Page 9 of Jack of Hearts

Part of me doesn’t want to let him walk away. I want to hear more. To learn how it’s even possible that he’s still a virgin. But I saw the look on his face. He doesn’t want to talk about it. I can understand that. There are plenty of things I don’t want to talk about. Of course, it’s equally true that there are plenty of things I want to do with him that have nothing to do with talking.

But chances are, if he’s waited this long, he may have no interest in jumping into bed with a woman he just met.

I can wait. And hope.

“Let me know if you need any help,” I say and I’m not sure I’m offering to help him unload the truck or … well, helping him unload something else entirely.

chapter

five

Jack

She hadn’t laughed at me. At least not in a cruel way. She hadn’t balked at my admission at all, only my comparing myself to a Victorian lady .

But there’d been no meanness in her tone or expression. It wasn’t even so much that I was ashamed. Mostly I was just pissed. My whole fucking past pissed me off. For too long I lived for other people, made choices based on what they wanted rather than looking for what made me happy.

Angie and I wouldn’t have lasted in the long run because the life she wanted would have made me miserable. I was too young and naive to see it then, but everything was shockingly clear now. Maybe I should send her a thank you note.

Nah. She doesn’t deserve that. Just like she doesn’t deserve a response from all the calls and texts she sends me. I finally blocked her number.

Regardless of the fact that I’m glad we’re no longer together, that doesn’t change the fact that she cheated on me.

I hadn’t planned on telling Lucy. I’d given myself a talking to on the way to the hardware store and I’d decided that I’d keep my head down and get the work done on her house and then get the hell out of this town. But I’d walked into her kitchen and caught sight of her of dancing and singing and everything had changed.

I want her.

Not just sexually, though the urge to bury myself inside her is insistent and intense. I’d taken myself in hand no fewer than three times last night reliving thoughts of our kiss. Her body was everything I wanted. Soft and curvy, rounded in all the right places. And the sass and just zest for life that oozed from every pore of her being.

She’s an amazing woman and I want her. Every part of her. Especially her heart. But I have no claim on that. I’d just blown into town, and then admitted that I have no skills in the bedroom. There’s no possible way she’ll want me in return.

I close my eyes and can clearly see her pink curls bouncing as she shimmied and wiggled in that teeny-tiny silky robe thing. Just like that, I’m fucking hard again.

I close my eyes and take some deep breaths. Then I throw myself into my work.

There’s a lot of work to do on the house. I could spend years here, slowly make this beauty shine again. But the very first task is to strengthen the back steps and railing leading from Lucy’s shop in the carriage house. It’s obvious that she enters the house through that mudroom most of the time, which means those stairs are a priority. I don’t want Lucy to fall and hurt herself and I’d heard on the radio earlier that they were expecting an ice storm in the next couple of days.

I can’t deny the sense of excitement I feel. In truth, I’ve always enjoyed working with my hands and building things. I’ve wanted to renovate an old house, uncovering an old house’s secrets, and breathing new life to it for as far back as I can remember. I think the notion of keeping a house from one generation to the other has always appealed to me.

I’d mentioned that once to Angie, the idea that we could buy an old place and restore it. She’d scrunched up her face and said she’d only ever live in a brand-new house with all the finest amenities. One of the man red flags I ignored about my childhood sweetheart.

A few hours and copious amounts of sweat later (despite the frigid temperature) and I’m done with the stairs and railing. It’ll need a new paint job, but that can’t wait for another day when it’s warm enough to paint. I rush into the house and take a quick shower, then head into the kitchen to see what I can find for us for dinner. I want to make something for Lucy to show her my gratitude.

I came to this town not knowing where I was going to stay or if I could find a job and she provided both. She’s been so generous. So much so that I haven’t even taken the time yet to drive out to Dane’s place. Instead my thoughts have been consumed with other thoughts.

My chest tightens and I feel that familiar sensation I’ve felt from the moment I laid eyes on the pink-haired vixen. She looks like mine. She feels like mine.

But I’d been wrong about that sort of thing before. Maybe I shouldn’t be so keen to trust my instincts.

The truth is, Lucy’s not mine. It doesn’t actually how much I wish she were.

I find what I need in the fridge and pantry to throw a decent dinner together and then go out to find her in her studio.

She’s wearing her welding helmet again and fuck me if she doesn’t look just as hot in that as she did in her skimpy robe. That metal woman she’s sculpting is amazing. I’m just astounded by her creativity and skill. I googled her last night and some of the pieces she’s made are just incredible. And she’s evidently sold them all over the world.

I am in significant danger of losing my heart to this woman. She’s just fucking incredible.

She must see me because she turns off her torch and pulls off her helmet. With a shake of her head, those bubble-gum pink curls spring all over her head. My gut tightens.