Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1) Page 17

  Well, she’d saved him the eventual disappointment, hadn’t she?

  Rita couldn’t make anyone happy. Not Miriam, who had failed to impart her genius, despite Rita being the chosen one to follow in her footsteps. Not her siblings, who’d seen no reason to connect or communicate with her post-funeral. Not her staff, her customers, the judges or contestants on the reality show. No one. And it would be no different with Jasper, except she wouldn’t have her one-bedroom apartment to hide away in. She’d be in a strange place with unfamiliar people. No way out but failure.

  Rita stomped to a halt as a realization occurred like a blast of lightning. Somewhere in the further recesses of her mind, she must have considered the possibility of staying in Hurley. Otherwise, how could she deny the prospect now?

  Serving to torture her further, the sound of Jasper’s heavy breaths invaded her head, echoing and beautiful. The way he’d gathered her close, like a coveted relic. She’d seen a sliver of light, a tiny chance to correct her mistake before the betrayal took hold. I can fix this, she’d thought. What if I stayed, tried making Jasper happy? But that same sliver of light had allowed Jasper to see right through her first. When he’d told her to leave, she’d almost been proud of him. It was nothing short of what she’d deserved. He’d worked all morning to do something nice for her—she’d repaid the man by treating him like garbage.

  Rita looked up to see she’d grown even with the garage. Both corrugated metal doors were shut, no activity on the other side of the Plexiglas windows. In the middle of the day? She jumped with a yelp when Aaron came striding around the corner of the building, an ice pack pressed to his swollen jaw. “We’re being fucked with.”

  Okay, her head was way too wrecked for human interaction, but her usual perfect brother’s faulty speech definitely deserved a few minutes of time. “What do you mean?” She pressed two fingers to her forehead, rubbing in a circle. “Shouldn’t you be recovering from dental surgery?”

  His answer was offhand. “I slept for an hour.”

  “Probably snored the whole time.”

  He tore his narrow-eyed gaze off the closed garage. “Excuse me?”

  “You didn’t snore, as a kid, I don’t think. But you do now.” She yanked the rubber band off her wrist, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. “No one’s ever told you?”

  Maybe she should have taken a moment to watch Aaron closely before now. She’d always thought of him as a cold machine, but thoughts rippled and popped and smoothed under his surface, like a submarine traveling under still water. It was fascinating up close. Normally, looking directly at anyone—especially Aaron—this long would make her skin feel too thin, but she’d gone way past that point this afternoon, and her usual awkwardness receptors were in the shop, alongside the Suburban. “No, I’ve never been told,” her brother said, finally. “Women don’t usually stick around to spend the night, thank God.”

  “Yeah.” Wow. None of them were normal. “Yeah, thank God. I guess.”

  Aaron paced away and came back. “All right, what’s with the wounded-puppy act you’ve got going on?” He adjusted the ice pack. “It’s sadder than usual.”

  “Oh yeah?” She kicked a rock at his shoe, a little surprised by her display of athleticism. “Well…you’re being more of a punk-ass than usual.”

  Her brother surprised her by cracking a small smile, but a wince followed right on its heels. “Something to do with Jasper, isn’t it?” His attention shifted to the garage. “Jesus. I don’t even want to know.”

  Of course, that anti-permission—and the ingrained sisterly instinct to annoy her brother at all costs—sent the whole damn story tumbling from Rita’s mouth. “Well I’m going to tell you, anyway,” she heaved out. “He’s fucking…wonderful. And I ruined it by having sex with him.”

  “You must be doing it wrong,” Aaron droned, not bothering to look at her.

  “I’m doing everything wrong,” she shouted. “Everything.”

  When Aaron removed the ice pack from his jaw and threw it up against the building, Rita gaped. “What did you expect to happen, Rita? Maybe you’d settle down in this population-twenty dust bowl and have little flannel-wearing babies?” His laughter was low. “If that’s what you want, I feel sorry for you.”

  “Don’t,” she croaked.

  It was a visible thing, Aaron shifting his cool veneer back into position. He picked up the ice pack, wiped it on his sleeve, and shoved it back up against his jaw. “Figure out what you want and find a way to achieve it. No one can do it for you. Crying doesn’t help, and it’s making that black shit on your eyes run.”

  Oh, man. She hated Aaron in that moment for telling her the truth, being so unnecessarily harsh, even if it was exactly what she wanted—needed—after the scene she’d just fled. “I want a new start.”

  Aaron nodded, a hint of understanding dawning in his expression, before he reared back, kicking the garage door, rattling it on its hinges. “Welcome to the club.”

