That epic fail couldn’t be repeated. She needed to do this job right and sweet talk Jack until she located the Van Gogh, which meant she’d have to corner him tomorrow. Not at the diner. She’d already wrecked that plan. This meeting had to appear accidental, and she’d have to go armed with a new backstory.
5
Clementine stretched at the edge of the park, enjoying the more temperate heat. Last night’s rain clung to the grass. Peaty scents suffused the air, the dampness more fresh than muggy. The downpour had cleared out Nebraska’s heatwave. A night of mulling had cleared Clementine’s mind.
In a few short minutes, she would corner Jack on his morning run, where she’d chit-chat and flirt. Since he’d seemed interested when she’d fixed his car, he’d likely reciprocate. She’d then mention her father’s (fake) birthday, along with his (fake) love of Elvis, and lament the fact that she hadn’t organized a gift for him—a photo with a tribute artist, specifically. Jack would hopefully offer himself up, and a date would be set.
A platonic date. A photo date. One she would suggest occurred at his family’s estate.
Boom. Bang. Done.
No sexy handshakes would transpire.
The running trail wound through Wherever Park, crossing the snaking stream and bending around towering trees. Not lone trees. Sparse but clustered, like cliques of close friends. She jogged toward the bridge at a slow pace. If Jack remained punctual, he’d catch up with her in no time and she wouldn’t have to lie by omission to Lucien again.
Last night’s texts had been painful. Telling Lucien she’d made contact with Maxwell-slash-Jack and would see him today had not been lies, per se. She’d simply omitted that Jack knew her real name and wasn’t aware of their impending not-a-date date. Thankfully, all omissions would soon be moot. She would be one step closer to that Van Gogh.
She jogged leisurely, confident in her scheme. Squirrels nattered and birds chirped. The fresh air swelled in her chest until a high-pitched yell snagged her attention. A curly-haired woman, who looked like coffee-serving Imelda, was walking four dogs. She yanked on one leash and called the Doberman a few colorful names. She switched languages three times.
Clementine eyed the bridge she’d crossed. Jack still hadn’t appeared. Needing to stall for time, she enjoyed Imelda’s amusing interaction. As much as Clementine loved animals, she’d take her bearded dragon over a cat or dog any day. No walks needed. No yard to clean. She also loved watching Graveyard Carz while feeding Lucy crickets.
Imelda noticed Clementine and waved. “Brutus thinks he’s a duck. He’d live in the pond if I let him.”
Clementine would have preferred to remain unnoticed, but ignoring locals drew attention. “You could sell it as a tourist attraction,” she called back. “Just put up a sign: Feed the world’s first Doberman duck.”
Imelda cackled.
“Don’t feed the ducks.” The abrupt male voice snipped over Clementine’s shoulder, so close it made her jump. Jack David had caught her off-guard again, setting her off kilter.
“I wasn’t feeding the ducks.”
“You were suggesting it.”
“As a joke.”
She regained her kilter and faced her mark. Jack was sweaty again, his Nike shirt and running shorts molded to his fine physique. Her temperature rose, but his friendliness seemed to have cooled, judging by the annoyed press of his lips. Not a great start to her plan.
Imelda yanked her dogs farther down the path, but yelled to Jack, “I’ll pick up Colonel Blue at noon.”
“I’m sure he’s looking forward to it. How’s Iron Man recovering?”
“Leg will be right as rain in no time, but he’s not fond of his cone of shame. The other dogs are calling him names.”
Jack smiled, making full eye contact with Imelda. “Glad he’s doing better. Give him a cuddle for me.”
A cuddle? And why was Imelda joking with a blue-blood tyrant who had fired her fellow townsfolk? Unless Imelda’s niceties were rooted in fear and she chose sucking up over rudeness.
Jack continued his run on the gravel trail, not a glance spared for Clementine. She cursed under her breath. Now she was chasing him, when she needed him chasing her.
She picked up her pace and caught up to him, mirroring his quicker stride. More difficult for her, considering his longer legs, but Clementine wasn’t a petite woman, and running was her jam. She could jog Central Park with her eyes closed.
“You have a dog named Colonel Blue?” she asked.
He kept his attention ahead. “No.”
Wow. One word. The awkward flirty man who’d hit on her had gone AWOL. “Does Imelda walk your pet armadillo?”
He didn’t crack a smile. They skirted a large willow tree and Jack powered forward, picking up the pace. “Blue is my father’s dog. He’s away. Imelda walks him.” Each sentence was clipped and harsh. A total brush off.
It proved her initial assessment of his insolent brattiness, but it didn’t help her cause. She increased her speed to match his. Small talk was needed. She had to draw him in. Make him feel interesting. “Since you live in Whichway, not the Whatnot Diner, what do you do for work?”
The steel set of his jaw bulged, as though he was angry. Because she’d turned him down on the highway? Or maybe the false name had soured him. Both reasons made sense. That didn’t keep a twinge from pinching her chest. Twinging that shouldn’t happen. She didn’t care if not-Maxwell was interested in her. She did care about his family’s painting.
If he didn’t soften up soon, she’d have to suck up her pride and fake an injury.
“My father founded David Industries.”
“The factory in town?”
“Yes.”
He ran faster. She matched his speed, breathing harder. A lawnmower buzzed in the distance.
“That place is huge. And you work there?”
That place is huge. God, she sounded inane. David Industries wasn’t just huge. It was the town’s main artery. It employed three-quarters of the population, keeping quaint Whichway thriving. Jack was the current CFO, the brains behind their lens-tech-invention-thingy that allowed cameras and phones to autofocus. She knew all these details, hated pretending like she didn’t, but men loved talking about their work accomplishments.
Jack wasn’t behaving like most men.
Feet pounding the gravel, he said, “I manage the finances and run R and D.”
“R and D?” There she went, sounding simple again.
“Research and development.”
“So what do you develop?”
He stopped abruptly, his chest heaving as he planted his hands on his hips. His blue eyes, the same shade as his aquamarine shirt, danced around, never quite settling on her. “Why’d you give Jasmine a false name?”
Ah. There it was. The root of his stonewalling. A niggle of guilt poked her ribs. Or maybe it was just her overworked lungs. She walked a small circle, catching her breath as she mentally reviewed her backstory. “I’m sorry about that, but it’s my job.”
“Lying is your job?”
Oh man, if he only knew. “I produce music. I’m not a big shot with platinum records to my name, but my brand’s growing and I have connections, which comes with complications.”