One of These Nights (8 page)

“That about sums it up, yes.” She tapped one nail on the table as she regarded him. He was, she decided, a hot mess. One she felt sympathy for despite his attitude, his mouth, and her own better judgment. She wasn't exactly sure why, except that he seemed to be as much of an outsider here as she was in some ways, despite having lived in the Cove all his life. And he was so bad at socializing that she felt sorry for him. That was, when she wasn't infuriated.

When he opened his eyes again to focus on her, she was struck by those pretty gold flecks she wished she could stop noticing. But they were impossible to ignore, just like the solemn intensity he regarded her with. “Look,” he finally said. “I'm terrible at this. It probably isn't going to get any better, so maybe we should just give it up. I'll deal with tomorrow. She'll get over it.”

Zoe watched him slump into his chair. He'd quit bristling and instead just looked about as forlorn as a person could look. She couldn't stay angry, either, between his acknowledgment of his own horrible people skills and the way his big shoulders slouched as though a heavy weight bore down on them.

“So you want me to go,” she said.

Jason shrugged. “You'd be better off. It's not like I'm going to quit buying stuff from the gallery if you bail.”

“That's not an answer.” She exhaled loudly. “Tell me something. Are you this bad at women all the time, or is it just me?”

His mouth softened, and she caught the faintest trace of a startled smile. “It's an all-the-time thing. You're just one of the only women I talk to on a regular basis.”

“Argue with, you mean.”

He shrugged again. “That counts.”

“Not really.” She watched him, wishing she could see what was going on in his head. “Just tell me one thing.” His brows lifted a little, which she took as close enough to agreement to push ahead. “Putting aside the desperation, your crap attitude, and what you think would make your mother happy, there's one thing I'm not clear on at all.” She took a deep breath, then asked the question she should have asked before anything else—the question that meant the difference between staying and leaving. And though she'd taken the answer for granted before now, it suddenly occurred to her that she might have made a rare and very big mistake.

“Jason, do you even
like
me?”

He blinked, looking startled. “Do I—what kind of a question is that?”

“A simple one,” Zoe replied. “I don't care how much I match up with whatever you think your mother would like, or whether I'm just the only female who'll talk to you for longer than sixty seconds. I already knew you were a pain in the butt when I said I'd help you out, and I know we don't really know each other, but I assumed we were at least starting from a place where there was some kind of—”

“Of course I like you.” His answer was rushed and exasperated and sounded perfectly sincere. Zoe took a moment to try to will her heart rate to slow down, frustrated with herself for the relief coursing through her system.
Why didn't I just pass him a note that said, “Do you like me? Check yes or no.” I could take it to work and file it for future reference.
“You think I'd be sitting here eating Chinese with you if I didn't like you?”

“Well,” she said calmly, “I don't know. You might be. You're a captive audience, and Jake says you'd rather eat than talk.”

At that, Jason actually rolled his eyes, and then she couldn't help a smile. “General rule of thumb: Jake's full of it. Don't listen to him. Especially about me.” He shook his shaggy head. “Do I even like you . . . That's such a
girl
question.”

“I am one, if you haven't noticed.”

“I noticed.” This time, the growl in his voice hinted at a very different sort of frustration, and Zoe's toes curled inside her boots. He thought they had nothing in common. Maybe he was right. But that didn't seem to dampen the heat in his eyes before they dropped to her open notebook.

“Okay,” he said, as though she'd asked him a question. An annoying question, but one he supposed he'd deign to answer. “Let's see. I'm thirty-one. My birthday's November second. I went to college in—” He broke off and looked up at her abruptly. “Are you going to write this down or what?”

She could sense the shift in him as strongly as if he'd announced it. He'd decided to cooperate. He wanted her here after all. In fact, he
liked
her. Treebeard of the bad attitude and improbably fluffy dog liked her. It was a tiny admission that shouldn't have done much but make her a little more comfortable, since no one really wanted to sit around with a guy who hated one's guts. Instead, Zoe felt herself relax into her chair as she picked the pen back up, a frisson of what was either nerves or excitement—or both—raising goose bumps on her arms and threatening to make her shiver.

