Sanctuary (Family Justice Book 3) (20 page)

He enjoyed a good Sunday. After his folks passed away, he and Pops made every effort for the last day of the week to be something worth looking forward to. Today was going to be a good day. He could tell.

Making his way through the crowd of families out enjoying the bright, cold winter day, Brody held a bag with some scones he’d wrapped in a towel after a quick microwave heat-up and a jar of something to slather on. Carmen hooked him up with an oversized care package that was almost yesterday’s high point. Only Heather being open to him was better.

It was cold, but he liked the brisk temperature. Liked the way his boots sounded on the salt-covered walkway edged by piles of snow. He liked to imagine that because this was his last winter in the East for a long while, the season kept hanging on. There really was a snow event every couple of days, ever since his return.

Thinking he was going to arrive before her, Brody let out an amused chuckle when he saw her anxiously pacing back and forth in front of the café. Typical. She’d probably been here for at least an hour. Heather would camp out in the rain to get a good concert ticket. Overcompensating was her way of controlling the environment.

Because he saw her first, it was easy to make a slight detour so he could come up behind her and smash through the flimsy advantage she thought was hers.

She was wringing her hands as she peered along the walkway, waiting for his arrival. A moving cluster of people forced her out of the way, pushing her to the edge of the walk. Stepping directly behind her, he leaned in and drawled close to her ear, “Hola, pretty lady. Looking for me?” She whirled around so fast that they collided, chest to chest. He grinned into her shocked face. “Now, that’s how a guy likes to be greeted!”

After a brief squeal, she recovered quickly, stepped back, and patted her heart. “Oh, my word. Brody! You scared the life out of me.”

Laughing at her discomfort, he drawled, “Surprise. The marksman’s best friend.”

They were both so stunned by what came out of his mouth that you could hear a feather drop. Brody couldn’t remember ever making a joke about any of that before. She wasn’t the only one lost without a road map.

Anxious to move them away from the weird moment, he teased, “Someone promised there’d be hot chocolate.”

“Oh, right. Right,” she chattered. “Best cocoa in town according to Yelp. And they use real fresh whipped cream.”

“Well, good.” He showed her the bag. “’Cause I brought treats so lead the way. It’s too cold out here for you. What the fuck are you wearing, woman?”

Seriously. What the fuck? Didn’t she bother to check the weather report? She looked more like she dressed for a first date than a public meet-up.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. Hold on
. God, he was thick.

This was her way of what? Flirting? He sure as shit didn’t understand anything about how a woman’s mind worked, but he wasn’t so dumb that he didn’t suddenly realize why she wasn’t dressed for a Russian winter. Staying warm wouldn’t give her a chance to wear something pretty. And a woman dressing pretty was all about impressing a man.

When she frowned at his teasing, he did a quick about-face. He wasn’t a complete blockhead—just mostly
.

She dressed up for you, dumbass.

“It’s called a sweater dress, if you must know, and it’s warm enough.” She said this in a snippy, hurt voice that made him feel like a dick. He had about three seconds to get a smile.

Alex used an expression that fit this situation.
Bitches like romance.
With a cheeky grin, he told her, “Who knew a sweater could be so … charming?” Deliberately eyeing her legs, he got the smile he was after when he growled, “And those boots.
Unf
.”

Jamming her hands into the pockets of a light jacket, she posed in her sexy boots and he could tell his compliment pleased her.

“I like your boots too.”

Such a simple, straightforward statement, yes. But when she said it while eyeing his old footwear, he picked up on something else. Maybe a bit of curiosity along with what sounded like heat. So she liked the boots, huh?

“You’re dressing differently these days.”

Another simple statement but he heard the question it masked.

“That I am,” he answered with a dry tone. “Seems we both have some explaining to do. Now, hurry up and get inside before your ass freezes off and our bag of treats goes cold.”

Nodding with a little laugh, she shivered and made a face. “Yikes. We really are in the witch’s tit zone. Come on,” she said and turned to the door. “Let’s head for the fake fireplace in the back.”

As she scooted inside the little café with him right behind, he wished she’d worn just the sweater dress and no coat. He bet the dress clung to her fantastic curves and so with that and her fine ass and those fucking boots, he’d be slobbering the whole way.

The universe smiled on him when she found a table near the enclosed gas fireplace and whipped off the coat, tossing it over an empty chair. Just as he imagined. The dress was made to mess with his mind.

He was sure the color had some ridiculously stupid name, but as far as he was concerned, it was gray. A dark, smoky gray. The turtleneck style and long sleeves covered her from chin to knee, but nothing ever looked sexier. Like a second, warmer skin, the fabric clung to every curve, and dammit, if she wasn’t wearing a wide, well-worn leather belt that weirdly matched his boots.

They sat and exchanged idle chitchat while waiting for their hot drinks. It was a nothing sort of five minutes that gave him, and her, a chance to settle in. The outcome of their conversation remained uncertain, but whatever way it went, lives would be affected.

When the waitress delivered their order and wandered away, Heather didn’t lose any time. That part of who she was would never change. The woman was a straight shooter.

“In all the years I’ve known you, Brody Jensen, not once have you sported a pair of jeans. Yet each time I’ve seen you recently, that’s what you’ve worn.”

She took a careful sip of the nuclear hot
,
hot
chocolate that left a blob of whipped cream on her top lip. Maybe it was foolish to think of a grown ass woman as adorable, but he couldn’t help it. She was.

