Her Secret Love Page 8

  Chapter Seven

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  The carwash had been set for that Saturday, from nine until three, the first weekend in June. So much for Jess’s planned trip to Polson to put more clothing on consignment. She wouldn’t have time.

  By Friday night, she still had no idea how she’d pay for her car. She considered borrowing the money from Carrie, then dismissed that idea. Carrie had her own issues at the moment, and Jess didn’t need to add to her worries. Asking her grandfather was also out of the question.

  And she’d never say so, but she missed having Damon drive her to work. Yes, the silence was uncomfortable. His presence, however, was not. He had calmness about him, a matter-of-fact steadiness that she sorely needed. She’d had that with John.

  John, however, had needed her, too. To Damon, she was a nuisance. An aggravation. Even worse, unfinished business. He wanted answers, and she didn’t have them. That kiss—and its timing—had said it all.

  Yet she couldn’t get it out of her head. It brought back everything she’d thrown away and she didn’t want to hurt him again.

  He’d barely spoken to her the rest of the week. And Jess wasn’t able to deal with her feelings for him. Not those from the past, nor the ones developing now. She felt no disloyalty to John. She would always love him, and wasn’t quite ready to let him go, but he’d been very clear with her about moving on with her life. Their age difference had made that discussion imperative early on.

  But moving on meant making a fresh start, not taking a step back to a place where she’d made too many unforgivable mistakes. She’d never intended to stay in Cherry Lake for more than a few days.

  Six months was too long.

  “What’s wrong, Cherry Bomb?” her grandfather asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  They were watching television. He had a fascination with crime shows and Tom Selleck. He was stretched out in his recliner. She sat on the creaky leather sofa with her feet curled beneath her, buried under a throw her grandmother had crocheted sometime in the 70s. It was one of those ugly polyester creations with huge flowers crafted onto individual squares that were then sewn together. Jess loved it. June bugs bounced off the floor-to-ceiling windows, drawn by the flickering light of the television screen.

  “Carrie offered me a place to stay. I’ve been thinking about it.”

  He leaped on it with a speed that was close to insulting. “It would save me a whole lot of worry. Having you rolling in drunk at all hours makes it difficult to fall asleep at night.”

  “That was once.” And Carrie’d been worse off than she. “Besides, I’m almost twenty-eight years old. The law says I can drink if I want.”

  “This is my roof you’re under. The law stops at my door.” While he did disapprove of her drinking, and he’d lectured her royally, he wasn’t really annoyed with her. Not about that. “I think moving in with Carrie for a few months might be good for you both. You could rub off on each other. Work whatever’s bothering you out of your systems. Kind of like chicken pox.”

  “The only thing bothering me is the carwash tomorrow,” she said, which was partly the truth. She’d never washed a car in her life.

  “Spending a day doing charity work won’t kill you.”

  She made a face. “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “I’m laughing at you, not with you.” He shifted the recliner into a sitting position so he was facing her. “Now tell me what’s really wrong. It’s got something to do with Damon, doesn’t it?”

  She smoothed her hand over the throw covering her knees. Her grandfather could be far too astute. How many times had they had similar conversations over the years?

  “He hates me.” The words tumbled out sounding sullen, as if she were twelve or thirteen again, and someone had snitched on her for one of her many transgressions. That had been her fallback defense. So and so hates me.

  “Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? You left him naked in a cherry orchard, thumbing a ride. I bet he didn’t get anything out of it, either. Otherwise he wouldn’t still be this angry.”

  “Oh my God.” She put her hands over her ears. “La, la, la. We’re not having this conversation.”

  Her grandfather’s eyes turned flinty and hard. “Yes, Bomb, we are. You think I couldn’t figure out it was you who left him stranded like that? You think your parents didn’t know, after you did your damnedest to make sure they believed you were going out with him your senior year? Then all of a sudden you two stopped speaking to each other.” His hands tightened on the arms of his recliner, his knuckles turning white in the shifting light from the widescreen TV.