I like you, too,
she thought.
God knows why, but maybe I'll figure it out one of these days.

Tomorrow might be a disaster, Zoe knew. But for tonight, watching Jason slip Rosie a piece of chicken so she could devour it like a very small great white shark, Zoe couldn't shake the certainty that she was exactly where she needed to be.

“I'm writing if you're talking,” she said. “Let's do this.”

N
erves.

Jason woke up to their jangling like an alarm clock in the back of his mind. Even the air seemed heavier as he dragged himself out of bed. No matter how many times he told himself it was ridiculous, that he was a grown man who managed a hell of a lot of responsibility with, if not ease, then extreme competence, it was always like this right before a family visit. Probably because he'd gotten so used the relative lightness of the atmosphere without them around. If they hadn't moved, Jason knew, he likely would have. Not because he didn't love the Cove, though. Leaving this place would have meant he'd spend the rest of his life looking for somewhere just like it, and he knew that for him, it probably didn't exist.

A soft sigh distracted him, and Jason registered the warm weight curled into his side. He untucked his arm from behind his head and reached down to give Rosie's fur a ruffle. She stretched at his touch, as groggy as he was but no doubt in a better mood. That was something he'd come to count on since she'd arrived in his life. Some things pissed her off—the mailman, most notably—but his company seemed to be her favorite thing. She didn't expect him to be anything but a good owner, and that was his pleasure.

Jason hauled himself out of bed, picked up the hated crutches, and made his way out of his not-bedroom to try to drown his resentment in some morning coffee. Rosie hurried after him, going from sleepy to alert in the blink of an eye once she figured out where he was headed. He still wasn't sure whether he occupied the number one spot in Rosie's heart or breakfast did.

Had to be a close contest.

He started his morning routine, letting Rosie out, letting Rosie in, letting Rosie out
again
, making himself a cup of coffee while he told Rosie to hold her horses, and finally distracting her with her breakfast. It wasn't until he opened the fridge to find something for himself, however, that he found his first real smile of the day. What had previously been a relative wasteland of unrelated food items and bare space was now filled with takeout cartons.

He might have imagined Zoe whipping up classic French cuisine using locally sourced ingredients for dinner every night, but if last night was any indication, they at least shared a love of carbs and MSG. And she'd gotten enough to keep him in leftovers for a couple of days. He had a sneaking suspicion his mother was going to keep that from being necessary, but eating egg rolls for breakfast was always more pleasure than necessity. Remembering Zoe and her notebook, Jason smiled as he pulled out a couple of those egg rolls, along with some of the fried rice, and set about dumping it on a paper plate to heat up in the microwave. Maybe Zoe was out of his league, but she wasn't as unapproachable as he'd figured. He'd expected to spend the evening bickering and wondering what the hell he'd been thinking when he'd enlisted her help.

He'd been wrong.

The smile faded as he got the plate out, maneuvered both it and himself over to the kitchen island, and sat on one of the stools to eat. Jason looked at the clock: eight a.m. He had about five hours of freedom left. Acting had never been his thing, and now he'd need to put on one hell of a performance to get what he wanted. There was a part of him that felt guilty that what he wanted was for his family to leave him alone. He just didn't feel guilty enough to call Zoe and tell her to forget it.

At least Tommy's not coming.
Waving a new girlfriend in front of his brother would be like pouring gasoline on a fire. He wasn't supposed to have anything Tommy didn't . . . and his brother would never, ever have a Zoe.

Of course, he probably wouldn't, either . . . but Tommy wouldn't make it five minutes with her before one of those stylish riding boots was planted where the sun didn't shine. The thought made him smile.

She'd promised to be here for lunch so they could go over things one last time. So she could be here smiling brightly for his mother, who'd be thrilled for maybe half an hour, if they were lucky, before she started competing. Jason rubbed a hand over his face, sighed, and began to munch on his egg roll. Zoe didn't know what she'd gotten herself into. And because he was both selfish and desperate, he hadn't told her. Not really. He figured she'd probably gotten some sort of warning from her friends, but there was no way Zoe would run from a challenge. It was one of the things he liked about her.