  * * *

  Rita lay on her side, facing the wall of her motel room. Behind her, Sage and Peggy were sprawled out with vending-machine snacks, watching the episode of The Golden Girls where Rose loses her memory. The scratchy comforter was saturated beneath her wet cheek, but she couldn’t move to go get a towel, or even adjust herself a few inches to get away from the damp spot.

  “I am worse than pond scum,” Rita said out loud, startling herself. Behind her The Golden Girls cut off, but she could still see shadows flashing on the wall, telling her the sound had been muted.

  “What was that?” Peggy called. “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of this show still being relevant.”

  There was the unmistakable sound of Peggy and Sage exchanging a high five. Fresh tears welled in Rita’s eyes, so she rolled over and stared at the ceiling, willing them to abate. Why couldn’t she have chosen a confidante like Sage instead of Aaron? Their angst-fest outside the garage had only plagued her with more questions. She’d told him a fresh start was what she wanted. Meant it, too. Only when she’d attempted to picture herself attending classes in New York, the clear picture she’d left San Diego with had turned murky and undefined. Like a smeared Polaroid. “You’re going to run out of Golden Girls seasons before we get halfway across the country.”

  In Rita’s periphery, Sage adjusted her glasses. “We’ve discussed that. And we’re planning on moving straight into The Facts of Life without breaking.”

  Peggy scooted to the end of her bed. “Rita, are you crying?”

  “No.” Just having her condition addressed out loud was unbearable. It made the situation real. She was crying over losing a man. “Maybe.” The rings around Peggy’s neck clanked against one another, but it took her a moment to speak, as if she were figuring out a way to address Rita without having her head bitten off. Lord, she’d been a crappy sister on top of everything else, hadn’t she?

  Finally Peggy spoke up. “I can give you advice as one of the Golden Girls. Your pick. Do you want Blanche, Rose, Dorothy, or Sophia?”

  “Why can’t you talk to me as yourself?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  Rita covered her face with both hands. “I’ll go with Blanche.”

  Peggy cleared her throat, laughing when Sage started filming with her phone. “Rita Clarkson, there will be time to weep…but not when there’s still time to take it deep.” Her nod was very wise and an almost perfect impression of Blanche. “Get over to that bar and give him a lasting memory. And make sure to set up the camera on your good side.”

  “I’ve already given him a lasting memory—it was just a shitty one,” Rita said at the ceiling. “Nice Blanche, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  A knock on the door had all three women sitting up on the beds. When no one moved to answer, Sage rose and glided across the room, checking through the peephole. “It’s Aaron.” She pulled open the door to reveal Rita’s younger brother, half of his mouth still swollen but minus the ice pack.

 
“Before you ask, it feels like shit,” he grumbled, stomping into the room and dropping unceremoniously onto the dresser. He and Rita exchanged an assessing look, as if to determine where they stood after their earlier conversation, but they broke eye contact without delay. “Just stopped by the garage. They’re working on the Suburban now, so we’ll be out of here in the morning.”

  Rita’s stomach filled with jagged ice. “Oh. That’s…great news.”

  Aaron gave her a dry look, putting them back on familiar ground. “Yeah, well. Don’t go jumping for joy.”

  Normally, Rita would ask Aaron if he wanted another tooth knocked out, but the reality of leaving Hurley in a matter of hours froze the threat somewhere in her rib cage. Not only leaving; leaving while Jasper probably hated her. Maybe even hating himself for giving in to her that afternoon.

  Rita experienced a sudden burst of restlessness. If she remained in a prone position until they left town, she would just replay the morning over and over again until—what? The outcome changed? That was the actual definition of insanity. She shot up and began to pace. “I need to get out of here. Is there somewhere we can go? Like a movie theater?”

  “Or a museum?” Sage interjected. A suggestion that was greeted by an extended silence from the Clarkson siblings. The wedding planner promptly went back to cleaning her glasses with the hem of her dress.

  “For once, I’m with Rita.” Aaron said, testing his swollen cheek with careful fingers. “This motel is starting to feel like a padded cell.”

  “Ooh!” Peggy dove off the bed and lunged for her purse, which was hanging on the back of the room’s single chair. “Nate gave me a brochure for this nightly drive out into the desert. You make a bonfire and the guide tells ghost stories. …”

  Sage held up a finger. “Actually, that’s not exactly the way Nate described it—”

  “Who is Nate?” Rita asked.

  “The bartender at the Liquor Hole,” her brother answered, his tone dripping with impatience. “Nothing to do in this town except get shit-faced, so we’ve become well acquainted.”

  “Yeah, well it worked,” Rita shot back. “Your face does look like shit.”

  “Guys.” Peggy stepped in between them, waving the brochure back and forth. “I say we do it. Nothing could be as bad as sitting around bickering.”

