Take Me All the Way (9 page)

He had a nice smile, when he chose to use it. And his blue eyes held a certain sparkle, along with those little crinkles around the edges that were always so much more attractive on a man who was beginning to age a bit than they ever seemed on a woman.

So . . . you're going to work a little more closely with him.
And that meant one of two things would probably happen.

Either you'll start getting to know him and ultimately decide you really don't like him in
that
way and all the weird, tingly feelings will disperse.

Or . . . the weird, tingly feelings will stay and you'll want to act on them.
A thought that didn't do anything to calm the frantic beating of her heart.

But you're getting ahead of yourself. What you need to focus on right now is just . . . acting normal with him. Pleasant when warranted. And not nervous. After all, you can't go dashing away for a Coke every time he smiles at you.

By the time she had two cups of Coke in her hands and began making her way back up the street, she felt more like her usual self. In control. Normal. Ready to communicate with him like a regular human being, even when he flirted. It was something of an art, flirting. And it had caught her off guard.
But I can learn to flirt back. Or at least be pleasant about it while I'm trying to learn.

And . . . maybe Fletcher and her friends were right. Maybe she needed to loosen up and be more open-minded. Maybe after the bad experiences of her youth, she'd put up some sort of invisible wall—not only about not getting too close to people, but one that didn't let men in. And maybe it was time to slowly, carefully begin taking that wall back down.

But when she crossed the street toward the jobsite and Jeremy came back into view, he wasn't alone anymore. Two younger women stood talking to him, wearing sexy little shorts and bikini tops. And every cell in Tamra's body went on red alert.

The three of them were laughing. Clearly flirting. So flirting with
her
was nothing special. He was one of
those
men. He flirted with
every
woman.

Though . . . as Tamra grew closer, she realized that one of the girls was actually Christy. And she remembered that Christy had known Jeremy growing up. And of course she was getting married soon, too. But still . . . who was the other one? She was tall, thin, a pretty brunette with bright eyes and a confidence Tamra could never hope to muster. And not a day over twenty-five.

Tamra never considered her actions—simply followed her instincts.

Marching right up, she shoved one of the drinks into Jeremy's fist and said, “Here's your Coke. Now I'll thank you to get back to work. We're paying you by the hour, and not to stand around flirting with pretty girls.”

“You are a selfish thing!”

Frances Hodgson Burnett,
The Secret Garden

A
S SOON
as she said it, Tamra realized her mistake. She was mainly tipped off by the three people standing in a semi-circle, looking utterly dumbstruck, as if they didn't know what had just hit them.

And she knew she should say something—something nicer, something to smooth things over—but she couldn't think of what. She couldn't believe she'd fallen victim to sudden jealousy. Over a man she kept telling herself she wanted nothing to do with. And that she'd attacked him for it.

It was finally Jeremy who spoke, directing his words to the dark-haired girl. “Well,” he said pointedly, “it was nice to meet you, Bethany, but looks like I'm a slacker who needs to get back to work before the boss fires me.” And the roll of his eyes indicated his sarcasm, just in case Tamra could have possibly missed it.

And so this was Bethany. Christy had never mentioned her being so striking. And despite herself,
Tamra still remained a little jealous, even if this was Christy's friend.

Then Jeremy switched his gaze to Tamra and said, “Thanks for the Coke,” so harshly that it managed to embarrass her yet a little further.

After which he was gone, heading back toward the little building he'd constructed across the lot from them.

Okayyyyy, time for some damage control.

“I'm sorry,” she said quickly to the other two women, flicking her gaze from Christy to Bethany. “It's just that . . . he's been in some trouble since he got here, so I'm just trying to keep him focused on his work, walking the straight and narrow.”

Bethany looked uncomfortable, understandably, as Christy spoke softly, clearly not wanting Jeremy to hear. “He's really not a bad guy, Tamra.” She looked put out, and Tamra felt like an ogre.

“I know,” she said, letting out a breath. “And I don't mean to seem so rude. It's just . . .” Just what? What on earth could justify her bad behavior? The fact that he'd nearly dropped a root ball on her foot a couple of weeks ago was water under the bridge. Even his arrest before that was old news now. “There's just been a lot of weird tension between us.” That was true. And the best explanation she could come up with at the moment without revealing things that felt too personal.

“Well, you might have just made it worse for no reason,” Christy told her.

And . . . wow. This was Christy. Sweet, cheerful Christy. If
she
was scolding Tamra, that meant her actions had been pretty inexcusable.

“You're right, I know.” She shook her head, ashamed, and getting more honest. She supposed what it boiled
down to was just . . . fear. It was scary for her to be attracted to a guy who seemed like trouble. It was scary to let down her guard, even just a little.

