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Chapter One
The glass door swung open and then shut, sucking cold air and a flurry of snowflakes into Marietta’s Java Café on Main Street.
Even before the heavy boots thudded on the wooden floorboards, Jet felt a rush of awareness, the skin at her nape tingling. He was here.
Jet Diekerhof sat up a little straighter, trying to act blasé, wanting desperately to be indifferent as she was so over men—finished, done with—but biology seemed to have a different idea because every time he was around, her brain lit up, synapses firing, body warming, skin tingling, screaming at her that the hottest guy she’d ever seen had just entered Marietta’s coffee shop.
She didn’t want to be interested. She didn’t want to think about guys—hot, handsome men with hard bodies, sinewy biceps, and chiseled jaws—but it was impossible to ignore the crazy adrenaline rush when he was close by. And the adrenaline was surging now. Her hands shook and her skin flushed hot, before turning cold. Even her heart was beating double time.
Jet didn’t know why he had this effect on her. She didn’t know anything about him. Didn’t even know his name. He was just gorgeous. Hot, sexy, smoldering, heart palpitation kind of gorgeous. He had a whole sleeve of tattoos—she thought that was what they called them when they covered an arm—and long, thick, dark hair and a dark scruff of a beard that made her stare at his mouth.
He had a sexy mouth. Sexy muscles.
But best of all—or maybe worst of all—he had a brain.
She never saw him without a stack of books, tons of books, and notebooks, and a laptop. He’d show up and turn his table at Java Café into a mini-office, books and notepad and laptop spread out around him, and he’d read, pen in hand, ready to jot down notes.
He was always scribbling something. She loved that. No, hated that. Hated that he fascinated her, especially when he’d sit there working with that fierce focus, oblivious to everything around him.
He had to be a teacher, a grad student, a writer. Something like that. Who else would sit for hours in a coffee shop, pouring over books, biceps beautifully bunched, brow furrowed in concentration?
He was intense and edgy and intriguing and she’d never met anyone else like him.
Not that she’d ever actually met him.
And not that she wanted to meet him. Men were trouble. Men were distracting and confusing and they’d break her heart and she wouldn’t even see it coming.
So no. She didn’t want to know him. She didn’t even want to be aware of him, and yet her skin prickled with goose bumps, and her pulse was jumping…
But that didn’t matter. She didn’t care. She didn’t care that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and that no one ever joined him at his table. She didn’t care that he drank tea, not coffee, and that the café served him tea in a china cup. With a saucer.
And she most definitely hadn’t fantasized about him. She hadn’t pictured him dropping into a chair at her table, long muscular legs outstretched, big muscular torso angled carelessly away, even as his dark eyes watched her with sexy, lazy, delicious intent.
She didn’t want that. She couldn’t want it. Because the last time she’d been attracted to someone heart meltingly handsome he’d broken her heart and she wasn’t going down that road again. She was only just starting to feel better. Just beginning to feel almost whole again but, even now, she could still feel the deep bruise in her chest where her heart should be.
She still didn’t know if Ben had played her, or she’d been naïve, but either way, falling for anyone, much less falling hard, was dangerous and foolish.
But that didn’t stop her from watching her mystery man cross the Java Café as he headed to the counter.
He was wearing old, faded jeans that hung from his lean hips, jeans that outlined his hard quads and hamstrings before falling to the tips of his black boots. They weren’t combat boots or cowboy boots, but something a guy who rode a motorcycle might wear. Bad ass. Take no prisoners.
And then he turned abruptly and his dark eyes—deep, deep brown, almost black—met hers and held.
Her heart fell all the way to her feet.
She went blistering hot and then icy cold.
She couldn’t look away. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was because he’d never once even glanced her way before, and now he was giving her a long, slow once-over and she didn’t know what to do with
that.
Hot again, cheeks burning, she finally dropped her gaze, grabbed the student papers in front of her, forcing her attention back to her grading. Breathe, she told herself, breathe. Act normal.
Not that she had the faintest idea what normal was.
Jet had never been normal.
Geeky, smart, happy, confident…she’d loved school from her first day of kindergarten. She’d excelled in every subject, all the way through elementary school, a perfect student on into junior high, winning prizes for most books read during the summer, ribbons in the annual essay contest and science fair. She’d been the quintessential book girl…even teacher’s pet… and she’d thrived in school, all the way until the day in eighth grade when she overheard girls ridiculing her in the bathroom.
And they did it, knowing she was in there.
Knowing she was a captive audience in the stall.
They didn’t stop, either, not even when she finally emerged; face blotchy from holding back tears.
She didn’t cry while she washed her hands. She kept her chin up while she dried her hands. She walked out of the bathroom, head high.
It wasn’t until she was home that she gave into tears.
She’d known since second grade she wasn’t popular, but she hadn’t realized how unpopular she was until that day. But Jet refused to change. If she was going to be mocked for being smart, she’d show them just how smart she was.
She studied harder than ever, never letting anyone know in high school that her amazing grades weren’t effortless. She wanted the haters to think it all came easy, so she let them believe she whizzed through, and she did a pretty good impression of loving life, with her 4.4 GPA—thanks to all the AP and honors classes—and near perfect scores on the SAT and ACT.
But once she’d finished college—which had been a lot of work—she didn’t know what to do with herself.
She didn’t know what she wanted.
She’d spent so much of her life trying to prove she was smart and successful, that she didn’t really even know who she was…other than smart, and academically successful.
After graduating, Jet earned a teaching credential, making sure to qualify as both an elementary teacher and a single subject teacher in English, social studies, science and math.
If she was going to be an overachiever, why not do it to the max?
But after a year of teaching she was more disillusioned than ever.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to be in a classroom for the rest of her life. She felt as if she’d only ever been in a classroom—
“Can I join you?”
The deep voice was paired with denim clad legs and heavy, black boots.
