A terrible answer. What was he supposed to deduce from that? A simple “I’m not married” or “I don’t need my husband’s permission” were the acceptable answers. At least they would have been clear answers; the only acceptable answer was the first one.
*
Shit. Shit. Shitty. Shit. Shit. That pretty much summed up Ryn’s thoughts on her new clients, specifically the tattooed sex-on-a-stick that taught piano lessons. Guys that looked like that did not teach piano lessons. Then there were those geeky glasses with the white tape on the bridge. Was it wrong that within thirty seconds of him answering the door her mind had him crawling up her body wearing nothing but those glasses? Probably.
Damn hormones.
His eyes and that smile—she knew flirting when she saw it. Or maybe it was teasing. Flirting said “I want you.” Teasing said “You want me, but you don’t have a chance in the world.” Ryn had to think on that one.
Celibacy.
Jackson didn’t look like a priest, but there really wasn’t any other good explanation. He probably played the organ at church. A tattooed organ-playing priest. And his age—younger. He had to be in his sexual prime. That explained Jillian’s warning. His carnal needs warred with his spiritual calling and his type had been reduced to a simple category: women. When a person suffers from starvation, they’re not choosy. They just crave food.
Any woman would be tempting after going so long—or maybe forever—without sex. Was it possible? Was Jackson a virgin?
Ryn tore through her last house on autopilot and dragged her tired, aging ass into the shower. Three weeks separated her from the big four-oh. It wasn’t a huge deal, except she would be forty and single with a twenty-one-year-old daughter and an ex-husband with a restraining order against him. She really knew how to pick ’em.
The most important male in her life was Gunner—her ten-year-old German shepherd. She adopted him as a pup and they went through years of training together. The perfect guard dog, obedient to her like a soldier.
“Should we call Maddie?”
Gunner tilted his head to the side. Ryn towel dried her hair while plopping down on the bed and grabbing the phone.
“Not now, Mom.”
“Nice to talk to you too, Maddie.”
“Well you call me every day. I have a date. Some of us have a life, you know.”
Ryn knew. How could she not? Her daughter reminded her of it all the time.
“I thought we could do a spa day for my birthday.”
“I have to work on your birthday. Need I remind you why that is?”
No. She didn’t need to hear it again. Maddie’s father pulled her college funding when Ryn filed the restraining order. Maddie complained that her mother overreacted. She didn’t, but Maddie had no way of knowing that because Ryn sheltered her from all the ugly. It was a mother’s sacrifice and Ryn never regretted it, even when her daughter treated her with disrespect and contempt.
“Well, if you find someone to work for you—”
“I won’t.”
The usual sigh escaped Ryn. Someday Maddie would understand that no amount of money justified selling both of their souls to the Devil. And Preston Iverson was the devil.
“Madison … I love you.” Ryn ended the call before her stubborn daughter had a chance to respond. Of course she loved her only child, but she had too much respect for herself to tolerate any more snide comments. It was like strikes—after three, Ryn ended the conversation.
“That went well.”
Gunner did another head tilt. He had her back, licked her tears, and never once complained. Maybe she needed to take Maddie to obedience school too.
Chapter Three
Jillian meandered home after leaving Dodge and Lilith’s. She wasn’t ready to go inside and deal with Jackson, the second text, and the ramifications of AJ’s diagnosis. Choosing the temporary sanctuary of the front porch stoop, she plopped down and watched her neighbors grilling out and tending to their yards and plants. The breeze ebbed and flowed, carrying the smoky aroma of Stan’s charcoal grill and the droning screech of cicadas.
A small part of her waited for AJ to come home, which was ridiculous because she had no idea what to say to him. Maybe if she could see him, fall into his arms, the right words would come to her. If only he could feel the conflict that warred inside of her, he’d realize that her past didn’t matter. Maybe. If only. But doubtful.
“Hey, kiddo. Did you look over the notes and the profit and loss statement?” Stan asked, hobbling his way up her driveway, shoulders slumped, sweat dripping from his brow, and muddy gardening knee pads still strapped to his legs. The guy never stopped working.
“I did.” Briefly.
“Anything we could improve on?”
“You spend too much money on snow removal. Granted, I’m not from around here, but I have a feeling your plow guys show up the second there’s a light dusting in the middle of the night. Then there’s the insane amount of money going toward insurance. When lightning struck the Dickson’s house and caused damage to the roof, that was a legitimate claim for the association’s policy. But the most recent claim from the kitchen fire started by the Anderson’s college-aged daughter, who doesn’t even live there? That should have been a claim for their personal homeowner’s insurance.”
“Well, we try not to discriminate.”
“I think the association needs to worry less about discrimination and more about taking it up the backside. It’s okay to be neighborly at picnics, but when you’re responsible for people’s money, you have to treat it like a business and have guidelines and boundaries in writing.”
Stan nodded. “I’ll talk to Dodge about it.” He seemed a bit disappointed in her opinion.
“Sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear, but you asked my honest opinion.”
“No, no … that’s fine. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that. It’s not like this is your area of expertise.”
Yes, it was. But he would never know that.
After Stan left, she lay back on the warm concrete stoop, letting the setting sun hit her face. Everything she shared with Lilith replayed like a highlight reel to her favorite movie. Since AJ went AWOL, Luke filled the empty void—which was ironic because up until that point, her entire existence as Jillian Knight felt like one big Luke-shaped void.
*
Day
Jessica awoke alone and naked from what had to be a dream. Restraints. Tears. Love. Sex—the best sex ever. Covering her face with a pillow, she grumbled into it, “Please tell me it wasn’t a dream.”
“It wasn’t a dream.”
“Jones!” She bolted up, tossing the pillow to the floor.
“Good morning.” The god of all gods stood in the doorway with a towel wrapped around his waist, wet hair, sexy smile.
“Hi,” she breathed. “You stayed.”
“I stayed … on the couch.”
Her eyes wandered along his body with her breath held captive. The mark on his shoulder wasn’t new. It was from Long Beach. “Turn around.”
He shook his head. “You didn’t make me bleed.”
On a slow exhale, she extinguished her nerves. She’d had sex with him, more than once. He’d released her from the restraints, and she didn’t. Make. Him. Bleed.