Eric had already texted him the schedule.
“I’ve got a few more things to get done before I can head back. More than I originally planned.”
It was true. So, why did it feel like an excuse?
“Like doing your high-school girlfriend? The one who ruined you for all of womankind and, let’s be real, made you all aloof and sexy?”
He gagged. “I’m gonna throw up, you keep hitting on me. And technically, only Chloe was in high school.”
“Amber has friends begging for your number, using terms like aloof and sexy. I look at you and see surly and obstinate. But they’re begging, bro.” Nico’s voice lowered, his hand cupping the phone’s mouthpiece. “This one chick? Betsy’s her name. Wears yoga pants every day, and she’s got an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. No panty lines either. Commando, I’m positive.”
Not interested. Instead, he said, “Hmm. Maybe.”
Or maybe not.
Unless she could make bourbon-spiked banana chocolate muffins then kiss him senseless in the span of an hour.
“I gotta go, Nico. I’ll call you when I’m on my way.”
“Yeah, when will that be?”
Thinking of Maine Hardware and the sheer number of boxes he’d yet to sort inside Maine Lane, Jameson sighed. “Another few days. Three at best.”
That was optimistic, at best.
Those boxes might stay unsorted but moved to a storage unit he’d pay on annually until he died, just so he could put East Hampton—and Chloe Morgan—in his rearview for good.
Forever.
“Okay, dude. See you next week. And remember, leave that girl alone like she’s the fucking Taliban. There’s a suicide vest tucked to those tits, guaranteed.”
Disconnecting, Jameson sat there, wishing for willpower. Instead, he looked on the bright side—an uncommon place for him to reside. If he got too close to her and went down in a fiery blast of C-4, at least she’d go down with him.
He’d spent ten years running from Chloe Morgan. Fighting terrorists on foreign lands to forget about her. He even tried fucking her out of his system.
Women he’d not cared for, nor did they care for him in return. He wasn’t marriage material, and anybody looking for long-term could see he was damaged goods. One or two got ideas about mending his broken heart and replacing the girl responsible, but soon learned he wasn’t worth the trouble.
Run, Jamie, run.
Didn’t work. Chloe was always there. In his rebellious mind. In his battered heart. In his blackened soul.
And now, in his childhood home.
Her power over him was awesome—the monumentally bad kind of awesome—and that kiss last night proved it.
Wet. Hot. Unexpected. Incredibly arousing.
He went from chubbed up, thanks to her no-bra policy, to a railroad spike, thanks to her tongue-kiss technique.
Enough to send him—a man who spent years hunting terrorists for the thrill and the kill of it—running for dear life.
Run, Jamie, run.
He should. Tampa was only a few tanks of gas away.
There was something about Chloe that drew him despite the self-loathing that desire brought on. It grabbed him by the short hairs and held on, not allowing him to let go of the notion of her.
Of them.
Maybe it was her tough-girl attitude and independent streak, still as strong today as yesterday. Maybe it was because he knew those qualities flew in the face of her mother, a woman who never gave her child credit for being so fiercely talented, today nor yesterday. Never paid much attention to her at all, other than to point out her shortcomings.
Of which, other than that pesky choice she made at seventeen—oh, and the underhanded purchase of Maine Lane—weren’t many. He’d witnessed her kickass attitude live and in person. Spent a summer falling in deep because of it. He’d seen her heart too, tender and loving and total, and truth be told, he wasn’t all that interested in seeing it again.
He wouldn’t mind seeing her other parts though, and that was a problem. It meant Plan A had failed.
He drove into East Hampton five days ago with a singular mission. Avoid Chloe.
An unsuccessful assignment.
But any Navy SEAL worth his salt knew Plan A went right out the window the second his boots hit the ground.
So, on to Plan B.
If he couldn’t avoid Chloe herself, then by all means necessary, avoid her parts.
No problem, right? He was disciplined. Eat right, exercise, take vitamin C, don’t look at Chloe’s nipples, and don’t—for the love of all things holy—stick your tongue in her mouth.
Another failure.
If Easy Lee were here, he’d be laughing his ass off.
But instead of using the head on his shoulders to devise Plan C, he listened to the head in his britches and crossed the lawn after hanging up with Nico, a paper bag of tried and true hangover remedies in his hand.
You might be wondering how he pulled a new bottle of Tylenol, bananas, coconut water, fresh-cut watermelon, and a jar of pickles out of his ass.
That’s right, he got into his truck at four a.m. and drove out to the twenty-four-hour grocery store on Highway Nine. So what?
The carriage house was quiet as he approached, Chloe still asleep.
He envied her the luxury but knew it was tequila-induced. Between the time she showed up on the back porch and the time she put her tongue in his mouth, the booze had dwindled.
Twisting the knob, he was surprised to find the front door unlocked.
Convenient for him. No need to go stealth-mode and enter via other means—illegal in all fifty states and Puerto Rico. Otherwise, the unlocked door was concerning. Anybody could walk in, find her naked in a tubful of sex toys, and take advantage.
Or, like him right now, find her passed out, lying on her side on top of the bedcovers, her tank top riding way up and her shorty shorts . . . MIA. As was any underwear.
Jesus.
The under-boob was tempting.
The bare ass was downright torture.
Whoever was in charge at Guantanamo should have paraded a bottomless Chloe around as bait. Tell us what you know, and she’ll back that ass right up to you. Do a little twerk, too. Stay silent, and gone goes the finest caboose in the Western Hemisphere.
Torture the likes of which waterboarding could only applaud.
The only thing keeping him from losing his firm moral code was a narrow swath of cotton sheet, bunched to no more than a three-inch-wide band, covering her from upper thigh to bottom butt cheek.
Legs bent and knees tucked up close, without that sheet, he’d be witness to a centerfold-quality beaver shot from behind.
Okay, so Plan C.
Do not crawl into bed and cozy up to her backside. Do not slide your cock along her crease, kiss her awake, and ask permission to enter, therefore making another mistake—with your favorite mistake.
Debate raged as he leered like a criminal, and lasted longer than it should have. The head on his shoulders finally won.
Turning away from the near-pornographic pose, he looked around the small house. The only thing out of place was the quilt, haphazardly kicked to the floor at the foot of the bed, along with an asinine number of pillows. His sleeping beauty rested her blonde head on only one but somehow felt the need for five more during non-sleeping hours.
Moving soundlessly, he set the paper bag on the tiny counter, right next to the liquor bottles she left with last night. The bourbon was two-thirds full, same as it was when he capped it himself, but the tequila bottle was nearly empty.