Can't Let Go
The food in his stomach seemed to turn to lead. He pushed the Tupperware away, saying, “I’ve had enough.”
Ryanne sighed, the enchantress persona evaporating like smoke, leaving a concerned...friend? “You’ve been working so hard but eating so little.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t fall down on the job.” He’d lost his appetite years ago and now fueled himself with protein shakes.
“That’s not—Never mind. Why don’t you take the night off? You can nap upstairs with Belle.”
“I don’t nap.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.” He rarely slept at all. When he did, he dreamed of the car wreck he hadn’t witnessed, watching, helpless, as Constance’s SUV rolled over at least a dozen times, glass and metal shards cutting at his girls.
“I’m sorry.” Ryanne’s nails lightly scraped the pulse in his wrist, jolting him from his heartbreak.
Damn it! When had he placed his hands back on the bar? “Don’t be.”
“If you don’t want to eat, how about you give me a compliment instead?”
“I’m not in the mood to be nice.”
Rather than leaving him alone, as he’d hoped, she studied him with compassion in her beautiful dark eyes. “Is your leg paining you?”
He scowled. Was she making excuses for his waspishness, or had she watched him so intently, she’d recognized the signs of his distress? “Be honest. You’re trying to make me squirm again, aren’t you, Wade?”
“Wade?” She snorted. “Let me guess. By using my last name, you put a little emotional distance between us.”
Yes. Exactly. Nicknames mattered, created a bond. He’d rather die than create a bond with Ryanne.
He’d called Constance “sweetheart” and his girls “Daddy’s little sweets.” He’d settled arguments about who could ride an imaginary pony first. He’d fielded questions about where babies came from when the girls were far too young to ask about such things, and battled monsters in the closet.
When I grow up, I’m gonna be a mom. Bailey had grinned a mischievous grin. Moms are the boss of everyone.
Well, I’m gonna be a dad. Hailey had hugged him. Dads are nice to everyone.
Even when I’m a big girl, I’m gonna love you best, Daddy.
My friend Sally doesn’t have a dad. Will you be her dad, Daddy? I told her you build the biggest fort-castles in the world.
He remembered the day the girls threw pennies in the wishing well.
“What did you wish for?” he’d asked.
Bailey had gazed at him adoringly. “I wished for you to be handsome, Daddy.”
He’d tried not to laugh. “Thanks, little sweet. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“I wished for you to stay home forever, Daddy, and never leave again,” Hailey had said.
He rubbed the sudden burn from his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose.
He didn’t like that Ryanne had guessed his intent. But then, he shouldn’t be surprised that she’d done so. The woman had a knack for reading people.
“Well.” She fluffed her fall of ebony hair. “Aren’t you precioso.” Her sassy tone somehow contained both a Spanish and Southern accent. “By the way, I’m calling you cowboy because you always look like you’re ready for a ride.”
Walk away. Walk away now. No good can come from this conversation.
He stood, but remained rooted in place. Her gaze slid down his chest, making him regret—and extol—his immobility.
“Jude, wait!” Lyndie raised her hand like a student in class. “Dorothea, uh, she has a question for you.”
“I do?” Dorothea asked, then cleared her throat. “I mean, yep, I do.”
Not wanting to frighten Lyndie, he forced his posture to soften. The elementary schoolteacher spooked far too easily. He’d noticed her tendency to leave a room whenever an argument kicked off.
He even forced himself to smile at her, and hell, it felt weird to lift the corners of his mouth. Weird, wrong on every level and stilted. As soon as he looked away from her, he returned to his normal expression, the one that said I don’t want to be here, or anywhere.
His gaze landed on Daniel’s fiancée. “Ask,” he said, knowing she didn’t actually have a question for him. He wasn’t sure why Lyndie wanted him to stay, but he wasn’t going to call her out.
Dorothea looked at Lyndie, then Ryanne. Frowned. Opened her mouth, closed it. Finally she said, “Yeah, so...I’m going to be picking bridesmaid dresses soon. Ryanne, of course, is a co–maid of honor with Lyndie. Lyndie is wearing pink chiffon but thinks Ryanne should be forced to wear a trash bag. Do you agree?”
His gaze zipped back to Ryanne, who was now watching him with a thoughtful expression...and upset? “A trash bag won’t detract from her raw sensuality.” The primal admission left him before he could stop it, wiping her upset away.
