Second Chance Hero (8 page)

“I was.” I quickly jump to defend myself, “But it
just seemed like a good business move. I can work here during the season and
spend more time in London when it’s quiet here.”

“And what about us?” he looks hurt.

“It’s only a few hours’ drive. We can swap weekends
or something. I don’t know, I haven’t figured it all out yet.”

He rubs his hands over his face, and stands up.

“What are you doing?” I ask, as he puts his suit jacket
on and pulls out his wallet.

“Going home. I need some time to think about if
that’s the kind of relationship I want, and you need to figure it all out. Call
me when you have.”

I’ve hurt him. I didn’t think he’d be so offended by
my choice to open up a shop here. He said he wants to spend more time with my
family and wants me to open up another shop, so what’s the problem with it
being here?

“Kip,” I say standing up as he puts money on the
table for my wine and his lemonade.

He places his hands on my cheeks and kisses me,
softly and kindly.

“I know coming back here has messed you up, but I
can't keep coming back here every weekend. When you know what you want to do,
call me. I love you.”

I smile up at him, because that’s what I do when he
says those three words. He understands that. And then he’s gone. I sit back at
the table and pour the last glass of wine from the bottle. I pull out my phone
and open up a text message.

‘Fancy that drink? J’

Fifteen minutes later, Deacon walks in the door and
sits down opposite me.

“Date didn’t go so well with lover boy?” He asks,
gesturing to the untouched lemonade.

“Don't start. You wanted a drink, we’re having a
drink. Then you can get off my case.”

“I’m not on your case.” He calls to the host and I
look at the light blond, almost invisible chest hair that peeks out from his
shirt. A few buttons are undone and I can see his chest is as smooth and
tanned, as it is strong.

Deacon orders a bottle of Sauvignon and sits back in
his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Those arms are incredible; I
swallow hard and my heart begins to race as I imagine those arms wrapped around
me. When I look back into his eyes he’s looking straight at me, the crooked
smile on his lips telling me he knows exactly what I’m thinking about. I blush
and squirm in my seat.

“What?” I ask.

“Have I ever told you that you’re stunning?”

“Shut up.” What’s his game?

“It’s true. You’ve really bosomed. I mean,
blossomed.”

“That’s disgusting,” I look around the restaurant,
pretending the thought of him even looking at my body hasn’t set me on fire.
I’m grateful for the wine to cool down my burning libido, and I take a large
mouthful.

Deacon plays with the glass on his lips before
taking a small, savouring sip.

“So, what’s this drink for?

“We live in a town with a couple of hundred people
if that, and there’s enough lust between us to burn it down.” My words exactly,
“We used to be friends once, so I propose a truce. We have to be civil if we’re
both going to live here. And civil people go for drinks.”

I stare at him, shocked that a rational sentence
with no sexual undertones just came out of his mouth.

“Okay, truce.”

I reach out to shake him on it, but regret in the
moment he touches me. I gasp as his fingers brush against my skin, his firm
grip driving me wild at the natural masculinity he possesses. I exhale quickly,
trying to get my breath back.

“So why can't I have your bakery contract?” Deacon
asks, perusing the menu. Apparently we’re eating too.

“Because I don’t think we can work together.”

“I’m a professional, Jenna. I take my work
seriously.”

“I remember when you used to say that about your
Lego,” I laugh.

And then I stop laughing, knowing Deacon is thinking
the same thing as he looks back at me; both of us wondering why we couldn't be
graced with the friendship we used to have, for life. Things used to be easy
between us; silence was never awkward, conversations were never embarrassing.
There wasn’t anything I couldn’t talk to him about. Now all I want to do is
throw myself across the table at him, but that won't simplify the situation.

“What are you eating?” He asks, looking back to the
menu, and I’m glad that he didn’t come out with some sort of smart remark.

“I thought this was just a drink?” I ask, but reach
for the menu.

“So you’ve eaten?” I shake my head, “Then we’re
eating.”

I take a deep, submissive breath and look over the
menu. It’s the only fancy menu in town and I can't think straight about all the
elaborate words while Deacon is looking at me. I don’t look at him, but there’s
a charge in the air and I know he’s watching me, in that way he seems to have
that has never made me feel so uncomfortable, or so at ease.

“What can I get you?” a fire-haired waitress appears
at the table with the bottle of wine and a notepad in her hand ready to take
our order. She looks familiar. I snap my fingers when I remember she was in the
year below me at school. Deacon smiles and shakes his head and I feel my cheeks
redden.