“Do you even like me?”
He snorted at the memory of the question and shook his head. Of course she'd miss the fact that he did. Just reinforced that she didn't think of him that way. And all things considered . . . that was probably just as well.

*   *   *

“You sure you have a handle on everything?”

“Yes.”

“Because I can stay.”

“No.”

“I don't mind.”

Zoe watched as Sam heaved an exasperated sigh and turned from the door to look at her. She'd just ushered out a very happy couple with their new painting, a thrill that never got old for either of them. Sam was looking less than pleased at the moment, however.

“Stop stalling. You got yourself into this thing, and I know you won't back out, because you're you. So just go do it.” She paused, one corner of her mouth curving up. “I see that look, you pervert. That's not what I meant.
Or is it?
”

“I didn't say anything!” Zoe cried, throwing up her hands. She was torn between laughter and the intense urge to run and hide under her desk. She was glad she had Sam to lighten the moment, but nothing changed the fact that she was headed out of here and headlong into the unknown. With Treebeard. Her new fake boyfriend.

“Maybe I should just call him and tell him I'll be late,” Zoe said. “We're busy.”

“Obviously,” Sam said, arching one eyebrow and sweeping her hand around the empty gallery. “Swamped.”

“That's what I'm
saying
.”

Sam sighed. “Zo, I love you, but if I'd known you got this freaked-out about men I wouldn't have bugged you so much about needing to find one. Why don't you just pretend he's one of your superheroes? Like an undercover Thor or something.”

“No. Trust me, that way lies madness and a pile of shredded spandex.” She raised her hand and hooked her fingers into claws for emphasis. “I mean it. Shredded.”

“Ooo-kay, maybe not, then. But you've got to go. Didn't you tell him noon? Seriously.”

“I'm going,” Zoe told her, then proceeded to find a painting to adjust. She clearly heard Sam's disgusted groan. “That's not very nice.”

“Do you want me to fight you? I can try to kung fu you toward the door. Then you can take some comfort in the fact that you didn't go voluntarily.”

“I . . . you want to . . . you don't even know kung fu,” Zoe replied, caught momentarily off guard and amused despite herself. Sam was good like that.

“I've watched
The Matrix
enough times to fake it convincingly,” Sam said. “Wanna see?”

Zoe stared at her friend, who looked back without cracking a smile, and finally burst out laughing. “Kind of, actually. But not today, though I appreciate the thought.”

Now Sam did smile, and it lit up her entire face. Zoe took some comfort in that. However this craziness panned out, things would stay the same here at Two Roads. This place was her refuge, much like she supposed Jason's cabin was his. That thought was what finally got her moving. The man had always struck her as being rather private, but until this weekend, she'd never found it all that endearing. Now, thinking of him waiting for her, probably attempting to pace on his crutches while Rosie sat wondering what on earth was wrong with her human, she couldn't help but want to keep her word to him.

He wasn't what she'd thought. Not entirely, at least. And from the way he'd looked at her last night, she didn't seem to be quite what he was expecting, either. Maybe that was to be expected when most of your interactions revolved around telling each other, in an endless variety of ways, to piss off. Entertaining? Sure. Informative? Not so much.

“All right, I really am going now,” Zoe said. “Without you pretending to beat me up in slo-mo, though. We'll save that for when we really need the publicity.”

“You got it,” Sam said with a nod. “Until then, I'll just hold down the fort. I like your ‘meeting the mom' outfit, by the way.”

“You think?” Zoe brushed a hand down the simple shift in a royal blue and black print she'd pulled from the closet after a few minutes—okay, maybe it had been more like an hour—of contemplation that morning. It was loose and breezy, with three-quarter-length sleeves and a hemline that showed off her legs without making her feel like sitting down would give the world a show. She wasn't much of a dress girl, but this one was comfortable, and it went great with her favorite flats. She'd looped a long string of beads around her neck, pinned the top section of her hair back, and hoped she looked like somebody Jason's mother wouldn't want to immediately annihilate. She needed some time to figure out a strategy before engaging in battle.