A grinning Lyndie pressed a hand above her heart. “If you guys were in a movie, female viewers would be sighing dreamily right now, and male viewers would be throwing popcorn at the screen. You just set the bar very high.”
Ryanne peered at him, her lush lips gaping open. “You claimed you were too grumpy to be nice, but I swear I just heard the best compliment of my life.”
“Truth is truth, not a compliment.”
“Well, then, that’s even better.” She beamed at him, so radiant he wanted to take her in his arms and—
Nothing.
Ryanne wasn’t his type, would never be his type. Forget her job. She was too bold, too brash. Too...everything. She drew attention and loved it. Nothing slowed her down. She sizzled with passion and marched through life with no care for the obstacles thrown in her way.
Jude craved solitude, which meant he wasn’t Ryanne’s type, either. Actually, he had no idea what type of man she actually preferred. She was an equal opportunity flirt, charming young and old alike. Hell, charming large and small, tall and short, rich and poor.
Always irritating me, and I don’t know why.
The front door opened, saving him from having to think up an appropriate reply, and the members of Power Trip—the band she hired on Friday and Saturday nights—strode inside.
Daniel and Brock came in behind the drummer, and both males pulsed with a palpable air of anger and frustration they couldn’t hide behind cheerful waves.
Something had happened out there.
The women sensed a problem, as well. As soon as the guys reached the counter, Dorothea threw her arms around Daniel. Lyndie inched away from Brock and glanced at the door, as if planning an escape route.
Ryanne reached out to latch on to Jude’s wrist, the softness of her skin momentarily paralyzing him. Can’t force myself to pull away this time...
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
No doubt Dushku had struck.
Daniel gave an unconvincing laugh. “Who said anything was wrong?”
“Someone trashed the alley outside, spray-painted vile things on the wall, that’s all,” Brock said, and Daniel glared at him.
Dorothea and Lyndie gasped with horror.
Ryanne stiffened. “Show me.”
Jude wrapped his hand around her wrist; she’d held him, and now he held her. It was an intimate pose, and one he wasn’t emotionally equipped to handle. Did he let go? No.
“Stay in here. Please.” He knew his friends, and knew a trashed alley wasn’t the only problem out there. “Let me make sure everything is safe. That’s what you pay me the big bucks for, after all.”
At first, she opened her mouth to protest. Then she looked at her friends. If she insisted on going outside, they would insist on going with her, and they would be in danger, as well. So she nodded, released him.
Silent, he, Daniel and Brock headed outside. His friends led him to the back alley, where he saw bitch, slut and whore, and an assortment of other vile words, spray-painted on the walls. His molars gnashed again, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they turned to powder.
The boys kept going, stopping when they reached Ryanne’s SUV, parked behind the building. Rage sparked.
The tires had been slashed, and the words YOUR NEXT spray-painted over the windshield.
“Idiot,” Jude muttered. “You’re. Not your.”
This was a scare tactic, nothing more, meant to intimidate Ryanne into doing whatever Dushku wanted.
“What do you want us to do?” Brock asked.
“For now, we clean up the mess. Later we’ll give Ryanne the bare minimum of facts.” The less she knew, the better. He would do the worrying for her.
A woman like her should only ever smile.
CHAPTER FIVE
MONDAYS WERE USUALLY Ryanne’s favorite day of the week. She got to sleep in, drink wine, play video games and relax in a bubble bath. Today, however, she hadn’t slept in. Belle had done her cat thing, somehow climbing on the desk, despite the size of her belly, knocking over a coffee mug, pens, a book and even a laptop. During the loud bang that had followed every downed item, Ryanne had lain in bed thinking about the smile Jude had given Lyndie. A kind smile. Humorless, yes, but kind nonetheless. A smile he’d never given Ryanne.
For a moment, she’d been eaten up with jealousy, and she’d hated herself for it. Lyndie deserved all the kindness in the world.
After giving herself a kick in the pants, Ryanne had gotten up, showered while standing for once and dressed in a hurry. The Scratching Post would be hosting the Strawberry Bookcakes today, and she would be serving tea, finger sandwiches and cookies. Despite the twenty-dollar cover charge, a whole gaggle of retired matrons had signed up.
