notion,” she replied, “I think maybe that's how ­people end up homeless.”

“Well, here's another angle, darlin'. If you need help afterward, you can let me know and I'll send you a little cash to help you get by.”

“But you don't have any, either,” she pointed out.

“I have enough to last me 'til fall,” he said. “And if I end up getting kicked outta here a week or two earlier, what difference does it make in the big picture? Right now, I want my grandbaby to come see me and that's that.”

They continued talking and soon, to Christy's astonishment, the idea actually began to seem almost feasible. Her boss was usually easygoing and would probably let her have the time. And it would be good for both of them to spend some together right now. And the last few weeks had left Christy pretty drained—­the idea of basking in the sun and not chasing around rich guys or trying to solve massive money problems for a little while sounded kind of dreamy.

So by the time they hung up, they'd discussed a tentative plan. She would take off work, drive down to see him, and maybe the whole thing would end up just clearing her head, renewing her energy, and helping her find some answers.

She went to bed lulled to sleep by the scent of lemon gin thanks to an open window, and somehow already feeling refreshed. She might actually have something to look forward to, something that was actually relaxing and happy as opposed to stressful and pressure filled. She still wasn't sure how she would afford it, but the beach lured her.

And maybe getting away from Jack DuVall for a while would be wise, too. Maybe she'd get over this lustful little crush. Maybe she'd even meet some rich mogul type on the beach who wanted to take her away from it all. She couldn't help thinking it was a nice idea—­even if, in actuality, the idea of being taken away from Jack made her a little sad inside.

She wasn't sure what time it was when she woke to noise—­yelling and breaking glass—­until a glimpse of the clock told her it was, yikes, just past two
A.M.
The Harringtons.

And she really didn't want to get out of bed and look out the window—­but it was the repeated sounds of something crashing, breaking, that made her get up. She almost knew what the sound was, and she didn't want it to be true, yet she had to see for certain.

And sure enough, a glance out the window confirmed her fears. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington stood in their front yard throwing her potted plants at each another, one by one.

Some of the pots were glass, others simpler terra-­cotta. And many were still intact, but others lay shattered in jagged bits on the front walk and littering the freshly mown yard, dark soil and roots spilling out.

Christy's heart broke a little at the sight. But another part of her just pushed that hurt aside—­because she'd learned how to do that when she needed to.

After a few minutes at the window watching the surreal scene, something drew her down the stairs on bare feet. There wouldn't be any sleep until this was over, after all. And it was kind of like a wreck on the highway—­she didn't
want
to look, but she couldn't quite stop herself. Stepping quietly outside, she took a seat on the cool concrete steps leading from the porch, realizing a few other neighbors were out quietly observing, as well.

The ­couple intermittently yelled at each other in between hurling Mrs. Harrington's beloved plants at each other. He called her a bitch. She called him a bastard. Someone from down the block yelled at them to shut up. Mr. Harrington threatened to kick the unseen neighbor's ass. It all struck Christy as obscenely sad and tragic and absurd.

That's when a dark shadow to the left caught her eye and she looked up to see Jack crossing the street toward her. He carried two small bowls, one in each hand. “Called the police,” he told her matter-­of-­factly as he passed a bowl of chocolate ice cream down to her, complete with a spoon, then took a seat at her side. He wore a wrinkled white T-­shirt and jeans she suspected he'd pulled from the dirty clothes, and his feet, like hers, were bare. “Probably a little melty,” he said, “but seemed like we should at least have refreshments.”