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“A myth,” Jack answered.
“No,” Lucy moaned. “Don’t break my heart.”
Mia tried to kick her sister under the table but was too far away and her ankle still hurt.
“The most beautiful amber I’ve ever seen was in Prague,” he said, and Lucy leaned forward, entranced because he was speaking to her heart. Her passion.
“The stones were practically red.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“What was your favorite place?” Walter asked, and the whole room turned to look at him. The temperature dropped from Jack’s side of the table.
“It’s a normal question,” Walter said, and Mia nodded quickly in agreement.
She felt her heart growing, filling with affection and hope for Walter. Hope that Jack would see the question as sincere. That he would at least consider the olive branch, lame as it might be, that Walter was holding out.
“Prague is lovely,” Jack finally said, and Mia took a breath. “Parts of Africa, the Rift Valley, Johannesburg, they’re the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. The Taj Mahal takes your breath away.”
“I’ll bet,” Sandra said.
“But my favorite place…” Jack slowly turned to face Mia, who was suddenly very uncomfortable. “…is Santa Barbara.”
Mia felt the world fall away; the room was quiet and heavy with speculation and she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything but Jack’s chocolate-brown eyes and the olive branch he was holding out to her.
Lucy broke the silence in the room, yammering on about how much she loved the beach town. Mia stared, blatantly, hopelessly, at Jack.
Why was he doing this? she wondered. Jack had been so predictable before, and now suddenly she didn’t know this man in front of her. This man who seduced blatantly and subtly all at the same time.
“You feeling okay?” he asked, stroking her hand.
She snatched it away.
“Mia,” Sandra asked. “Do you still have that notebook?”
Her heart sank.
“Mom—” Lucy said, shaking her head. But Mom was choosing to ignore Lucy’s not-so-subtle warning, and Mia pushed back in her chair, ready to end this night before it fell apart around her.
“Do you still have it?” Sandra asked. “I bet Jack—”
“I’m going to bed,” Mia said, getting to her feet. Her back ached from sitting upright so long and her head pounded with the survival instinct to avoid embarrassment.
“What notebook?” Jack asked, catching her hand. The calluses on his palm, at the base of his fingers, caught at her skin and she felt the abrasion deep in her core. Her heart.
“She kept a notebook of all the places you went,” Sandra said. “All through college and your internships and research trips. She had—”
“I threw it away,” she lied, pulling her hand back. He didn’t need any more proof of her childhood crush, her hero worship gone awry.
She’d told him how she felt, as honest as she could be; she’d laid out her heart and he’d offered an experiment in exchange.
“Good night,” she said. She couldn’t leave the room fast enough, unable to take a breath until she hit the dark shadows and quiet of the hallway. Damn it. Damn. It.
But she should have known this new incarnation of Jack wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Wouldn’t read the signs she was hanging up in neon that she just wanted to be left the hell alone.
No, the new Jack McKibbon would follow. And he did. He caught up with her past the foyer by the bedrooms, around the corner from the kitchen.
“Mia?”
“Leave me alone, Jack,” she said, crossing the hallway as fast as her wrenched ankle and pounding head would let her.
“I don’t think you really want me to,” he said, right behind her, so close she smelled the tamales and tequila on his breath.
She paused, something dark and angry beating at her lips, screaming to get out. But she refrained and kept walking.
Jack’s hand touched her elbow and she spun around, smacking at his arm. But still he crowded close, pushing her back until she was up against the wall and he stood in front of her, so close that with every breath she took her chest rubbed against him. Her nipples were hard and painful at the contact.
“Tell me about the notebook, Mia,” he breathed, his eyes searching her face.
“It was nothing. Childish.”
“Tell me anyway.” He stepped closer again, putting one hand against the wall by her ear and she put both hands against his chest and shoved.
“Stop crowding me,” she snapped.
“Stop running,” he said and put his hand right back on the wall. Oh, the contact was killing her. Her body roared to life, a wild rush pulsing through her blood, over her skin and from one heartbeat to the next she wanted him. She wanted his taste. His touch.
“Mia,” he breathed as if he knew. As if he could smell her lust. Her weak-willed desire. He’d primed her for this, all through dinner with those long looks, the little touches, he’d been setting down kindling and now he was lighting the fire. “Tell me about the notebook.”