“We’ll have some bread and olives. Does it come with
olive oil?” Deacon asks while I continue scouring the menu and avoid eye
contact.

“Yes, it comes with olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
The bread is freshly baked in house.”

I look up at when she I hear the way she speaks.
She’s blushing, and runs her tongue along her top lip, her eyes clearly
assessing Deacon. Oh, Jesus.

“Yeah, we’ll have that. What are you having, baby?”
I almost choke on my mouthful of wine and my wits have vanished again.

“Uh,” I stutter, desperately wanting to smack him in
the face, “Chicken... Uh, the chicken with lemon and thyme. No potatoes.
Please.”

A smile plays on Deacon’s lips and he bites on his
bottom lip, his attention solely on me as the waitress waits for his order.

“I’ll have the steak. Rare,” he hands her his menu,
and mine, seeing as I am physically unable to move, “Thanks.”

“What was that about?” I ask, through gritted teeth.

Deacon just smiles at me, and lifts his wine glass
to his lips.

“Deaky!” someone shrieks from behind us, and
Deacon’s eyes fly open, nervously.

He mumbles an expletive under his breath as a
towering brunette appears at our table and throws herself on Deacon’s lap,
barely having to squeeze into the tiny gap between him and the table.

“Baby, I haven’t heard from you.”

Baby? Oh, so this must be number three. How many
more are there? I wasn’t aware so many beautiful women inhabited this tiny
town.

“Uh, Kate,” he says, shifting in his chair, “I’m
busy.”

“Don't stop on my account, please,” I throw my hands
in the air and shove my napkin on the table. I stand up and drain the last of
my glass of wine.

“Jen-”

“No!” I shout, losing my composure. I turn to the
woman on his lap, the kind of woman who would make models cry, “Nice to meet
you, Number Three.”

I turn and leave, praying he doesn’t follow me.

“Number three?!” I hear her ask, as I walk out of
the door and don’t look back.

Deacon

Fuck.

“Kate, what the hell is wrong with you?” I shouldn’t
make a scene, but really I couldn't give a fuck, “What is it with the women in
this town?”

I push her off my lap and she reluctantly stands up.
She’s just found out she’s my supposed number three and she still doesn’t want
to leave.

“What does she mean by number three?” Kate asks, so
close to my chair I can't stand up.

The waitress appears with the food, and looks at the
mess of the situation.

“I’ll have them to go, and the bill.”

 “She meant what she said,” I growl, feeling like a
bastard. I might have a problem with commitment but I respect women, “You’re
the third girl I’m screwing who she’s seen me with.”

“But I thought-“

            “I know what you thought but I don’t do
girlfriends. I thought I made that clear with my words
and
my actions. I
don’t know what it is with you girls and labelling.”

            She stands there in shock, eyes wide and
moist. The waitress brings over the food in a paper bag and I hand her some
money to cover the bill.

            “I have to go,” I say pushing my chair
back far enough to get out.

            “Shall I call you?” She cries after me
as I walk towards the exit, angry and frustrated that I’ve just blown another
chance with Jenna.

“What do you think?” I call over my shoulder.

Jenna’s car is parked at the kerb outside the
restaurant and I peer through the window, expecting to see Jenna going crazy in
the driver’s seat. Her car is empty and I look up to the sky as the clichéd
rain begins to pour.

I rub the rain off my face and run across the road
to my truck to look around for Jenna. She’s angry with me, but why would she
not just drive home?
Shit.
I bang my fists on the steering wheel, turn
the key in the ignition and the engine springs to life, ready to head out on
search and rescue. She’s had more than a bottle of wine, she can’t drive home.
I slam the truck into gear and peel out of the car park, heading in the
direction Jenna will have taken to walk the three miles back to Folquay.

I spot her walking along a pavement-less country
lane; the full beam of the headlights catches her first, struggling in her high
heels, and wearing nothing but a knee length grey dress. I pull up next to her,
and lower the passenger window.

She turns to see the car, but looks away as soon as
she’s realises it’s me, flipping me her middle finger.

“Jenna, get in the car.”

“Fuck off, Deacon. I'm capable of walking.”

She trips in a hole in the road and wobbles in her
heels. I slam on the breaks but she rights herself; I trail along next to her,
ready to reach out and pull her into the truck if she slips again.