Guaranteed the sweet old biddies would start off discussing their book club selection—a scandalous paranormal romance titled The Darkest Night; it was chosen because Lincoln West, a beloved resident of the town, had designed a video game based on its mythology. Once the discussion ended, everyone would start gossiping about nonfictional people.
Ryanne had a few hours to run a million errands. Still, she texted Jude an invitation to join her.
Want to be my sidekick today? (I know what you’re thinking—your job comes with perks, like spending time with your favorite person. Hint: me!) Pick you up in twenty?
At some point, he had to say yes and their fun times could finally begin.
This wasn’t that point.
His no had come in so fast her head had spun.
Dang it, why? Last night a guy had flirted with her while she’d mixed drinks behind the bar, and Jude had come over like a heat-seeking missile.
“Leave,” he’d snapped at the guy. “Leave while you can still walk. In thirty seconds, you’ll only be able to crawl.”
Ryanne had watched, flabbergasted. “Uh, he did nothing wrong.”
“I didn’t trust him. He could have been one of Dushku’s men.”
Or maybe Jude didn’t want other guys hitting on her?
She ignored a little thrill and checked her extra stash of moonshine in the basement. Time to place a new order. She shot off a quick email to her contact at the brewery and drove into town to check her account at Strawberry Savings and Loans. Every night at closing, she took all the cash from the register, minus the next day’s float, which she left in a safe, and put the money in a special deposit bag with the bar’s account info. Then she deposited it through an after-hours slot at the bank. Last night Jude had insisted on doing the chore for her, not wanting her to drive around with that much cash. She’d finally relented and let him do it. While she trusted Jude—for the most part—money could do strange things to people, turning the honest into thieves. With Jude, she should have known better. Every cent was accounted for.
Next she visited the grocery to buy cat food and kitty litter. From there, she went to the bookstore to pick up a detailed traveler’s guide to Rome.
Every time she climbed behind the wheel of her SUV, she experienced a twinge of disconcertment. Something was different.
Her windshield was clean, not a single speck of dirt or a dead insect in sight, but there was a small crack in the right-hand corner, one she hadn’t noticed before. And she had brand-new windshield wipers. Also, her tires were immaculate, cleaner than the windshield, and taller than usual.
When Jude first returned to the bar last night, his posture had been rigid as steel. “We’re going to clean the alley walls,” he’d said, “but I need to buy a few supplies. I’m going to borrow your car, all right?”
Now she wondered if yesterday’s vandalism “in the alley” had involved her car as well, and he’d fixed it for her?
Yeah. That. Most definitely. How like the man.
Could he be any sexier?
No, no, he couldn’t. Dang him, he always looked like sex and smelled incredible, like dark, aged rum—which was ironic, considering he’d never even sipped her alcohol. As grumpy as he was, he cared about people, helping ensure the intoxicated never got behind the wheel of a car.
Every hour she spent with him, she wanted him more, wanted to know him better. Why had his military buds nicknamed him Priest? When he’d served, he’d been married with children.
More than anything, she wanted to make him smile. The desire had become an addiction, an obsession. His innate sadness hurt her heart.
Over the past week, she’d learned he never rested and rarely ate, relying on protein shakes for energy. The only time he lost his temper? When an intoxicated person resisted aid and said something akin to “I’m okay to drive.”
He would shout about the dangers and end every speech with the same world-rocking question. Do you want to murder an innocent family?
Ryanne had begun to suspect a drunk driver killed his wife and daughters, and a little online research had confirmed it. The college boy who’d crashed into Constance Laurent’s car, killing everyone inside, had gotten a ten-year split sentence. Five years in prison, five years on probation.
At last she understood Jude’s disdain for the Scratching Post. It was a miracle he worked so hard to save the place, and a true testament to his loyal heart.
Loyal...but also broken.
Two nights ago, he’d left his cell phone at the bar. She’d followed him home, intending to tease him, maybe flirt a little before returning his property. Instead, she’d sat in her vehicle, watching as he’d sat in his, banging his fists into the steering wheel, his tears glinting in the moonlight.
He missed his family. Of course he did.
She could empathize—after all, she missed Earl. He’d been more of a father and mother to her than her bio parents ever had.
