“You never gave me the time of day.”
“If you were pining for me, you hid it well.”
He gave her a tolerant look. “I wasn’t pining for you, Emmaline. I did think you were the hot hockey chick. We all do.”
“Which explains why I’ve had two dates in three years.”
“Maybe your sweet and gentle personality has something to do with that.”
“Oh, bite me.”
“I rest my case.” He smiled. “You don’t have to have a sweet and gentle attitude. You do have to at least smile once in a while. You’re a tiny bit guarded—has anyone ever told you that?”
“No, as a matter of fact,” she lied. She took another sip of wine. Make that a chug. “Then there are your looks.” Shut it, Em, her brain advised.
“I’m hideous?”
“A little. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.” He smiled, and her mouth went dry. “No...you’re...incredibly good-looking. It’s a consideration.”
He looked at her as if she were a complicated algebra equation. “So you’re not interested in me because I’m incredibly good-looking, since your ex was also good-looking and he broke your heart.”
“In addition to the other stuff. And drop that expression. It’s not as dumb as it sounds.”
“Good. Because it sounds very dumb.”
“Well, it’s not. It’s very complicated and intelligent.”
Or not. Maybe it was dumb. Maybe she should eat something before drinking any more wine.
She took another sip just the same. “Jack, I think you want to be with me because I’m here, because we’ve already done the deed and because you want a distraction from your troubles.”
“All of those things are true. I also like you.”
For some reason, those words scared the living bejesus out of her.
He liked her. She already loved him. It wasn’t like she didn’t know that already.
Crap.
This was exactly the kind of situation that led to doom and despair, to whining to the Bitter Betrayeds, to crying in one’s pillow, to that unutterably bleak knowledge that you loved someone who didn’t love you back. Jack wanted a distraction. He liked her; that was it.
“I should go,” she said, clearing her throat.
He turned off the stove and came around to her side of the soapstone counter, and Emmaline swiveled on her stool to keep him in sight. That was a mistake.
He braced his hands on either side of her and leaned forward. Oh, he smelled good. Like laundry detergent and wine and food and smoke.
“Don’t go,” he murmured.
Then he leaned in closer, and rubbed his cheek against hers, and she felt the scrape of five o’clock shadow, the heat from his body. His lips brushed her jaw, and her legs went weak and hot, and a nearly painful throbbing began in her girl parts.
“Jack,” she managed.
“There’s chocolate cake for dessert.”
She swallowed. “Is that your idea of foreplay?”
“Yes,” he whispered, kissing the spot where her jaw met her throat, so, so softly. “Is it working?”
She leaned back a little and looked into those clear, smiling blue eyes. “Yes,” she heard herself say.
Then his mouth was on hers, soft and smiling, and she’d been an idiot, because for two weeks now, she’d been putting him off when she could have been kissing him instead. His hand went to her head and started tugging at her bun, which of course wouldn’t come out without a crowbar and a map to the seventeen bobby pins, but no, nope, he was doing it, her hair was loosening, and then his fingers were sliding through it, and a few bobby pins pinged on the floor. His mouth was on her throat, causing flashes of heat to spark through her. Without her thinking about it, Em’s hands slid up his ribs and onto his chest, feeling the solid, warm muscles shift and slide.
Then he pulled her into a standing position, holding her close, which was a good thing because she wasn’t 100 percent sure her legs were working. She tugged his shirt out of his jeans, feeling the warm, velvety skin sliding over muscle.
She took off her utility belt—oops, should’ve thought of that before, didn’t want to accidentally shoot the guy—and draped it over the chair.
Then Jack lifted her up (strong, really, she had to give him credit), and lay her down on the kitchen table and proceeded to unbutton her uniform shirt, brushing away her hands when she tried to help. He pulled off her boots, unbuttoned her pants and tugged them off, cleverly unhooked her bra and slid off her panties.
And then Jack Holland did her right then and there.
Who needed cake?