Not that she wanted a battle . . . but given what everyone had said—and what they hadn't—it was best to be prepared.

“Definitely,” Sam said. “I don't think I've ever seen that dress. Snazzy.”

“Well, you know I try to stay fabulous,” Zoe replied. She pulled on a long sweater that was functioning as her jacket for the day, slung her bag over her shoulder, and took a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”

“You don't need luck,” Sam said. “You're already well armed for any battle of wits. Just, you know, watch your back. And Jason's.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Not that I think you'll have a problem with that last part.”

“Do you want me to beat you with my purse? This isn't real. I'm not sleeping with Treebeard!”

“Doesn't mean you can't appreciate the view,” Sam pointed out. “And don't even pretend you haven't noticed it's a nice one. I've seen you looking after he's stomped out of here.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. “I'm not
blind
. Hey, call me if Marlis Pritchard comes in, will you? I had a talk with Aaron about doing a commission for her, and he had some questions.”

“You want me to just have her call him directly?”

“No, not until she figures out he doesn't bite.”

Sam laughed softly. “Oh, you want me to lie to her, then.”

“Yes, please. He's domesticated now, remember? He hardly ever bites at all anymore.” Which reminded her, she was going to owe him a phone call tonight as well. Aaron and Sam were about the only people she went out of her way to sit down and gossip with on a regular basis, and they all checked up on one another. Not that he was needing to be checked on quite as much lately, since he'd gotten awfully cozy with Ryan Weston, one of Jake's friends.

She was happy for him and just a little sad for herself. She'd aspired to be many things in Harvest Cove, but “third wheel” wasn't one of them. And the two men were, as Aaron loved to point out when they were all together, disgustingly adorable. Though Ryan was as apt to roll his eyes over that description as she was.

“Hardly ever isn't never,” Sam said. “And he and Marlis are like oil and water.”

“Just have her call me,” Zoe said. “I'm sure I can take time out from . . . whatever.”

“I want a full report on the whatever.” Sam's smile was more than a little evil.

“Maybe there won't be anything to report.”

“Maybe. She might have mellowed,” Sam agreed. She didn't look any more convinced than Zoe felt, however, and Zoe wondered, not for the first time, whether she'd finally managed to bite off more than she could chew. Only time would tell.

Sam struck a reasonable facsimile of a kung-fu fighting stance, and Zoe knew that was her cue to get going. “Okay, okay. I'm leaving.” She walked out into a September day just shy of being crisp, with the sun just breaking through the clouds. It was beginning to feel like fall in earnest now. The wild storm they'd had, the one that Jason had been caught in, seemed to have been summer's last hurrah. Temps had been on a downward swing ever since, and it looked like there would be a definite nip in the air by the end of the coming week.

Zoe welcomed it, just as she did every year since she'd come to Harvest Cove. She was into her fourth year here, having chased a dream all the way from a little town in Georgia. Her parents still doubted her sanity, but this was the time of year, every year, when she was sure she'd made the right decision.

She took a deep breath, loving the way the air was scented with cooling earth, turning leaves, and ocean—here, you could always smell the ocean. Then she headed down the short path that led through a knee-high wrought-iron fence to the sidewalk, hanging a right to where her car was waiting. As Zoe pulled out her key chain to unlock the navy blue and white Mini crossover she'd bought herself as a present last year, she turned her head to look down Hawthorne toward where it became the Cove's historic square. She'd opened the gallery on a day a lot like this, she realized. That day, the world had seemed full of possibility, her future like a flower with petals only just beginning to unfurl.

That was when she realized why she was thinking of that first day. The feeling of possibility, or life just waiting to happen, was in the air again. And this time, instead of savoring it, Zoe could only give it a suspicious side-eye before getting into her car and driving away, uncertain of whether what she felt was the echo of a memory, a tantalizing hint of the future, or the promise of impending doom.