The Valentine’s Day Disaster Read online

  “Oh,” she said, and looked embarrassed.

  “You thought I wanted to—­”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “Look, my only objective is to feed you and catch up with your life.” And see if you’re receptive to a fun fling for old times’ sake.

  She raised a suspicious eyebrow. “And that’s it?”

  He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “You were never a scout. They wouldn’t let you in.”

  “Gotta admit it sounds better than scoundrel’s honor.”

  That drew a but-­you-­are-­a-­scoundrel-­aren’t-­you smile out of her, and he released his grip on her tablet.

  “Thank you,” she said, and tucked the computer into her handbag.

  “Let’s go.” He extended his elbow toward her. “I’m starving.”

  She hesitated a moment, but then slipped her arm though his. The second her delicate hand hooked around his elbow, Josh realized he had made a major mistake.

  Whether she knew it or not, Sesty still had him by the short hairs, and that was a damn scary notion.

  Chapter Three

  THEY SETTLED ON Pasta Pappa’s, a cozy little Italian restaurant on the square. In keeping with her promise, Sesty agreed to a table in the far corner of the room that was situated behind a faux ficus plant, shielding them from full view of the most of the restaurant patrons.

  On the walk over they were stopped several times by NASCAR fans and autograph seekers. Josh was gracious and generous with his time, but it took them a good twenty minutes to walk two blocks.

  The waitress was all flutter at serving Josh Langtree and begged for a picture, which she promptly texted to everyone in the address book of her smart phone. Okay, Sesty told herself, no eye-­rolling at fan girl here. When the waitress finally settled down, Josh ordered a Greek salad with grilled chicken; Sesty went for a meatball calzone. Giggling and winking at Josh, the waitress departed.

  Was this how his entire life went?

  Sesty scooted back in the spindly-­legged wooden chair, trying to get some distance. She couldn’t stop thinking about just how stomach-­dropping hot he looked without his shirt on. The man was going to bring a pretty penny on the auction block. Guaranteed.

  When she woke up that morning, if anyone had told her she’d be having lunch with her ex–high school sweetheart turned NASCAR star, she would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea. But here she was, feeling tongued-­tied and weirdly jealous of all the women in the restaurant craning their necks for a better look at him.

  Why did she care? He was no longer hers. Hadn’t been for a decade.

  Josh leaned back and studied her through half-­closed eyelids.

  She cradled her elbows in her palms and admired the healthy green of the ficus. Real or plastic? He was still staring at her. Ulp. Why did her head feel like wispy summer clouds whenever she looked at him?

  It was suddenly too quiet, in spite of the din of voices, clanking silverware, and piped-­in Italian mood music, “That’s Amore.” At the moment, she’d much rather hear J. Geils Band’s “Love Stinks.”

  Along with the red and white checkered tablecloth and the basket-­wrapped Chianti bottle with a white candle half burned down that was so clichéd. She almost expected to look up and see Lady and her Tramp chewing on the same strand of spaghetti.

  Not to mention the added cheese factor of Valentine’s Day decor. Paper hearts on bright red string dangled from the exposed beam rafters. A chubby-­face, papier-­mâché Cupid, arrow drawn, swung on a chain above their head in the blast from the heater vents. At the cash register, instead of the usual mints, sat a bowl of Be Mine heart candy.

  This was her hometown. Always milking the romantic angle for the tourist trade.

  She shoved her brain into overdrive, searching for something neutral to say, and came up with, “Where are you staying?”

  “Why? Are you offering to let me stay with you?” His tone was light and teasing, the same glib tone he’d used on the waitress.

  “No.”

  “I was afraid of that.” He reached for a bread stick from the basket the waitress had deposited in the middle of the table when they first arrived, broke it in half. The bread stick snapped, crisp and clean.

  “You thought you’d just swagger into town and I’d fall into bed with you?”

  “A guy can hope, right?” He winked slow and sexy.

  “Your breath? Don’t hold it.”

  He inhaled deeply, expanding that beautiful broad chest. His eyes latched onto hers and the look robbed all the air from her body. They sat there, not breathing together. Her lungs burned. Head throbbed. She curled her hands into fists against the tabletop, tried to fight the urgent need for oxygen.

  Josh interlaced his fingers, reached them back to cup his head in his palms, elbows sticking out beyond his ears. He looked as if he could go on like this for hours.

  Finally, she was forced to gulp in a hungry breath.

  He broke into an I-­win grin, dropped his arms and exhaled.

  “Showoff,” she panted.

  “You were going to lose from the start. I run sprints.”

  “Braggart.”

  “To answer your question, I’m staying at my grandmother’s old place over on Pike Street. The renters moved out at the end of January and the house needs some updating. I promised my folks I’d handle it.”

  “How are your parents?”

  “Loving retirement and being full-­time RVers. They come to all my races.”

  “They were there when you crashed?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Downside of having them in the stands.”

  “It’s sweet that they’re so supportive.”

  “They weren’t always. They were on your side. Thought I should buckle down, go to college. Make something of myself. They didn’t understand how being dyslexic made college pure torture for me.”

  “Looks like you found your calling.”