* * *
“THIS CAKE IS FANTASTIC,” Em said a very pleasingly long time later.
She was curled up on his couch, wearing a pair of rubber ducky pajama bottoms (his, a gift from his niece, he said) and a Cornell sweatshirt, eating Mrs. Johnson’s famous chocolate mocha cake.
Jack was watching her eat, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and she felt quite like a sex goddess. Oh, yes.
Yeah, yeah, she was a tramp; sue her. Like she was going to be able to resist Jack when he whispered things about how she tasted and smelled and felt, and all those things were very complimentary and she felt beautiful and strong and weak and cherished all at the same time.
She’d taken a shower in his glorious bathroom and spent a minute looking at herself, bedraggled hair, bee-stung lips, a possible love bite on her shoulder that she rather felt like photographing and posting to her Facebook page. My hickey–with Jack Holland. Her chest was still flushed and her skin looked creamy and, hells yes, she had it going on.
His bathroom was pretty amazing. There was a massive rectangular tub encased in a huge block of dark wood, the lip wide enough so a person could have a few plants or a glass of wine, a sandwich and a book and not have anything get wet. The shower was equally impressive, separate from the tub behind a glass brick wall. She combed her hair and put on the clothes he’d given her and padded to the kitchen, where, in case Jack wasn’t already everything and a bag of chips, he’d sliced them each a huge piece of cake.
Dessert first. Finally, a man who understood her.
Sarge was asleep in front of the fire, and Lazarus sat on the mantel, looking very vulturelike as he gazed at the fat little puppy.
“Will your cat eat my dog?” she asked.
“He’ll try.” Jack sat next to her and took her feet onto his lap. “We’re dating now, by the way.”
p>
“You never gave me the time of day.”
“If you were pining for me, you hid it well.”
He gave her a tolerant look. “I wasn’t pining for you, Emmaline. I did think you were the hot hockey chick. We all do.”
“Which explains why I’ve had two dates in three years.”
“Maybe your sweet and gentle personality has something to do with that.”
“Oh, bite me.”
“I rest my case.” He smiled. “You don’t have to have a sweet and gentle attitude. You do have to at least smile once in a while. You’re a tiny bit guarded—has anyone ever told you that?”
“No, as a matter of fact,” she lied. She took another sip of wine. Make that a chug. “Then there are your looks.” Shut it, Em, her brain advised.
“I’m hideous?”
“A little. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.” He smiled, and her mouth went dry. “No...you’re...incredibly good-looking. It’s a consideration.”
He looked at her as if she were a complicated algebra equation. “So you’re not interested in me because I’m incredibly good-looking, since your ex was also good-looking and he broke your heart.”
“In addition to the other stuff. And drop that expression. It’s not as dumb as it sounds.”
“Good. Because it sounds very dumb.”
“Well, it’s not. It’s very complicated and intelligent.”
Or not. Maybe it was dumb. Maybe she should eat something before drinking any more wine.
She took another sip just the same. “Jack, I think you want to be with me because I’m here, because we’ve already done the deed and because you want a distraction from your troubles.”
“All of those things are true. I also like you.”
For some reason, those words scared the living bejesus out of her.
He liked her. She already loved him. It wasn’t like she didn’t know that already.
Crap.
This was exactly the kind of situation that led to doom and despair, to whining to the Bitter Betrayeds, to crying in one’s pillow, to that unutterably bleak knowledge that you loved someone who didn’t love you back. Jack wanted a distraction. He liked her; that was it.
“I should go,” she said, clearing her throat.
He turned off the stove and came around to her side of the soapstone counter, and Emmaline swiveled on her stool to keep him in sight. That was a mistake.
He braced his hands on either side of her and leaned forward. Oh, he smelled good. Like laundry detergent and wine and food and smoke.
“Don’t go,” he murmured.
Then he leaned in closer, and rubbed his cheek against hers, and she felt the scrape of five o’clock shadow, the heat from his body. His lips brushed her jaw, and her legs went weak and hot, and a nearly painful throbbing began in her girl parts.
