“Tribute artist.”
“I’m just saying, forgetting her seems like a swell idea. One you won’t regret at all.” Marco’s sarcasm was annoyingly insightful.
Even more annoying was that Jack couldn’t tell Marco the Gossip Monger about his father and explain what this year’s festival really meant to him. “All I know is—”
Clementine.
All he knew was that Clementine was here, sauntering toward the bar, again encroaching on his life, his space, his thoughts. It was like she knew his schedule, how he filled his minutes outside of work and rehearsal. She wore tight jeans and red-as-sin cowboy boots, a soft looking cream tank top with buttons up the front. He shouldn’t be happy to see her. He should curse her unshakable presence. Instead, all he could picture was her jeans off, those sinful boots hooked over his shoulders as he devoured her.
Marco waved his hand in front of Jack’s face. “You still there? Did my sly reverse psychology actually work?”
“Clementine’s here.”
Marco swiveled and zeroed in on her immediately. “Wow. Yep. You did not lie. She’s damn beautiful.”
She sure was, and picking her out wasn’t tough when they knew almost everyone in the bar. In Jack’s attempt to not stare at Clementine, he nodded at the Smith brothers, who both had three kids in college. A reminder of how vital saving the company was. Jack couldn’t even think about Marco and how much his best friend depended on his job.
His attention slid back to the woman who’d occupied his mind too often the past few days. He quickly looked away. A few tourists sat a table, and the man with the forearm knife tattoo was in a corner. He apparently enjoyed snubbing locals, feeding ducks at the park, and taking an eyeful of Clementine. He was barely visible, that corner booth always dim, but his attention on Clementine sent a wave of possessiveness through Jack.
Marco kicked Jack’s boot. “Go on, Casanova. Talk to her.”
“There’s no point.”
“She already knows you suck at chatting up hot women.”
“It has nothing to do with that.” Amazingly, it didn’t. The past few days, running and sharing coffee and pastries with her had verged on effortless. Clementine’s endless questions had helped. He could focus on those instead of his blasted self-consciousness. They’d even joked some. With friends, he didn’t stumble over his words or struggle making eye contact. With her it had been an upward battle that seemed to be leveling out. Because she was becoming a friend, which is exactly what she should remain.
He caught Tami’s eye and lifted his empty beer, signaling for another round. He would stay where he was, drain his beer, and forget how much he liked the girl in the red boots.
If only he could tear his gaze away from her.
9
Clementine could feel Jack’s eyes on her, sizzling up her spine. She’d noticed him first thing but had kept her cool. She hadn’t acknowledged him or stared at how his threadbare T-shirt accentuated his muscular build. Nope. It was his turn to seek her out.
She pulled out her phone.
Clementine: I’m at the bar. He’s here, and I’ve decided to switch gears.
Lucien: Why?
Clementine: He’s being cagey. Might not be so easy to con. I’ll give it a couple days. Break in if it doesn’t pan out.
Not the whole truth, but enough of it. If she didn’t get into Jack’s estate by sundown Sunday, she’d have to shift gears and break in. Quit cruising at this too-enjoyable speed.
She pressed her fingers to her abdomen, over the scar Yevgen Liski had given her during the Monet job. The psychopath had tattooed a knife on his forearm—a copy of the weapon he’d used on Clementine—proud of the work he’d done. He’d trailed her one day and flashed it while on a subway platform. A scare tactic, likely. Or for his insane thrills. The incident was a reminder of what happened when she failed.
Getting to know Jack and his reptile shelter was a luxury she couldn’t overindulge. Mistakes on a job had consequences.
Lucien: Your con, your rules. Call me in the morning with an update.
She would, but something about reporting on Jack felt dirty.
“What can I get ya, honey?”
Clementine perked up at the familiar voice. “Imelda?”
“Last I checked.”
“I thought you worked at the diner and walked dogs.” God, this town was on the miniscule side of small.
Imelda shone her knuckles on her shirt. “I’m a woman of many talents, who gets bored and likes to keep busy.”
Imelda looked less doll-like tonight, her usual powder-blue diner uniform swapped for a plaid button-down, positioned to hint at cleavage. It was the same cowgirl look worn by the other servers.
Imelda blew a wayward curl from her forehead. “Plus, my husband comes in and pretends to pick me up. Makes for good fun.”
“Can’t argue with that. And I’ll have a stout, if you have one on tap.” Anything rich and dark with a hint of bitterness. Something to pucker her tongue so she’d stop wondering what Jack tasted like.
Imelda nodded and went to work.
Clementine watched a man and woman playing pool. They brushed shoulders, giggled, and traded teasing smiles. So at ease with each other. No concern for who was watching them or hiding their feelings. Maybe they were married or flirting for the first time. No. Married. Their rings caught the light, winking secretly at each other. Such a bond, to pledge yourself to someone. Too often, people took it for granted. Vows were tossed around as readily as salutations, off the cuff, on a whim, because it felt good now. The world had become a culture of right now.
The need for immediate gratification felt diluted in Whichway. Aside from Jack’s luxury automobiles, no one seemed to compete for fanciest car or trendiest clothes, the relaxed vibe of this bar proof enough. Everything moved slower, actions more meaningful. Smiles were real. Hellos were genuine. Clementine had never considered leaving New York. Now…she didn’t know.
What would it be like to nest in Whichway and sip coffee at the Who’s It Café and run at Wherever Park and drink beer at Whenever and eat apple turnovers at the Whatnot Diner on the fly? She rolled her eyes at the idea. It was a selfish daydream. Ridiculous.
Imelda pushed the stout toward her. “Someone’s got an admirer.”
“Admirer?” Clementine said, playing the innocent. But, oh yeah, she felt those aquamarine eyes all over her. The awareness came with a sting of self-rebuke. Jack had been all she’d focused on since walking in here. She’d scanned the exits, had done a half-assed sweep of the patrons and texted Lucien, but Jack’s unrelenting stare had reduced her to a tingly mess while she’d gaped starry-eyed at couples playing pool.
Imelda waved her fingers playfully. “Oh, go on now. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed a certain dark-haired man’s attention. He can’t take his eyes off you, and I’ve seen you two at the diner, close but not close, testing the waters like a couple lovesick teens.”
“Imelda!”
“What? The tension’s thick enough to carve.”
“I’m here for the festival, not to date.” She was also there to lie to everyone’s faces while deceiving the first man in a lifetime to make her feel real. She sipped her beer, the bitterness more pronounced than usual.