Sometimes she still expected to see Earl behind the bar, mixing drinks, or hear his booming laughter when she “got her Spanish on” with a customer.
Loved ones left marks on your soul, and when they died, those marks became scars.
As Ryanne’s SUV eased along Strawberry Valley’s town square, she forced Jude the praised one and his loss out of her mind, and focused on the majestic scenery, a true gift from God. Antique lampposts lined the sidewalks, the perfect complement to both the historic and modern buildings. The Strawberry Inn—Dorothea’s home and business—was a sprawling antebellum estate with an array of massive white columns. The local grocery store, Strawberries and More, was housed in a metal warehouse with a tin roof.
On the next street, box-shaped homes had been turned into a café, a hardware shop and a dry cleaner. A whitewashed bungalow contained the Rhinestone Cowgirl, the only place to buy handmade jewelry. The theater was Ryanne’s favorite building, with a copper awning and multiple gargoyles perched along a balcony. Actually, the theater tied with Strawberry Community Church, a white stone chapel with spectacular stained-glass windows. Reminded her of pictures she’d seen in a book about Holland.
Wild strawberry patches grew along the sidewalks and between the shops. During the summer, she could pluck the sweet fruit straight from the plant for a quick snack, any time, any place.
How she loved the charm and enchantment of the town. One of the many reasons she opted to move in with Earl rather than go to Colorado with her mom and brand-new stepdad. Or stepdouche.
When she turned the next corner, she caught sight of a petite blonde walking beside a hulking, tattooed giant Ryanne recognized. Cigarette! The blonde...could she be the prostitute from the van?
Ryanne pulled over a little too sharply and parked at the sidewalk. Both Cigarette and Blondie glanced in her direction. His eyes narrowed, while the woman’s widened. He grabbed her by the arm and picked up the pace, soon disappearing around a corner.
Trembling, Ryanne palmed her phone and fired off a text to Jude. Guess who I just found? Our friends from the parking lot. I’m going to follow them.
She added a thumbs-up emoji and pressed Send.
His reply came only a few seconds later. Do not pursue. I repeat, just in case I wasn’t clear. Do not. NOT. If you do, there will be consequences.
Well, well. Commando was back in action, and more delicious than a bag of Chips Ahoy! I could eat him up. Still, encouraging his power play would only end badly for her and their upcoming sexlationship—because yes, they would have one.
She jabbed her fingers into the keyboard, typing, Aren’t you precioso. Consequences, cowboy? Try. Please.
Then she added a gif of two people jumping up and down, laughing and clapping.
No way Ryanne would do what the big, strong man had told her. How many times had her mother obeyed every whim, command or request of a husband, boyfriend, lover or even potential lover, losing her own identity? Lyndie, too, had lost her identity in her father and husband. Though Dorothea loved Daniel, she had given up a promising career as a storm chaser in order to be with him.
I’ll give up nothing.
Would Ryanne be in danger? No!
Okay, maybe. But probably not. This was a public place. Even if Cigarette decided he didn’t care about their audience, he couldn’t come within ten feet of Ryanne without getting shot. Having gotten her conceal and carry license at Earl’s insistence, she never left home without protection. What truly motivated her to get out of her car, however, was the thought that Blondie might be a sex slave in need of rescue. The way Cigarette had grabbed her...
Determined to ferret out the truth, Ryanne marched down the sidewalk. Cool air stroked her bare arms, causing goose bumps to sprout. In September, or any month, really, Oklahoma weather could change from one hour to another, from sizzling hot to ice cold. Picking up the pace, she snaked around the corner, tense and ready...
Dang it! No sign of Cigarette or Blondie. She checked between the buildings and inside a few of the shops. Still nothing.
With a sigh of frustration, she pivoted—
And smacked into a brick wall. Or at least what felt like a brick wall.
Big hands settled on her hips, pinning her in place. Her mind reacted before her eyes had time to assess the situation. Cigarette? On instinct, she drew back her fist and punched. Pain exploded in her knuckles, but she swallowed a yelp, determined to maintain a strong persona.
Nope, not Cigarette. Jude Laurent rubbed his jaw. “You hit like a girl,” he grated.
Deep breath in, out. Meanwhile, her heart continued to race. “If you put a little more strength behind your blows, you could hit like a girl, too,” she retorted.