“Jack,” she managed.
“There’s chocolate cake for dessert.”
She swallowed. “Is that your idea of foreplay?”
“Yes,” he whispered, kissing the spot where her jaw met her throat, so, so softly. “Is it working?”
She leaned back a little and looked into those clear, smiling blue eyes. “Yes,” she heard herself say.
Then his mouth was on hers, soft and smiling, and she’d been an idiot, because for two weeks now, she’d been putting him off when she could have been kissing him instead. His hand went to her head and started tugging at her bun, which of course wouldn’t come out without a crowbar and a map to the seventeen bobby pins, but no, nope, he was doing it, her hair was loosening, and then his fingers were sliding through it, and a few bobby pins pinged on the floor. His mouth was on her throat, causing flashes of heat to spark through her. Without her thinking about it, Em’s hands slid up his ribs and onto his chest, feeling the solid, warm muscles shift and slide.
Then he pulled her into a standing position, holding her close, which was a good thing because she wasn’t 100 percent sure her legs were working. She tugged his shirt out of his jeans, feeling the warm, velvety skin sliding over muscle.
She took off her utility belt—oops, should’ve thought of that before, didn’t want to accidentally shoot the guy—and draped it over the chair.
Then Jack lifted her up (strong, really, she had to give him credit), and lay her down on the kitchen table and proceeded to unbutton her uniform shirt, brushing away her hands when she tried to help. He pulled off her boots, unbuttoned her pants and tugged them off, cleverly unhooked her bra and slid off her panties.
And then Jack Holland did her right then and there.
Who needed cake?
* * *
“THIS CAKE IS FANTASTIC,” Em said a very pleasingly long time later.
She was curled up on his couch, wearing a pair of rubber ducky pajama bottoms (his, a gift from his niece, he said) and a Cornell sweatshirt, eating Mrs. Johnson’s famous chocolate mocha cake.
Jack was watching her eat, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and she felt quite like a sex goddess. Oh, yes.
Yeah, yeah, she was a tramp; sue her. Like she was going to be able to resist Jack when he whispered things about how she tasted and smelled and felt, and all those things were very complimentary and she felt beautiful and strong and weak and cherished all at the same time.
She’d taken a shower in his glorious bathroom and spent a minute looking at herself, bedraggled hair, bee-stung lips, a possible love bite on her shoulder that she rather felt like photographing and posting to her Facebook page. My hickey–with Jack Holland. Her chest was still flushed and her skin looked creamy and, hells yes, she had it going on.
His bathroom was pretty amazing. There was a massive rectangular tub encased in a huge block of dark wood, the lip wide enough so a person could have a few plants or a glass of wine, a sandwich and a book and not have anything get wet. The shower was equally impressive, separate from the tub behind a glass brick wall. She combed her hair and put on the clothes he’d given her and padded to the kitchen, where, in case Jack wasn’t already everything and a bag of chips, he’d sliced them each a huge piece of cake.
Dessert first. Finally, a man who understood her.
Sarge was asleep in front of the fire, and Lazarus sat on the mantel, looking very vulturelike as he gazed at the fat little puppy.
“Will your cat eat my dog?” she asked.
“He’ll try.” Jack sat next to her and took her feet onto his lap. “We’re dating now, by the way.”
“Well, that’s—”
“Hush, woman. We’re dating. Now finish your cake. I have plans for you. You’ll need your strength.”
And for once, Em didn’t object.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TURNED OUT ALL Jack needed was a woman. At least, that was what it seemed like to him.
Granted, getting her had been as hard as catching an eel, but once he had her, he appreciated her wriggly properties. And he meant that with all the innuendo possible.
He really liked Emmaline Neal.
She was funny, she was smart, she was amazing in bed. Her dog was incredibly cute.