  He made a self-­deprecating noise. “It doesn’t last forever.”

  The forlorn expression on his face had her wanting to reach across the table to lay her hand on his, but she resisted the urge. “Is your career in jeopardy?”

  He flashed a nothing-­gets-­me-­down grin, but it wavered, not fully reaching his eyes. “Hell, no.”

  Had the wreck taken some of the wildness out of him? His impulsive, balls-­to-­the-­wall attitude was one of the things that had attracted her to him. She was always so careful, so in control, that being near him had given her a thrill. But his recklessness had also terrified her, and it was the main reason she broke up with him. Thrills were great for the short term, but a lifetime of roller coaster rides would take its toll. Even at seventeen she understood that.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Why? It’s not your fault.”

  “I don’t like seeing you suffer.”

  He didn’t say anything for the longest moment, just watched her.

  She squirmed.

  “Why should you care?” he asked.

  “I care about all my former boyfriends.” She wasn’t about to admit she still had lingering feelings for him. Might as well hand him a loaded gun and aim it at her heart.

  “All?” He sounded amused. “How many old boyfriends did you have?”

  “Scads,” she lied.

  Three.

  She’d had exactly three steady boyfriends in her twenty-­seven years on the planet, but he did not need to know that. Three lovers, and he’d been one of them. Yes, she’d dated plenty, but had never been able to do casual relationships like a lot of her friends. They teased her about it. Called her a dinosaur. But to Sesty, sex meant something. If you gave it away to everyone who halfway struck a spark in you, sex lost its significance.

  “Scads, huh?” He appeared re
laxed to the casual observer, slumped back as he was, legs extended, arm draped loosely over the arm of his chair, but Sesty knew him. She could read the telltale signs, the tension in his jaw, the smile that did not reach his eyes. Was he jealous?

  “Scads,” she confirmed.

  “And yet, out of the hordes, you’re here with me.”

  She traced a finger along the hem seam of the white cloth napkin spread across her lap. “Only because you blackmailed me into having lunch with you.”

  “True that. Now you don’t have to feel sorry for me.”

  “Does it bother you?” she asked. “That I feel sorry for you?”

  “Yeah. Pity is not a turn-­on.”

  “That’s perfect.” She sat up straighter. “Since it’s not my intention to turn you on.”

  “Honey,” he drawled, and ogled her as if she were stark naked. “It doesn’t matter what you want, not as long as you’re sitting there looking good enough to eat.”

  Her pulse fluttered through her veins, a crazy butterfly with nothing better to do than flap its mindless wings. Don’t let him see that he’s getting to you. “You haven’t changed a bit. Still full of b.s.”

  “To hell with me. Let’s talk about you.” He scooted his chair closer, leaned in.

  She shivered.

  “Cold?” He reached around, whipping his leather jacket off the back of the chair. Before she could tell him that she was fine, he was on his feet and swathing his jacket around her shoulders. “There.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered as his scent enveloped her. His jacket smelled so familiar—­leather and licorice and Lava soap.

  He sat back down. “So how did you end up in charge of this Valentine’s Day show?”

  She let out a long, slow breath and told him the details of starting her own event planning business, entering the contest, winning it.

  His eyes widened. “That’s impressive.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Not surprised. I just thought you were so tied into your family that you’d eventually be running the Sweetheart Inn yourself. You always were the most organized person I ever met.”

  She thrust out her jaw. “There’s nothing wrong with being organized.”

  “I never said there was.

  “You used to,” she said. “Complain about my organizational skills.”

  “Did I?”

  “You said I overscheduled my life. Tried too hard to toe the line.” She’d heard the very same criticism from Chad two weeks ago.

  He plucked a brown packet of turbinado sugar from the holder on the table and toyed with it, turning the packet around in his tanned fingers. “And you said I was too impulsive.”

  Sesty pushed her bangs off her forehead. “We were young.”

  “And dumb.”

  “Really dumb.”

  His eyes turned obsidian, dark and bottomless, and a flood of heat rushed to her pelvis. “Do you regret it, Ses?”

  “What?” she whispered, every muscle in her body tightened.

  “Me being your first?”

  Her heart staggered across her chest so dramatically, it barely registered that the waitress had settled their food in front of them. Why was he bringing up ancient history? “I’m beginning to regret this lunch.”

  “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  “Not at all,” she said blithely. “But I’m a busy woman. I don’t have time for idle chitchat.”

  “The reason I ask . . .” He leaned back. “. . . is that I’m in the process of reevaluating my life.”

  “Deep thoughts?” Her muscles were rocks now. “That’s unlike you.”

  “I’m backtracking, trying to see how I’ve screwed up the relationships in my life.”

  “Really, really deep thoughts. If you were in AA, I’d say you were on step nine. Are you in AA?”

  He snorted. “No. I don’t even drink.”

  She leaned forward until hers arms touched the table. “That wreck must have done a number on you.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  She cocked her head and waited for him to continue, unable to believe he was opening up to her like this. Like most men she knew, Josh had never been one to talk about his feelings. She knew he must be going through something heavy duty.

  “I was engaged,” he said.

