I hear Alec chuckle in the background, and Tara, satisfied that he gets it now, focuses on me again.
“Okay, now explain how this happened. You and a Marshal. Start by telling me what he looks like. I know he has tattoos but nothing else, and when I think of a cop, I just picture some cheesy old TV show starring portly guys dressed in bad suits. Not exactly catnip, if you ask me.”
“He wasn’t dressed like that.”
“No suit? Okay. What about portly? A dad bod to the extreme?”
My brain calls up JT’s form within seconds. Him hovering over me, doing things with his body at a pace that no man with a dad bod would have been able to keep up. “Absolutely not.”
Tara lets out a frustrated growl. “Details, please. You can’t sound all la-la land distracted, then answer in your 1-900 voice and expect me to let that go. I demand a full description.”
I groan a little, embarrassed at how I remember every tiny detail about JT. A full description would be no problem, if Tara had the time. Everything from the sound of his voice in the middle of the night, telling me he needed it again, to the way my skin burns at thought of how he pressed into me from behind right after that.
“Fine. He’s got dark hair and these absolutely gorgeous blue eyes. Clean-cut, no beard or anything, but a jaw you could crack open coconuts on. He’s built like one of those crazy MMA guys—ripped arms, a great ass, and the kind of abs you want to call a six-pack but would easily get distracted if you actually tried to count them. Great ink, full sleeves and some on his chest. Mostly black and gray, but there are these red poppies that weave up and down his arms and it all looked so good that at one point I swear that I considered licking his biceps.” I take a deep breath. “How’s that? Enough detail for you?”
Tara is quiet, and that’s not a state that comes naturally to her. I can picture both her and Alec staring at the phone, waiting for the one piece of info I haven’t shared. I make them wait a few beats, only because I know it’s driving them nuts to be patient.
“And, yes, he got the job done. Brilliantly. More than once.”
The dynamic duo on the other end of the line let out relieved exhales.
“And your painting funk?” Tara asks.
I glance at the canvas in the passenger seat. “Funk has been cured, for now.”
Tara gives a celebratory whoop. “Fucking superb news. All of it. Your kick-ass one-night stand with the Marshal and your return to creativity.” She gives me one last pep talk before hanging up. “I feel so much better now. You needed this, and I was worried that my girl wouldn’t get what she deserves—which is everything, by the way. Too bad the guy was a one-off. It sounds like he might be worth having around for more than one night.”
My stupid belly lurches at the idea of more with JT, especially when it sounds so reasonable and rational. JT was already gone when I woke up, though, leaving his business card on the pillow with a note scribbled on the back.
Got called in to work at five. Didn’t want to wake you up.
Call me if you ever need anything. JT
Before I could tell myself not to be disappointed, I went there anyway. But everyone knows that one-night stands don’t include lazy mornings after with snuggling, hot coffee, and apple fritters—even though I think sharing all that with JT sounds like the perfect way to spend a morning after.
I also had to stop myself from dialing the phone number he’d added below his name. By “need anything,” he probably didn’t mean someone to snuggle and eat apple fritters with. Legal troubles or criminal escapades are probably more along the lines of what he meant. Like if I found myself caught up in dangerous mob activities and needed witness protection, he could use his badge to swoop in and save me, action-movie-hero style. I’m sure that’s what he really had in mind—not apple fritters and snuggling.
I shake my head and force my focus back onto the road. There is no way I’m going to go there with a man, anyway. Absolutely not. Or not for a while, at least. For now, I’m a single, independent woman, who’s is staying unattached and moving on to a fresh new beginning.
And when I look up and spot the sign for the Palo Verde Heights subdivision, I realize that my new beginning is already here.
Once I punch in the access code the homeowners texted me, I ease my Subaru past the iron gates and peer through the windshield to see if I can spot an actual Palo Verde tree anywhere. As usual, no luck. Nothing but unnaturally green lawns—in the desert—bordered with decorative rock and prickly pears.
Gated communities always make me roll my eyes, probably because I’ve spent far more time in them than I wish I had. Being a working artist means supplementing your income, and most of my side gigs are in the service industry. I’ve been a house cleaner, a dog walker, a window washer, a gardener, and a pizza delivery driver. Those jobs landed me in more than one gated subdivision, the names of which all run together in my mind, but you can be sure that they’re named after something that used to be there—like red tail hawks, rolling hills, lush meadows, or whispering pines.
I drive down a few winding streets, and then pull up in front of Gwen and Jack Greene’s stucco ranch home at the end of a cul-de-sac. In the driveway, a lively-looking older couple is loading things into the cargo area of a large SUV. I don’t even have a chance to shift into park before they’re headed down the driveway toward me, with big smiles on their faces.
Like a pair of perfectly matched bookends, Gwen and Jack are both spryly built, each with a headful of shimmering white hair. They both have on simple browline glasses, in the same plain style I think of when it comes to everyone I’ve ever met from the engineering department.
“You must be Anya!” Gwen opens her arms up for a hug, which I’m not expecting, but I go with it anyway. When Gwen leans back, she keeps her hands on my shoulders and grins.
“Maxine sent over a link to your portfolio. It’s sublime. So evocative, so haunting. Are you working on anything now? I cleared out a guest room in the back for you to work in. Either that or you can use the basement, although the light down there might not be what you need. Is natural light critical for you? Everyone is different, I suppose, but this way you’ll have options. Maxine said you applied for the Fenton artist-in-residence program. Have you heard back yet? My friend Antoinette was their spring awardee about ten years ago and it changed everything for her. It made her career and—”
Jack laughs, then wraps an arm around his wife’s shoulders in a hug, cutting off her rapid-fire ramblings. He sends me a bemused look. Apparently, my dazed reaction to being peppered with twenty-questions—before having said a single word myself—is written all over my face.
“Let’s give the poor woman a chance to say hello, shall we, love? If you keep on this way, she might decide she doesn’t want to house-sit for a pair of nutty professors like us. And then what will Mr. Snickers do? He has yet to figure out how to open a can of Fancy Feast on his own, which means he’d starve while we’re gone.”
Gwen drops her hands from my shoulders and laughs self-consciously.
“Of course. I’m sorry, dear. It’s just that Maxine sang your praises and Sera Beth had nothing but wonderful things to say, too. And we know Martin, of course, so it’s as if I already know you. But we’ll start at the beginning.” She sticks her hand out. “I’m Gwen and this is my husband, Jack. We’re so happy this worked out, for us and for you.”