  “It’s not the big secret you seem to think it is. The entire town has a good idea what really happened. They like Damon too much to rub his face in it, is all. You’re another matter entirely. You reap what you sow, Bomb. People are polite to you only because he gave you a job. I can’t figure out how you finagled it out of him, either.” His eyebrows rose in a question. When she didn’t respond, he drew his own conclusion. “I’m guessing blackmail. But you’d be doing yourself a favor if you two made peace. You’ve got five more months here. They’re going to be long ones if people figure out he doesn’t like you.”

  Jess knew most of the town didn’t like her either. She’d driven here with that assumption already made. But this was her grandfather. He was supposed to love her, and yet he wasn’t taking her side. The level of hurt it created caught her off guard. She’d thought she’d be used to her family’s disapproval by now.

  It made her sound snippy. “If you like Damon so much, why not give me my money and send me on my way so he doesn’t have to be bothered with me anymore?”

  “Because it’s still my money, not yours,” her grandfather fired back. “I’m not dead or incompetent. If you want it before then, I told you, you’re going to earn it. Besides,” he continued. The hardness slipped from his eyes, softening his expression. “I doubt if he hates you. But if Damon Brand, of all people, is still angry with you after ten years, then I don’t think an apology’s going to be enough to make peace with him. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  She’d already been doing her best. She hadn’t complained when she discovered Damon allowed a homeless man to take care of his laundry and personal hygiene in the gas station’s men’s room. She was nice to his friend Tony, even though she disliked him intensely. He made her skin crawl. She would even have emptied live rat traps, although it turned out he’d been joking about those.

  She didn’t know what else she could do.

  Nevertheless, she got up the next morning determined to try.

  After sifting through her wearable wardrobe for something carwash appropriate, she reached the conclusion her one pair of jeans would have to suffice. The only clean blouse she could find that was even passably sturdy was a coral silk, cap-sleeved, Versace jersey, so delicate and soft it was like wearing a baby’s breath instead of clothing. Soap and water would ruin it. She sighed over the loss. She kissed her Toms goodbye, too.

  By eight a.m. she was at the gas station. The sun was shining and the day promised to be warm. Kids, large and small, had already begun to arrive. They were excited about the end of the school year and the beginning of summer vacation, so the confusion factor was high.

  A long hose had been attached to a spigot at the far end of the building, away from the front entrance and the pumps. Lilian, wearing a no-nonsense navy tank top, cargo shorts, and white canvas Keds, was issuing instructions like a drill sergeant and handing out buckets and sponges.

  Jess, overwhelmed by the chaos and a bad case of stage fright, fled inside before Lilian caught sight of her.

  Damon was working the counter. He took one look at her face, saw what she was wearing, and hopped off his stool. “Come with me.”

  She followed him into his office. He tossed a plastic shopping bag to her. She peeked inside and discovered a cheap cotton t-shirt and Daisy Duke denim shorts. That bag had been here at least for a week. She’d seen
it. He’d had those clothes for a while now, waiting for the perfect opportunity to ask her to wear them. She’d handed him one by showing up in clothes even more unsuitable.

  She pulled out the t-shirt. It had CHERRY LAKE AUTOMOTIVE stenciled across the chest in big, bold red letters. She guessed the size was a women’s small. Or maybe a child’s extra large.

  “Get over it, princess,” he said, reading the horrified expression she couldn’t suppress. “It’s not Boho-whatever-the-heck, but it’s better than what you’ve got on. You don’t need to wear the shorts. Just the shirt. Think of it as advertising.”

  She fingered the material. “It’s white.”

  “What do you have against white?”

  A knot constricted her throat. The size was one thing. He’d done that on purpose. Those shorts wouldn’t cover much, either. But he had no idea what happened to a white shirt when it got wet.

  Or maybe he did.

  If her grandfather was right, and most of the town knew she was the one Damon had been with that night, there was no doubt what conclusion they’d come to when they saw what she was wearing. It had the gas station’s logo on it. They’d figure out just what he thought of her—or at least think that they had.

  “Not a thing.” She managed a smile. She’d have to do her best to keep the shirt dry. “Thank you.”