  “I heard about that. What happened?”

  He winced. “So clichéd it could have been a country and western song. I caught her in bed with my best friend.”

  She put a hand to her heart. “Oh, Josh.”

  “No, no.” He waggled a finger. “No more pity. Even though I didn’t realize it at the time, it was for the best.”

  “Still, getting cheated on like that.” She shook her head, pushed the tip of her tongue against the inside of her upper lip. “Kick in the gut.”

  “Ironic,” he said, “that I’m seriously down on love in general and Valentine’s Day in particular, and here I am, forced to sell myself at a Valentine’s Day bachelor auction to the highest bidder. I imagine God is having a good laugh at my expense.”

  She really didn’t want to hear about his ex. “So community ser­vice. What’s that all about?”

  “Oh that.” An embarrassed expression sent his eyebrows up and his mouth sideways. “I’m not proud of myself.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “I took issue with my grandmother’s next-­door neighbor’s Valentine’s Day display.”

  “Miss Pendergarten does tend to go a bit overboard.” She let out her breath, felt her body unwind as the topic shifted.

  “Overboard?” Josh snorted. “Understatement of the century. Love songs playing on outdoor speakers all night long. Red heart twinkle lights strung from the eaves. Six-­foot-­tall, cherry red, neon lips on her front lawn that blink in my bedroom window at three o’clock in the morning bright enough to damage my retinas.”

  “Her decorations are pretty garish. What did you do?” Sesty took a bite of her calzone. Chewed.

  “I tried talking to her like a reasonable person—­”

  “If Miss Pendergarten feels threatened, she has a tendency to get irrational and aggressive. You threatened her outlook on love.”

  “Is that what I did?”

  “She’s got borderline personality disorder. She’s needy.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  “Do you also know that she’s Judge Blackthorne’s half sister?”

  “Yeah, I found that out too late.”

  “Exactly what did you do?” Sesty prodded.

  He held up his palms as if she’d drawn a gun on him. “It was self-­protection. I didn’t mean for it to turn out the way it did, but at three in the morning I wasn’t thinking all that clearly.”

  “Things are always worse at three in the morning. “Did you take a hatchet to her decorations or something?”

  “Now that’s a thought, but no, I’m not malicious. Even at three in the morning. I know how much she loves her schmaltz. I just wanted to get some sleep, so I slipped over there to unplug the blinking lips.”

  “You got community ser­vice for that? Where’s the crime?”

  “Trespassing, for one thing, but wait.” He licked his index finger and raised it in the air. “It gets worse.”

  “I can just see you creeping onto Miss Pendergarten’s lawn in the middle of the night.” She couldn’t help firing him a breezy grin.

  “You’re going to laugh at my humiliation?”

  “Sorry.” She curled her lips around her teeth to keep from smiling. “Go on.”

  “I sneaked over there and located the electrical plug, but apparently I wasn’t the only one with an anti–Valentine’s Day sentiment, because she had already rigged an alarm system to the damn things.”

  “Uh-­oh.”

>   “Yeah. When the alarm went off, I jumped a foot, and with my bum knee . . .”

  “Ouch.”

  “I fell against the lips, knocked them over, and they busted against the flagstone walkway. Miss P comes shrieking out of the house dressed like Lily Munster. What’s that all about, by the way? And acting like I backed over her cat or something.”

  “Sounds like Miss Pendergarten, all right.” Sesty nodded. “She favors gauzy gowns. She used to be an actress. Just local stuff mostly. Her biggest success when she starred in Great Expectations at Casa Mañana and the director told her she was a Texas Helena Bonham Carter. Now she plays Miss Havisham every year at our Dickens on the Square event. Plus, she’s had a string of bad romances. I believe she was even stood up at the altar. I wonder if she gets that she’s become the cliché she plays.”

  “Hell, Ses, she was on her knees, picking up pieces of glass and cradling them to her chest and she’s got all these little cuts up and down her arms. I tried to help her up but she called me every obscenity in the book, so I backed off.”

  “Yikes!”

  “And then the cops show up and there I am in flip-­flops, boxer briefs, and a terry-­cloth robe. Not one of my finer moments.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t hear about this. Big doings for Twilight.”

  “They arrested me for trespassing and destruction of private property. Lily Munster—­aka Miss Pendergarten—­is hopping around saying I did it all on purpose. This morning, when I’m arraigned in front of Judge Blackthorne, I learn she had those neon lips special made in Vegas and they cost ten thousand dollars. Can you believe that?”

  “Neon sculptures are expensive.”

  “The judge ordered me to pay for the damn lips and sentenced me to the forty hours of community ser­vice.”

  Sesty pressed her lips together to keep them from twitching into a sucks-­to-­be-­you smile. “So you’re a hardened criminal now. Wonder how that will play into your bio for the bachelor auction program.”

  He did have that bad boy aura, rough-­edged and manly—­his unruly hair clinging to the back of his neck, stylishly shaggy, his jaw a ­couple of days past a scrape with a razor, the back of his hands nicked with scars. How was it possible for him to look so devastatingly handsome? Especially to a woman who just two weeks ago was in a committed relationship.