It was nice not being alone. On Saturday, they went cross-country skiing after their hockey game, the cold air and hard, bright sky making it a perfect day for it. Sarge came along, galumphing through the snow, trying to wrestle the poles out of Jack’s hand. Then they came back to Jack’s house, and he went down to the cellar to get a bottle of wine.
When he came up, it hit him.
This was what the house was supposed to look like. When he was married, it was too much, all those pillows and signs and clouds of perfume. Alone, it was on the barren side, looking more like a magazine shoot than a place where people lived.
But now it was kind of perfect. She’d brought a paperback novel, which was on the coffee table, as well as a comic book for him.... He’d confessed to a love of Superman growing up, and she found an old copy in Presque Antiques. Her knapsack sat on a kitchen chair, and her dog lay on his back, trying to woo Lazarus. There was a coffee cup on the table, and her jacket hung by the back door.
The woman herself was sprawled on his couch, not trying to look picturesque, the way Hadley always did...just relaxing. Or asleep, from the looks of it.
“So? I’m tired. You’ve worn me out,” she said, not opening her eyes. “And I’m not talking about skiing. I slept like the dead last night.”
The image of Josh Deiner, cold and lifeless on the dock, slammed into him.
Emmaline sat up. “Shoot. Sorry about that. Poor choice of words.”
“No worries.”
She fiddled with the comic book, straightening it out. “Did you go to the hospital today?”
He had. He did every day, for some stupid reason. “You hungry?”
“How’s Josh?”
“I don’t know, Em. I’m not allowed to see him. You hungry or not?”
She didn’t answer, but she stood up and took his hand. “You need to deal with this, you know,” she said gently.
He took his hand back. “Look. I saved three kids. Almost four. That’s a good thing. Don’t make me a victim, Emmaline. I thought it was your parents who psychoanalyzed everything, not you. Now do you want dinner or not?”
His voice was hard.
“Sure,” she said. “Why don’t I cook?” And she got off the couch and went into the kitchen.
His phone buzzed with a text from Faith. Is Emmaline there? Don’t blow it. Are you wearing something decent? Hint: clean clothes are nice.
Almost immediately, there was another text, this time from Honor. Don’t come down for Top Ten Tumors. I’ll TiVo it. Hopefully you have better things to do. Like Emmaline.
And another, this one from Pru. The Coven must be together, deciding that nothing was more fun than tormenting their brother. Don’t be afraid to experiment.
“Good God,” he said. He tapped Faith’s name to place a call.
“And who might this be?” she answered, and he could hear the noise of O’Rourke’s in the background.
“Leave me alone, girls. I’m busy.”
“Yay!” she said. “Jack’s busy, girls!”
“You need any tips, we’re here for you, brother!” Pru called, and Honor laughed.
He hung up, smiling begrudgingly.
Emmaline was leaning against the counter, staring at a pot.
Jack got up and went over to her. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” he said.
“It’s okay.” She gave him a quick smile, which made him feel worse.
He kissed her then, gently, then boosted her onto the counter and kissed her not so gently, and ignored the small voice in the back of his head that told him he might be using her.
* * *
THAT THURSDAY, EMMALINE rounded up her kids. “We’re going on a field trip,” she said. “Try to contain your excitement.” There were the expected groans and complaints and excuses. “Oh, stop,” she said. “It’ll be fun. It’s a sport. Exercise and healthy living, kids. The keys to a good life.”
“Officer Em, we liked you,” Cory said.
“Shush, children, and get into the squad car, and if you’re very good, I’ll put on the siren.
She drove them to Pettiman Rink, where she played hockey each week.
“I can’t skate,” Kelsey said. “I’m pregnant.”
“Really?” Dalton said. “I couldn’t tell.”
“I hate you.”
“It’s not skating,” Em said. “It’s curling, and you’ll love it.”
“What’s curling?” Kelsey asked.
“It’s that thing with the rock and the brooms and the ice for losers who live in the Arctic circle and shit,” Dalton said.
“Is he kidding?”
“No, that’s about right,” Emmaline said.