  He looked as if he’d expected an argument and now that he wasn’t getting one, didn’t know what to do. “See you out front.”

  He closed the door behind him.

  She massaged her forehead with her fingertips. Then, her sense of humor took over. This was, by far, the worst thing he’d asked of her yet.

  And yet it was so, so appropriate.

  *

  Damon watched the carwash in action from behind his sparkling clean front window, courtesy of Jess, with guilt gnawing a hole in the pit of his stomach.

  That t-shirt she wore was second-runner-up to indecent. It showed every line of the lacy bra she had on underneath, and each mound of breast. If it hadn’t seemed like a better option than the blouse she’d shown up in, he’d never have given it to her.

  He could see now that he’d made a serious mistake. Lil was judging him for it, too. Every once in a while she’d look his way, and over at Jess, then back at him. She didn’t hide her opinion. That was the one thing about Lil. A man knew where he stood.

  Right now, it was the doghouse.

  If he could find some way out of this that wouldn’t embarrass Jess even more, then he would. But she was making the best of things, ignoring the catcalls and whistles as movement on Main Street crawled to a standstill, causing the first traffic jam in Cherry Lake’s history. Lil had brought a group of ten-to-twelve-year-old students and they’d taken to her. She seemed to be enjoying their company. The girls liked her hair. He liked those long, blonde curls, too. The boys—surprise—were more interested in her shirt, or what was beneath it, but they were too young to be more than somewhat obnoxious.

  Things could have been worse. The fundraiser had plenty of customers who’d never have stopped otherwise. The money was for a good cause. The pumps had been busy all morning, too.

  None of that made things right.

  He watched as a carload of teenagers drove in and unloaded. One of them looked to be asking Lil if they could help out. He saw Lil’s hesitation, but since Aaron was one of them, Damon wasn’t too worried.

  He did, however, know exactly why they were suddenly so civic-minded, and it had nothing to do with helping stock an elementary school library. Teenage boys, especially in groups greater than one, could be complete asses.

  A few mothers had stayed to help keep an eye on the younger children, but Lil looked like she could use another hand when it came to the teens.

  He stepped out into the sunshine. Aaron glanced over, saw him, and waved. All seemed good so far.

  So why was Damon sensing impending disaster?

  Up until now, Lil had been monitoring the use of the hose. She handed it to one of the teens, indicating a car the younger kids had just soaped, obviously asking him to rinse it down. She moved off to break up a bucket fight between two little girls that appeared in danger of turning more serious.

  Jess was applying sunscreen to one of the children. Aaron stopped to talk to her and she laughed at whatever he said. Her long ponytail of heavy curls had shifted to one side, leaving it slightly askew, and she looked very messy and pretty.

  She finished her task. The kid, freshly slathered in sunscreen, ran off to join his friends.

  The boy with the hose said something to Aaron that Damon didn’t quite catch, but Aaron’s face reddened and he flipped him the bird. The hose shifted direction. A high-powered spray of water shot out, drenching Jess, who was still standing beside Aaron, as well.

  Damon yanked his flannel shirt off over his head, not taking the time to undo the buttons, turning the shirt right-side-out as he sprinted across the parking lot. By the time he arrived on the scene Aaron had already stepped in front of Jess to block her from view, but not fast enough. There was a crash, and metal grinding on metal, then the tinkling of glass, as a rubbernecking driver on Main Street rear-ended another vehicle.

  Damon dragged the shirt over Jess’s head and shoulders, tugging the end of her bedraggled wet ponytail free of the collar. “I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t put on those shorts. Imagine what might have happened,” was all he could think of to say.

  “I’m going to have to put them on now. These jeans are soaked.” She plucked at the flannel. “But I’ll be keeping your shirt.”

  Heat crawled up his neck. She could have it. The gray t-shirt he had on underneath it was plenty for him. She must think he’d done this deliberately, but really, he hadn’t expected anyone to turn a hose on her. He wasn’t that bent on revenge.

  She laughed up at him, her hazel eyes filling with light. “I wish you could see your expression right now.”