Then, awkwardly, she remembered that she and Bethany still hadn't been introduced. “Hi Bethany, it's nice to meet you,” she said. “I'm Tamra and I'm really not as bad as I seem right now.”

She was relieved when Bethany actually laughed. “We all have our moments. I can go from relatively nice to bitchy in a heartbeat.”

Okay, even if she was striking in that tall, confident way, Tamra had to like her. If for no other reason, because she was kind enough to try to put Tamra at ease right now.

“But if you don't mind some advice about dudes,” Bethany went on, “don't let 'em stress you out. Because most of them have weird issues you'll never really get to the bottom of, and they aren't worth it. Men are best used as playthings.”

Of course, next to her, Christy was rolling her eyes. “Um, hello? Jack is a prince.”

“You're right,” Bethany said. “Jack
is
a prince. I'm convinced you got the last good man on earth. The rest . . .” She swiped fingertips manicured in bright red down through the air. “Meh. When it comes to guys, I go into it with an attitude of having some fun and knowing everything is temporary—it takes all the drama out of it, trust me.”

“Don't listen to her,” Christy told Tamra. “There are still good guys out there. You'll find one.”

And now it was Tamra joining in on the eye rolling. “Again,” she directed forcefully to her well-meaning girlfriend, “who said I even want one?”

“Well . . .” Christy said, and Tamra read her thoughts. She was remembering the night Tamra had shared with her and Cami that she was dying for sex.

Now she warned Christy with her eyes that this was not a topic up for public consumption, not even with Bethany, not even if Tamra liked her. “Well, nothing. I'm fine,” she said emphatically. “With or without a man.”

“Preach it, girlfriend,” Bethany said, holding up her hand, and Tamra realized she wanted to high five her—Bethany thought they were totally on the same page about guys. And actually, she realized as she indulged in one of the only high fives of her entire life, she was probably closer to being on Bethany's page about these things than on Christy's.

“What about Fletcher then?” Christy asked, and Tamra wondered what she was talking about—until she realized the question was directed to Bethany. “I thought you liked him.”

The news made Tamra draw back slightly, stunned. “Really?” she asked. “Fletcher?”

Bethany let out a self-assured laugh. “I said he was cute. And he seems interesting. But it's no big thing, Christy. Especially considering what you told me about this wife of his who he's so sure is coming back. I thought he just might be . . . fun to hang out with while I'm here.”

As Christy and Bethany went on talking, wheels in Tamra's head began to turn. Bethany wanted to have fun with Fletcher of all people? And she thought men weren't worth getting emotional over and had learned whatever magic trick it took to keep that from happening? And she somehow used guys for fun the same way so many
guys
used
girls
for fun?

On one hand, she knew she and Bethany were very different from each other. Bethany clearly had her act together, on the inside, way more than Tamra did. Tamra instantly envied her confidence, something she could sense was very real, not faked. But that aside, they had certain things in common. Christy had long pointed out to Tamra that they were both artists, which made her feel an instant connection. But more than that, she just liked Bethany's attitude. Not taking things so seriously. Not taking
men
so seriously. She might be on to something.
And I could probably stand to learn from her.
And maybe Fletcher could, too—in a far different way—if he'd only let himself.

By the time Bethany and Christy walked away, Tamra felt almost transformed inside. Strange how quickly and easily something like that could happen, and brought on in a way she never could have predicted—through meeting Christy's friend. Her head swam with new ideas that fit nicely together.

Maybe Fletcher could let himself have fun with Bethany while she was here. And maybe it would change everything for him.

And maybe, just maybe, Tamra could learn to let loose a little, have fun herself, without getting all caught up in all the stuff that usually held her back with men: expectations, worry, doubt, fears. Maybe she could learn to be just a little bit more like Bethany. And maybe it would change everything for her, too.

And with that brave new thought in mind, she crossed the sandy work lot toward where Jeremy took some measurements. Like earlier, he never looked up or indicated he even knew she was there
until he said, “Need to run to Home Depot to get the wood and hinges for the doors. You got any problem with that?”

She sucked in her breath at his harsh tone. Then fell on her metaphorical sword. “I'm sorry,” she said. “About before. I was out of line.”

As his gaze met hers, she could see his surprise. She could also see him weighing his response.

Before he made one, she added, “I'd like it if we can put everything that's happened up to now behind us and start fresh. Is that possible?” She spoke kindly and hoped he could feel her sincerity. Talk about making herself vulnerable in front of him.

And she didn't even know if it was a good idea, but she was going for it—truly trying to do what she'd just suggested, start fresh. She wanted a do-over. She wanted to be different with him. She wanted to take Bethany's advice, and Fletcher's advice, and not take everything so seriously and see if . . . if there was perhaps some fun to be had with Jeremy Sheridan. Even if he did desperately need a shave and a haircut.