The corners of his lips twitched. Rays of sunlight spilled over him, framing him in gold, and oh, wow, he looked good. Like a fallen angel. His hair appeared lighter today, and his tan darker. A storm brewed in his navy blue eyes.
The urge to soften against him was insistent, but she somehow found the strength to step backward rather than forward. Now wasn’t the time for romance.
“How’d you get here so quickly?” Wait. “How’d you know my location?”
A muscle jumped beneath his eye. “I was following the pair before you spotted them.”
Of course he was. Sexy warrior. “Were you able to learn anything about the woman?”
“Nothing. A shameless flirt spy-blocked me.” He flicked a lock of hair from Ryanne’s shoulder, his knuckles brushing against her skin. Warm tingles erupted.
She gasped while he peered down at his hand, as if shocked by what it had just done. Was he experiencing tingles of his own?
Was she getting to him at last?
Little fires ignited in different parts of her body, until every inch of her burned. “Why would I ever entertain shame, cowboy?” A breathless note stole into her tone. “Flirting is fun for everyone involved.”
Before he could respond, Virgil Porter and Anthony Rodriguez rounded the corner.
Virgil—Daniel’s dad—tipped his baseball cap in greeting as he passed. Anthony, owner of Style Me Tender Salon, waved. The two were best friends and daily checkers partners, and while they didn’t stop to chat, they did slow down to eavesdrop.
“Very subtle, Mr. Porter.” Jude threw the universal sign for I’m watching you at Virgil. “But I’m on to your tricks.”
“I told you to call me Virgil, son. And FYI, I have no tricks. I just wish you’d use your outside voice so we could hear your conversation better.” He never even glanced over his shoulder, just kept moseying along. To Anthony he muttered, “Did I use that there acronym right or not?”
“Yep, sure did,” Anthony replied, “but really the only acronyms you need to know are WTF and GOML. Wait! Too Fast and Get Off My Lawn.”
The two disappeared around the next corner.
Adorable old bears.
“I need to speak with you. Privately,” Jude said to Ryanne.
Uh-oh. “Why?”
Determined, he clasped her hand and hauled her into the nearest alley. Then he backed her into the brick wall, looming over her, his narrowed eyes glaring daggers at her. “I told you there would be consequences if you followed a man in Dushku’s employ.”
She tried to focus on his anger, she did, but her brain short-circuited. This was the closest she’d ever been to Jude, and she was having trouble catching her breath. Her blood heated another thousand degrees, and her skin tingled worse than ever before, little quivers rocking her on her feet.
Just then, she didn’t want to make him laugh; she wanted to make him hot.
Led by desire, logic nowhere to be found, she wrapped her arms around his neck and combed her fingers through his hair.
He didn’t jump away. “What are you doing?” His ragged voice was as potent as a caress.
Why not tell him the truth? She licked her lips, reveling as his eyes followed the motion. “I think I’m...seducing you.”
“You think?” he croaked.
“I’ve never done this before.” Others had tried to seduce her, but this was her first attempt. “For a long time, I had serious trust issues and didn’t date. When I decided there were good guys in the world, I wasn’t attracted to anyone...until you.”
He gulped. “How long since your last date?”
“Two and a half years,” she said, toying with the ends of his hair.
He stiffened but still didn’t jump away. “Were you cheated on?”
Growing bolder, she plucked at his collar, her nails lightly scraping his heated skin. “Twice my mother slept with my boyfriends. And the things I’ve seen at the bar...” With a nibble on her bottom lip, she asked, “What about you? How long since you—”
“Two and a half years.” Another croak.
Ohhh. They had more in common than she’d realized. And the fact that they’d remained alone for the exact same amount of time, well, the odds had to be astronomical.
“Jude?” Wait. What did she want to ask him?
For a moment, he ceased moving, perhaps even ceased breathing. Then he took two steps back. Oh, heck no. He wasn’t leaving her, not now. She fisted his shirt and tugged him forward, and the impromptu action caused him to stumble.
She opened her mouth to tell him she was sorry, but suddenly found herself plastered against his chest, speaking a talent beyond her. Their gazes clashed. His eyes sizzled with molten awareness. Again he stopped breathing. And this time, so did she...
“I should go,” he rasped, even as he braced his palms flat on the brick, caging her in. A predator who’d just captured prey.