“We can’t go changing what’s on the schedule for everybody else in the class. But if no one else shows up, then we can pick another painting. Will that make you happy?”
Tara pirouettes in the middle of the room, then curtsies me. It might not look so weird if she wasn’t dressed in fatigue pants, a cropped Bad Religion t-shirt, and red lace-up high-tops, but that’s Tara—everything about her is unexpected.
Tara flops down on a seat next to Alec, her own can of nonalcoholic beer clutched in one hand.
“I accept your terms for a compromise. But bear in mind, if just one or two people show up and they happen to look particularly impressionable, I may explain to them that Eiffel Tower paintings are for dreary people living monotonous lives who are one step away from a headstone that reads Here Lies the Most Boring Person Who Ever Existed.”
“Tara,” I groan, “you can’t do that. There are at least three other people who signed up online, probably for this class specifically. You’ll just have to find your inner romantic, okay? Maybe if you drink some wine, and think about how much you love cheese you can—”
I stop short and clamp my mouth shut when I see the front door open, straightening up to greet the real customers with a smile. I shoot Tara a look that says behave and pray that no one coming in overheard our conversation.
But instead of a customer, I see JT. He’s only poking his head in the door, but after he scans the room and sees that I’m nearly alone, he strides in and heads my way. I have to do a double take because even though he’s dressed in well-worn jeans and a t-shirt, the rest of his outfit isn’t nearly as casual.
There’s a shiny police badge draped around his neck on a chain, along with a gun holster strapped on his hip. The holster has a gun in it, of course—but since I grew up on a hippie farmstead in the middle of nowhere, a gun is something I’ve only seen in the movies. Over his t-shirt he has on a black vest with the words US MARSHAL emblazoned on it. The vest looks heavy, especially because there are a zillion things clipped to it: a radio of some sort, a can of pepper spray, plus other things I don’t know the names for. But the one thing I can’t get past about the vest is that it’s so obviously a bulletproof vest.
I’m not sure how it happened, but this—the reality of what JT does at work—never really occurred to me. But now it’s all right here in front of me, bulletproof vest and all. And for some reason, I can’t figure out if I’m angry, afraid, or aroused. I think all three are coursing through me, and the combination is making me lightheaded.
JT sidles up next to me and plants a quick kiss on my forehead. “I caught you before class, right?” he asks, casting a quick look at Tara and Alec. I nod numbly. “Good. I’ll make this quick but I need to change our plans for tonight.”
I nod again, but it’s merely a polite reflex because inside my brain, I can’t process anything he’s saying. I’m fixated on this new-to-me version of JT—the one I suddenly want to kiss all over, hug until my arms hurt, and then worry incessantly about. I’m trying to focus, but in my head it’s just a jumble of emotions I’m not sure how to manage.
Or maybe this is just a bigger jumble of emotions. I’ve already been dealing with a strange mix of relief and regret when it comes to JT, and the aftermath of what happened a few nights ago. Because not only did we end up having what felt a lot like make up sex, I also went and spilled my guts to him about the Fenton. When he left that night, I laid in bed thinking about how I’d said too much and hating myself for that moment of weakness. The only thing that helped was to remember that the Greenes would be home in ten days. Once they’re back, whatever it is JT and I are doing will be over. The clock is ticking and that’s a good thing. The last thing I need is to start relying on him for anything more than orgasms.
But then JT flagged me down in the Kangs’ driveway yesterday, pulling up in his SUV with a goofy grin on his face.
“My parents are taking a trip to Branson this weekend for their anniversary. And since it’s like I’m sixteen again, I can’t think of anything else I want to do but see if the girl I’m dating will come over while they’re gone.” He raised his brows at me and I swear I felt my ovaries do things that were very, very bad. “Wanna come see my room?”
Between my ovaries and my tendency to keep going back for more with him, I was nodding like a bobblehead before I even had a chance to think better of it. We made plans to spend the whole weekend together, including all the boring stuff that I shouldn’t be as excited as I am about—like waking up next to him in the morning. But now it sounds like that might not be happening. Serves me right for getting wrapped up in the idea of it in the first place. What’s worse is that if the change of plans has anything to do with his bulletproof vest, I’m probably going to embarrass myself by making this very weird, and blubbering about his safety or something.
“Hey. You okay? You look pale.” JT dips his head to meet my eyes, but I’m still staring at his vest.
“I’m fine,” I mumble, then force myself to look at him. “I just—”
“Well, well, well,” Tara says, cutting me off—or perhaps saving me—from whatever I was bound to say next. She edges in right next to me, close enough that she’s able to nudge me in the side with her elbow. “Is this him? Because he’s even better than what you said. He looks like an action figure or something. G.I. Joe, but hot. And, you know, real.”
I laugh, awkward and grateful for my best friend’s impeccable timing .“Yeah, this is him.”
“Is he here to do inappropriate things with you? He looks a little overdressed. Unless this is some sort of role-play thing.”
I groan. So much for Tara’s impeccable timing. It doesn’t mean much when she’s saying things that should never be said, especially when I’m at work. Then before I can stop her, Tara leaves my side and starts to prowl slowly around JT, her arms crossed over her chest and a cool, calculating look on her face.
“Hot or not, it’s best that he knows I’m not a woman to be crossed, especially when it comes to my best friend,” she announces loudly. “A woman who I would commit all sorts of capital crimes for if I found out that someone hurt her. And I give zero fucks if that someone also happens to be a US Marshal. Prison doesn’t scare me.”
JT’s anxious gaze flicks back and forth between Tara and I, finally settling on me.
“Should I know who this person is? She sure seems to know who I am.”
With a sigh, I wave a hand toward my self-appointed bodyguard. “Tara, meet JT. JT, this is my best friend, Tara.” I thumb over my shoulder. “And the creeper behind us, who I’m sure is staring at Tara like she just said the most inappropriate but cutest thing ever, is her husband, Alec.”
JT’s face relaxes into an easy grin. Clearly, he remembers the times I’ve mentioned the dynamic duo I just introduced him to. Alec offers JT his usual drawling hello, which JT returns with a nod. Then he extends his hand to Tara.
“Tara. Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Tara cuts him another brutally cold look—one that would make most people consider pulling back their hand, so they don’t risk losing it—and then shakes JT’s hand once. She crosses her arms back over her chest.