“Stop being ridiculous. It’s raining and it’s
dangerous.”

A car beeps and overtakes me, the driver shouting
something out of his window, which I ignore.

“There’s an explanation for everything. Please, just
let me get you home safe.”

“There’s always an explanation with people like you,
Deacon Reid.”

“Jenna, just stop!”

She halts, shocked by the tone of my voice and I
stop the car, turning on my hazards so we don’t end up a tangled mess in the
road. She stands with her arms folded, the rain water dripping from her hair,
and the dress that clings to her soaked body.

“Just get in the car.”

“Fine.” She snaps, and climbs in slamming the door
shut.

“Thank you.”

I continue along the road, the silent tension
closing in on us.

“Jenna, I-“

“I don’t want to hear it. What you do with your life
has nothing to do with me.”

“That’s bullshit.” I pull my jumper off the back
seat, throw it on her lap, and crank up the heating.

She throws the jumper to her feet and before I can
open my mouth to say something like ‘you’ll catch pneumonia’, she pulls her
dress over head. I swerve as my eyes take in the wonder that is Jenna in
nothing but her black, lacy and barely-there underwear. I gasp when she reaches
behind her to undo her bra and grip the wheel as it lands next to my leg. All I
can do is will my eyes to stay on the road.

“Just keep driving.”

“Jesus, Jenna.” I curse, my jeans suddenly
unbearably tight, as she pulls the jumper on and shifts to pull it to her
knees.

“It’s just a body. Clearly you’ve seen your fair
share of them.”

Yeah, but none that give me the reaction she just
did. She slips her hand under the jumper and slides her underwear down her
legs, joining her soaked pile of clothes next to the bag of our rapidly cooling
dinner. Christ. I think I’m going to combust right here in my truck. Suddenly
I’m hot, too hot. I pull at the collar of my shirt, trying to get some air to
my burning body, and take some deep breaths to calm my racing heart. All the
years of remembering Jenna and the way she looked in her jeans and college
jumper, or the pyjamas she used to wear when we’d lay in bed and watch movies
has now been replaced by the image of her curves in the flesh - her soft, olive
skin wet and naked in my truck. I’ll never be able to get in this car again
without seeing her body in that passenger seat.

At the t-junction at the end of the road where I
know I’m supposed to take a left to take her back home, I take a right.

“Where are we going?” She asks, scraping her wet
hair back into a messy pile on the top of her head.

“Back to mine. You can't go home to your parents
dressed like that.”

“Yes I can. I don’t want to go to your house. Take
me home.”

“No! You need to hear me out. I brought the dinner
from the restaurant. We’ll go eat, you can dry off and I’ll take you home.”

“I don’t understand you. Why have you made it your
mission to prove yourself to me? I saw with my own eyes, you like to take
advantage of women. If that’s the way you choose to live your life, that’s
fine. What does it have to do with me?”

“Everything!” I grip the wheel with force I didn’t
know I had, “It has everything to do with you!”

I pull into my driveway, and park between the BMW
and the 4x4. I grab the food and Jenna’s wet clothes and climb out, needing a
few seconds to myself. I’m frustrated to hell because all I want is to repair
what I broke. I want to tell her everything over and over until she listens. I
want her to let me in. I want my best friend back.

After all these years, she still gets me, waiting a
minute before following me. I leave her in the living area and go to the
kitchen to plate up dinner.

I tip the food out onto the plates, wondering why
she doesn’t eat potatoes. It’s another thing that has changed. I can’t see her
making a bet with me to see who could eat the most doughnuts now, like we used
to do in college. I always won, of course, but she put up a damn good fight. I
grab a bottle of wine and two glasses, and go back into the living room.
Jenna’s standing at the French doors and looking out into the darkness. I see
her looking at me in the reflection in the glass, with an expression I can't
read.

 I don’t know if she’s angry, if she’s calmed down,
or if she really just doesn’t want to be here. I worry that she’s cold as a
single drop of rainwater falls from her silky hair and absorbs into my jumper.
The atmosphere that always consumes me when I’m close to her takes over and I
join her at the doors, prepared to talk to her reflection if she won't look at
me.

“I just want to look after you.”

“I don’t need looking after.” She matches the volume
of my voice as her eyes trail from my feet to my eyes.