Finally, Jeremy said, “Sure.”

But he'd still sounded stiff.

So she decided to be brave, to put herself out there still a little more. “Maybe . . . we could get together, later, tonight, have dinner or something. To work on that fresh start.”

And his hesitation made her feel it before he said it—he was going to turn her down. Her stomach sank like a stone.

“Thanks for the offer. A little while ago, I'd have taken you up on it, but . . . now I'm thinking it's probably better we keep this all business. Okay?”

Wow. “Okay.” There was nothing else to say. And even that came out more softly than intended.

“I'll, uh, head to Home Depot now if that's all right with you.”

“Of course,” she said quickly, still embarrassed.

And as she watched him get in that beat-up red truck that went rumbling away, she wanted to just sit down on the ground and cry. Seemed like no matter what she did when it came to men, it was wrong. Trust them and you get hurt. Don't trust them and you put up a wall that keeps them away. With Jeremy, she'd followed the instinct to protect herself and been too gruff, and now that she was trying to let go of that, it was too late—she'd driven him away. Her timing seemed backwards.

It always had.

Maybe that's why I never try. I know I'll just screw it up.

Deep in her heart, she knew she was destined to be alone and might as well just accept that and move on with her life.

V
AGUE
shouting, darkness, gunfire.

Hot—it was so fucking hot. Thirst clawed at his throat like dry, scaly fingers.

Running, running. Through a labyrinth of small stone structures, bleak and dank and humid.

More gunfire. Waiting to be hit, waiting to experience that, to find out how it felt.

But the gunfire never hit him.

Other people, yes. Whoever he was running with. Cries of pain came, but he kept running, running, away from it
all—only to eventually realize he was alone, the lone survivor. But was being the lone survivor really . . . surviving?

Jeremy jolted awake with a gasp. He lay in bed in his room at the Happy Crab, drenched in sweat. Jesus God, it wasn't real. He let himself begin to breathe again.

Except . . . it
was
real, in a way. The part about surviving that had hit him in the nightmare. He wasn't the lone survivor, of course. But when you saw so many good men go down, when you lost so many good friends . . . well, surviving it didn't feel exactly like some grand victory. It felt . . . at best, random, and at worst, like a mistake.

He'd
made
mistakes. Mistakes no one knew about.

Reaching up, he ran a hand back through his bushy hair, his scalp wet with perspiration. Sometimes it surprised him to realize just how much hair he had now, too lazy to get it cut.

Not lazy lately, though. He tried to let the thought make him grateful for changes inside him. But at the moment it was a little difficult to get to grateful.
I'll work on that tomorrow.
Right now, he needed to get out of his head. If he let himself fall back asleep right now, it would only happen again. Or so the pattern usually went.

He hadn't had any nightmares in a couple of weeks. Again, he tried to be thankful for that, but it was hard so fresh on the heels of one, and he suffered a fear that they'd never go completely away, that a part of him would always be stuck there, in war, in darkness, in gunfire. Though maybe he deserved to be.

He forced himself to sit up in bed.

Then he got up, walked to the mini-fridge across the
room, and grabbed a bottle of water. Unscrewed the cap, took a drink.

Setting it down, he found a pair of loose gym shorts and pulled them on over his underwear, then walked to the door and opened it up. Cool air and the salty scent of the ocean rushed over him, reviving him a little. And reminding him he was in a very different place now. Very different from Afghanistan. Even very different from his hometown in Ohio, where it had gotten so easy to hide, and so easy to . . . atrophy.

The thought made him step outside. It was the middle of the night in Coral Cove and the only sign of life was the all-night neon of “The Happy Crab Motel” sign, that bright red crab smiling in the dark. Beyond that, across Coral Street, the beach lay in blackness—he couldn't see it, but he could smell it and hear the soothing sound of the surf rushing in, then flowing back out, rushing in, flowing back out.

Pulling the door shut behind him, he started away from his room in bare feet. He wasn't going far—just wanted to walk around a minute, soak up the breeze, keep clearing his head.

The parking lot asphalt beneath his feet was neither cold nor hot—just solid, hard. But enough of a connection to the earth to give him a still stronger sense of being alive, and being someplace far different than his nightmares took him.

He strode across the empty street to the beach, its perimeter dotted with tall palm trees, fronds swaying in the wind. He stood at the base of one, looking up, drinking in the calming rhythm of the tree's movements—it seemed to mimic the ocean waves.

A glance up the street brought the golf course
vaguely into view and took his thoughts back to what had happened with Tamra yesterday. Yep, if anything drew him fully out of the past and into the present, it was her. Here he was, doing his damnedest to pick himself up, change his life—and this woman just seemed determined to knock him back down. And every time he thought she was softening to him, she swayed back the other way—her moves as unpredictable as a palm frond in the breeze.