Page 37 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Yet here she was, hurt and scorned.

Well, screw him and her stupidity. His behavior proved it had been smart to keep her options open, not get carried away with fantasies of them falling in love and living happily ever after in this charming town. Ever Afters weren’t meant for girls like her.

She glanced at the somber sky, prepared to see her heist through. “Mind if I come in? It’s about to get ugly out here.”

Jack didn’t budge. “It’s not a good time.”

More rain fell. The door stayed wedged in place.

“It’s not a good time to get me out of the rain?” She narrowed her eyes at him, only now noticing the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t shaved, either. This was the first time she’d seen stubble on his usually clean-shaven cheeks. There was no denying the roughness increased his sex appeal, but his obvious exhaustion spun her irritation into worry. His unmoving stance didn’t help. “Is everything okay, Jack?”

He swallowed and glanced behind him, into the house. He scratched the back of his neck. “Fine. Just a long night.” He held out his hand. For a moment her heart lifted. Was he finally softening and inviting her in? Then he said, “Thanks for bringing Blue home.”

The leash. He wanted the leash, not her hand.

The next crack of thunder felt like a punch to her gut. She didn’t try to get inside again. He obviously didn’t want her there. He didn’t want her, period.

More rain fell. The damp chill settled into her bones. He didn’t even offer her a coat. Disgusted with herself for her ridiculous fantasies, she shoved the leash into his hand and ran toward her car, but the sky opened. The downpour soaked her hair and clothes in seconds. She thought she heard him call her name, but she didn’t bother checking.

Get in the car.

Get to the motel.

Plan the break in.

That was all that was left to do.

By the time she jumped into her car, she was drenched and out of breath. Everything felt wet and ruined. She wiped at her face and wrung out her hair, but it didn’t do any good. She turned the ignition with a hard flip of her wrist.

Banging made her jump.

Jack was at her window, miming for her to roll it down. She just stared at him. He probably wanted to set things straight, ask her to stop running with him and meeting him for coffee. She debated peeling away in her crappy Prius, but he looked pained standing there, hunched in the pouring rain. A glutton for punishment, she did as he asked.

He crouched lower, so they were face-to-face. Determination poured from him as wildly as the rain from the sky. “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. You just caught me off guard, and there are things I haven’t told you. Things no one in town knows. But I think you need to know, because I…” Streams pummeled the windshield. He raised his voice. “You just need to know. If you’ll give me another chance, I’d like you to come in.”

She shifted on her seat, her wet clothes squelching with the move. Jack was wetter than a drowned rat, not even bothering to wipe his face or hide his pleading. Humble Jack. Why couldn’t he stay an asshole? She reached for him, tried to clear the water from his brow. He gripped her wrist and kissed the inside of her palm. “Please,” he said. “Will you come in?”

“Yes,” she replied. Not to get into his estate. Not to find that Van Gogh. Yes, I’ll help ease that troubled look from your eyes.

13

Jack practically carried Clementine inside the house. He did his best to shield her from the unrelenting rain, all the while cursing himself. So concerned for his father, he’d forgotten about their running date. He’d stood and paced and asked the nurse again and again what could be done. Forgetting his running date was one thing, but leaving Clementine standing in the rain?

That was unforgiveable.

He slammed the door behind them and smoothed the sopping hair from her face. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

She nodded while shivering. Unforgiveable.

He ran to the main floor linen closet, a trail of puddles left in his wake. His mother would give him hell. None of it mattered. He returned to Clementine, whose strawberry lips were tinged blue. Unforgiveable. He wrapped her in a large towel and led her to the bathroom.

“Jesus,” she said, as they stepped inside. “Does someone live in here?”

The bathroom’s two sinks, glassed-in shower, claw-foot tub, and stacked laundry machines were normal to him. Clementine had grown up in the foster system, shuffled from house to house. He couldn’t imagine how excessive it all looked to her.

“Take a hot shower,” he said. “You can use the dryer for your things. I’ll find you some clothes to wear and drop them inside.” He motioned to the bench.

Still trembling, she nodded.