Jenna turns and walks to the coffee table, pulling
up two beanbags from by the fire and sits at the table. I join her, still
unsure of how I’m supposed to approach her; my brain is scrambled in that
addictive way it always is when I’m around her and I can't remember how to read
women or decipher their mixed messages. We used to sit like this when we were
in uni; Jenna’s dorm was too small for a table and chairs, and I bought her
some bean bags so she didn’t have to eat off her lap.

“Why didn’t you want potatoes?” I ask.

“I don’t eat them.”

“Since when?”

“It’s a habit. Kip and I don’t eat carbs at home.”

“You live together?”

The thought of them living together, of Kip getting
to see Jenna relaxed and at home, sitting together as we are now sharing a bottle
of wine and laughing together makes me see red, angry enough to need to go
outside. I shift restlessly, waiting for her response and as she looks down and
plays with her food, there’s a long silence. I don’t know why. Either they live
together or they don’t.

“He wants us to. But we settle for staying at each
other places.”

“You don’t want to live with him?” I try to hide my
relief.

Jenna on the other hand, looks unfazed. I have no
idea what she’s thinking.

“How’s the steak?” She asks. She doesn’t want to
talk about it.

I nod my answer and we eat in silence. I finish
before her, consuming half my cow in record time so I can watch her eat.
There’s something mesmerising about watching her; I can't explain it, so I
settle for drinking my wine leaning back on the sofa, and watching her savour
each mouthful. She closes her eyes and moans in appreciation as she enjoys her
dinner. She’s driving me crazy.

“So, explain the girls to me then.” She asks when
she's finished, and makes me jump. She drags her bean bag next to mine, bending
her knee so it brushes against my thigh. My skin burns through my jeans, but I
sit statue still, not wanting to break the only physical contact she’s allowed
me.

“Why?”

“You brought me here to hear you out. Here I am, and
I’m listening.”

“Uh...”

I hadn’t thought the explanation through; I didn’t
think she would actually want to know. She’s looking at me expectantly,
eyebrows raised, waits.

“There’s just three.
Was.
It was stupid. I
wasn’t thinking and since Dad died no one has said anything to me about being
an arse. Until you came back. The look of disgust in your eyes just got me.”

“But...why?”

I take both lips between my teeth and cock my
eyebrows.

“Yeah, I get that,” she says sarcastically, “but why
not just find a girlfriend?”

“They all had...traits. None of them had them all,
so I kept all three. A mix of what I needed.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Of course she would misunderstand. But how can I
tell her that they all had the traits of her that I wanted, that I
needed?
The only person who has everything I need is the woman sitting next to me,
shaking her head as if I’m some sort of predator.

“I’m not explaining it properly.” I stutter, afraid
to blow another opportunity with her.

“No. You’re not doing yourself any favours.” She
leans up on her leg, inches away from my face, “So it’s a specific something
you need in a woman. And the only way you can have everything you need is by
having more than one?”

“That pretty much covers it.”

“So,” she reaches behind her, arching her back and
grabs her glass. I watch as she sits up slowly and drains the rest of her wine,
“what are these traits?”

It takes a while to compose myself after that show.
Jenna is flexible; it’s thrown me completely. And now she’s playing with the
rim of her wineglass, rolling it along her bottom lip, teasing.

“I can't tell you.” I finally answer.

“But what is it you need? Someone who you can teach?
Someone who can teach you?” She shakes her head, as if she knows the answer to
that one, “Someone good with their hands and their mouth? Someone
experimental?”

“Jenna, there isn’t a checklist. It’s either there
or it’s not. I can't explain it to you, or them, because I can't explain it to
myself.
”

She nods, pursing her lips.

“So have you ever experimented to find out?”

I shake my head, confused beyond ultimate confusion.
I don’t know why she’s asking about it. It’s clear what she thinks so I don’t
know why she’s so interested in something she despises. I reach for the wine
while I think of what to say next, but Jenna holds me back with one of her arms
across my chest. I look at her to see her brown eyes burning. In one swift move
she presses her palms to my chest and I gasp as she shifts so she’s straddling
me.

I open my mouth to speak, but she silences me by
pressing her lips to mine, and it takes me milliseconds to give in. I don’t
know what’s going on, but I don’t care. The subtle smell of her, flowers and
vanilla, has my nerve endings on red alert. She holds my face in her hands and
rewards me with licks of her tongue against mine. The urge to throw her to the
floor and have my way with her is unbearable, but as I grab her hips she smacks
them away with her hands and pulls away from me.