  He wished she could see hers and how pretty it made her.

  “I feel like the world’s biggest dick,” he confessed.

  Her eyes shifted to liquid gold. “That’s a little harsh. You’re more like the world’s biggest loser. You’ve never been to a wet t-shirt contest, have you?”

  The sun had gotten too hot. He rubbed his neck. “Sure I have. Lots of times.”

  “You’re the world’s worst liar, too.” She put her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. Her fingers were damp and cool. Pleasure shot straight to his brain’s new location. “Relax. This is no big deal.”

  Compared to what she’d once done to him, he supposed that was true enough. But there was a big difference between the two situations. If he wouldn’t leave a woman alone in the gas station at night, why was it right to put one on display near a busy street corner in a t-shirt that was too tight?

  As for Jess…

  She was a leaper, not a looker—hot-headed and impetuous. He wasn’t convinced she’d put nearly as much thought into that night in the orchard as he’d put into the t-shirt. Plus he was thirty, not an inexperienced, barely eighteen-year-old girl.

  All of which made him the more terrible person.

  Two cars had driven up to the pumps. Both drivers were waiting, nozzles in hand, with diminishing patience.

  “Don’t mind me, I’ve got it,” Aaron, who’d been hovering nearby, interrupted. His voice dripped with teenage sarcasm. “I love working for free.” He loped off to activate the pumps.

  Damon had forgotten about him—and everyone but Jess, for that matter.

  They’d attracted an audience, however, that was growing by the minute. He placed a hand on the small of her back, nudging her forward. Dampness seeped through the fabric where he touched her. “Let’s take the peepshow inside.”

  She walked ahead of him. He followed her through customer service, past Aaron, and into his office.

  He perched on the edge of his battered desk, bouncing his fists on his thighs, trying to find words that would encompass the magnitude o
f the remorse he was feeling and coming up empty. If he had difficulty finding adequate words for an apology, he guessed he could now better understand why Jess, who was far from in touch with her feelings, couldn’t come up with anything, either.

  “I really am sorry,” he said.

  Water dripped from the hems of her jeans to form twin pools on the floor at her feet. Another saucy smile backlit her eyes. “That sculpture you promised me had better be extra special. Just sayin’. And I could use another week to come up with the money I owe you.”

  His brain cells scattered. Her smile, or rather what was behind it, was the reason he’d loved her so much for so long. Despite all her faults—and there were many—no matter what, she always seemed so…alive. She made everything fun.

  Even dumb moments like this.

  “I already told you I don’t care about the money.”

  The sauce turned to stubborn. “And I told you I do.” She looked at the empty spot on the wall. Three rectangular marks were clearly visible. “What happened to the sectional of the cherry tree?”

  “The gallery sold it.”

  “That’s good news,” she congratulated him. “Now that you’ve got grocery money, you can afford to eat something other than peanut butter sandwiches.”

  “I’ll be moving up to egg salad. If I play my cards right, by the end of the year I can progress to canned ham.”

  The banter felt familiar and good. She was less than an arm’s length away, too close to resist. He crooked a finger into the front of his shirt she wore, snagging the top button and drawing her to him, pinning her hips between his knees. He cupped the back of her head in the palm of one hand.

  She didn’t tense up. She didn’t pull away. She simply waited—a damp bundle of smooth, sexy skin and cautious, golden, green-and-brown eyes.

  That wasn’t nearly enough by way of encouragement. He wanted a reaction this time. He wanted her breathless. He wanted her willing.

  He wanted her, period.

  He captured her mouth, and her soft inhalation of breath, running the tip of his tongue across the seam of her lips. She tasted fruity sweet and a little tart. One of the kids had shared sourball candies with her. Her hands crept to his waist. His lower parts sprang to attention. He wanted to bang his head on the wall. One simple touch from her and his self-control packed its bags. He was twenty years old again, too eager and impatient. It hadn’t worked for him ten years ago and it wouldn’t work now. She was like a fine piece of metal. He had to get the temperature just right. Apply the precise amount of pressure.