The Closer You Come
Page 66Funny girl. A jab at his hot-and-cold treatment of her?
“So we’re going to act like Friday night didn’t happen and the texts Saturday stemmed only from the alcohol,” he said. “Got it.”
Silence.
Such tense silence.
But it was a blessing. One word of encouragement, and he would have picked her up and carried her straight to bed. Now that he had firsthand knowledge of the curves hidden by her clothes, the softness of her skin and the sweetness of her taste, being with her wasn’t a want—it was a need.
I’m going to start by running my fingers down your chest, all the way to your zipper...
He handed her the glass and returned to hammering new pieces of shingle into the roof, her scent surrounding him. Vanilla and sugar today. “By the way. Your phone is a POS. I want to get hold of you when I want to get hold of you. Consider this a bonus for working for me.” He pointed to the box resting beside the grill.
She picked up the device and frowned at him. “You bought me a phone?”
“Yes. And there are no take backs.”
“But—”
“I... Thank you,” she said, then quietly returned to the house.
He glanced over just as she disappeared beyond the door and caught a glimpse of long blond hair swishing at the waist of her shorts, a pert little ass he’d like to sink his teeth into and the lithe legs he wanted wrapped around his head.
A moan escaped him, his body so hard he could have used it as a battering ram. Hell. He wanted to use it as a battering ram.
Not yet. And not just because of her work hours and pay. She’d tied him in knots, and those knots had to be undone first. Otherwise, there was no telling what he would allow to happen. Like, say, feeling more, deeper...wanting more.
His mind replayed two conversations that had taken place over the weekend, both of which had scared the hell out of him.
He’d spent some time in town...not looking for Brook Lynn. He’d once again felt as if he were being watched, but when he’d found no evidence of a stalker, he’d known he had to get over these little paranoias if he had any hope of staying sane. He’d soon come across an elderly woman doing her best to change a flat tire. Despite the summer heat, she wore a sweater. But his favorite thing about her? She had quintessential old-lady hair, white curls forming a ball of fluff around her face.
He was ashamed to admit he’d held an internal debate about whether or not to help her. He hadn’t wanted any of the locals thinking about him, much less talking about him, or inevitably looking him up, but in the end he hadn’t been able to leave the woman on her own. Especially since she hadn’t been working the scissor jack properly.
He’d parked in front of her, at the side of the road, and walked over.
She’d stiffened, backed a few steps away and held out her hands to stop him. “You think you’re the first stranger to approach me today? Think again. I’ve got Mace, young man, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“That’s what the last guy said and he had serial killer written all over him.”
“I didn’t know serial killers were so obvious nowadays.”
She’d lifted her chin and hmphed. “You just go on now. I’ll have this tire changed on my own in another hour or two.”
“I’m Jase Hollister, friends with Lincoln West and Beck Ockley,” he’d said, and her entire demeanor had changed from suspicious to fawning in less than a heartbeat.
“I’ve met West and Beck. Beautiful boys. I’m Peggy, the event planner for the Silver Foxes. You ever heard of us?”
“Uh, no, can’t say that I have.”
“Well, we are hot mommas still going strong. We host mixers at the assisted-living center. You should come.” She’d patted his shoulder. “Look what a big strapping lad you are. And so helpful, too, stopping to take care of my needs.” A calculated gleam had entered her eyes. “Are you married, Jase?”
He’d swallowed a groan, knowing where she was about to delve. “No, and I—”
“Wonderful,” she’d said, speaking over him. “My granddaughter is single, too.”
“I know you’d love her. She’s a nurse at that assisted-living center I mentioned, and let me tell you, you will never meet a girl with a better personality.”
“That’s, uh, great,” he’d replied, while thinking: I should have driven on. “But I’m kind of...seeing someone.”
As in...dating?
No, some part of him screamed. No!
“Who?” she’d asked, as if she’d had every right to know.
He’d ignored her, and she’d spent the next twenty minutes regaling him with reasons why city girls were inferior to Strawberry Valley girls, as well as stories about her granddaughter, while he’d taken care of the tire, a captive audience. By some miracle, he’d gotten away without having to relinquish his phone number.
For his trouble, Peggy had given him a Werther’s Original. Seriously.
Afterward, Jase had helped Virgil Porter carry his groceries to his beater of a truck.
“Heard you’re dating Peggy Newcomb’s granddaughter,” Virgil had said as he settled behind the wheel. “You sure that’s wise, considering you’re pinin’ for our Brook Lynn?”