“Weren’t you voted Most Buttoned Down Instructor at last year’s commencement fair?” She nodded through the asking and arched an eyebrow. “All this time, I thought your entire wardrobe consisted of suits and ties. The most casual I’ve ever seen you involved khaki pants and a polo shirt.”

He chuckled, relaxed in his seat, and brought a booted foot onto his knee. My goodness. She’d been keeping score all this time. Seemed to him like the lady and her no-strings-attached bullshit was just that. Bullshit. Well, well, well. Wonders never ceased.

“Yet here you are. Black leather jacket and all.” She grinned and lowered her voice. “Who are you and what have you done with my fr-”

Censoring what she was about to say, he watched her chomp down hard on her lip. Women. No way was he gonna let her hide from what she almost blurted out.

“Sounded like you were you about to call me a friend.”

She took one of those deep inhales that steadied the nerves and owned the moment. “I hope that’s true. Being, um, friends.”

“We’re a fuckton more than just friends, Heather, but debating the finer points of wordsmanship is a stall, and we have other things, important things, to say.”

Her beating around the bush was amusing. And a good sign. Meant she wasn’t going to try to blow him off with some lame smoke and mirrors.

“What’s in the bag?”

Brody blinked. The bag. Oh, right. The bag. Quickly emptying the contents onto their table, he proudly showed off his stash of goodies.

“Okay, so … Irish scones. Homemade in the Southwest.” He snickered. Carmen was so cute. She’d packed the yummy treats in a small bakery box with her elegant handwriting on the lid. She’d written To Remind You of Home next to a doodled paw print.

Holding up a small canning jar with a kitschy looking homemade label, he broke into a food-induced face of ecstasy. “And cactus jelly. Or marmalade. Or jam. Or preserves or whatever the fuck you call them … doesn’t matter ‘cause this shit is the bomb.”

Cracking open the jar, he lifted the lid and smelled. “Love this stuff. I’ll slather it on anything. These scones.” He nodded to the box. “An apple. It’s all good.”

“Anything?” she asked with a snort of humor.

So she wanted to play with fire? Okay. Fine by him. Looking directly at her tits so there was no misreading his words, he licked his lips then met her gaze.

“Yep. Spread a little of the sticky sweetness on anything, and I’ll gladly lick it off. Think of it like Viagra jam.” That got a laugh.

Plucking a big scone from the box, he tore off the top and started piling it with jelly. Dropping it on her plate, he set about loading up his half.

“Now, the first bite is the best. You have to savor the tart-sweet spread and the soft, chewy scone all together.” On an afterthought, he added, “Wait, wait, wait,” as she picked up the dripping scone. Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, he fished in the pockets until he located his phone and got ready to snap a picture.

“Gotta catch your reaction. Virgin territory and all.”

Her look of wry amusement was perfect. “What is it with you and the picture taking? This is the second time you’ve pulled this selfie nonsense.”

“It’s not a selfie if I’m not in it! Now, stop yammering and take a bite.”

With a smug half-smirk, she said, “Hmph. Like I said, bossy.” And then she took a bite. Her unschooled reaction was worth the price of admission. “Oh my god,” she murmured with a full mouth. “What is this? Tell me again.”

He clicked off a couple of snapshots and grinned like a fucking idiot at her reaction. She was too genuine to fake her delight.

“Cactus jelly. Straight from the Justice kitchen. And Irish scones. An odd combination, I know. But that’s sort of the Justice story in a mouthful.” He chuckled at his own observation. It was true. The only thing missing was some Marquez wine or a bunch of Ria’s hand-rolled taquitos. A bit of Ireland, a bit of Spain, and a bit of the Southwest.

“You care a lot about these people.”

Fuck, yeah. “They’ve become like family.”

Heather nodded and kept inhaling the scone between sips of the sweetened chocolate drink.

“Things are changing for you, aren’t they?” Stated bluntly and not as a question.

“For you too,” he reminded her. “Bob told me you’re in private therapy. Has something to do with what’s going on with you, doesn’t it?”

And there it was. They’d finally circled around to what led them to this important conversation. Her soft sigh hung in the air. Heather wasn’t much of a talker when it came to personal stuff, and she was adept at using counselor talk to lead a conversation away from her. This was it. She needed to find enough trust inside her where he was concerned to move forward. He held his breath.

He let her find her way and sat there quietly watching. Assessing. He could wait out a meditating monk without blinking an eye.

She took her time. After a few nibbles of scone, and more sips of the cocoa, she wiped her mouth on a napkin and sat back. When she crossed her legs and smoothed the sweater material along her thighs, he noted a slight tremor in her hands. The practically unseen show of nervousness meant she was going to be authentic with him. It was all he could do to remain seated when what he really wanted to do was jump up and break into a Rob Thomas song that he listened to all the time that made him think of Heather. And dammit if the lyrics didn’t include something about a sweater!

“H
EATHER, TRUST YOUR
instincts.”

“But that’s the problem, Doctor. How do I feel safe trusting instincts that were so wrong before?”

“You’ve said it yourself, my dear. It wasn’t you. None of what happened was. Jason’s issues sucked all the oxygen out of … well, out of everything. You’re a counselor, so you know what I mean. Common sense. Self-preservation. Instinct. All muddied by someone else’s psychosis. You hold yourself to a standard no one could possibly meet. Not with the circumstances you dealt with.”