  Another knock at the door. Stupidly, Rita’s heart went bonkers, thinking Jasper might be standing on the other side. She must have betrayed her feelings somehow, because the room’s three other occupants watched her with interest. “It’s probably Bel,” she said, taking the few steps toward the door. After a cursory peek through the hole, Rita’s heart sank, but she managed to school her features in time to let Belmont into the room. “Hey.”

  Belmont gave her a brisk nod as he stepped into the cool darkness. His gaze immediately zeroed in on Sage, who tugged the hem of her dress down under his regard, cheeks flaming. “Food?” Belmont asked.

  Rita noticed that the brothers refused to look at one another, but, surprisingly, Aaron answered. “I could eat.”

  Peggy turned in a circle, holding up the desert-excursion brochure like it was Simba from The Lion King. “Hot dogs and s’mores are included in the price. Come on, you guys. Adventure awaits.”

  With a sigh, Aaron plucked the brochure from his sister’s hands. “It leaves from the church parking lot in thirty minutes.” He laughed under his breath. “No idea where the church is, though. Only the bar.”

  “It’s not far,” Sage murmured. “You can see the steeple from the parking lot.”

  “A bonfire.” Crossing his arms, Belmont frowned at Sage. “Is this something you want to do?”

  Sage glanced at a frantically nodding Peggy and smiled. “Yes.”

  “I guess that settles that.” Aaron hopped off the dresser, throwing Rita a measuring glance. “Let’s go start a fire.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jasper hadn’t been on a bender in two years, but he sorely needed to break that streak. He hadn’t moved from his office chair after collapsing into it sometime after Rita had left. No. Not left. After she’d been kicked out. By him.

  Outside in the bar, bottles of whiskey and beer clinked together, probably Nate filling the ice bins, marrying new liquor with old in preparation for the Friday night crowd. It would have been so easy to tuck one of those bottles—preferably one containing gold liquid—into his waistband and spend the night forgetting what had happened with Rita, but it would be the coward’s way out.

  So he would sit there and remember every brutally perfect second. Let the touch and feel of Rita drill into his gut, over and over. Or, worse, the way she’d recoiled when he’d blown up. What had she expected? For him to beg and plead for her to stay, like some weak-willed asshole? Much as he’d wanted to, he’d refrained. And wasn’t it ironic that the strength of will that had been cemented on the mesa this morning was the very thing that had forced him to send Rita away this afternoon?

  Yeah. He reckoned it was. He just couldn’t break through the dread of never seeing Rita again to figure out what it meant. Or if she’d imbued him with enough confidence to break it off, maybe he just didn’t want to know, because it was too big a kick in the teeth.

  Jasper dragged both hands down his face, then gave up the battle to keep from staring at the desk. Seeing Rita as she’d been, body tightening as he slipped a hand around her neck. Trusting. So trusting of a man she’d been in the process of gutting. Or had it all just spun out of their control? He’d spent enough time with Rita to know spitefulness was out of character, so he must have underestimated the loop she’d been thrown for with the cooking demonstration.

  The man Jasper had been when Rita arrived in town—the man who’d only been hoping to prove something to himself by spending actual, quality time with a woman—his knee-jerk reaction was to chalk up what happened with Rita as a failure. Proof that he was a good time, nothing more, nothing less. But something must have changed along the line, because new Jasper beat back that belief with a flaming baseball bat of fury. Fuck that. He wasn’t the town’s entertainment anymore. Rita hadn’t broken him this afternoon…

  …and had she really wanted to? Would she have stayed if he hadn’t told her to get lost?

  Pain lanced his stomach, doubling him over. No. No, he couldn’t do this to himself. Agonizing over a woman whose actions had been so clear earlier. Over. She’d wanted it over, whether his gesture had been all kinds of wrong, or she simply needed to move forward in a different place, far from Hurley, and hadn’t known another way to cut ties.

  Jasper pushed up from his desk, restlessness alive in his blood, wishing for the hundredth time he’d just slammed the door this afternoon and had it out with Rita. Hell, a good old-fashioned argument might have been exactly what they’d needed.

  Go on. You got what you had coming. Get out.

  Going to find her was a bad idea. Bad. Hell, watching her leave with his temper at full volume had been murder, but a calm, collected Catch-you-on-the-flip-side would be so much worse. If he could just see her, though—

  You should Google me sometime.

  “Laptop. Laptop,” Jasper muttered, turning in a circle, trying to remember where he’d stowed the damn piece of technology. He used a paper and pen for record keeping. Always had. His home computer seldom got a workout, too, but the office one had barely been used since he’d taken it out of the box. Please let it be charged.

  Jasper pushed aside a stack of paper on the small file cabinet, finding the flat, silver laptop smirking up at him, still attached to the charging wire.

  “Save it. I’m not in the mood.” He snatched up the device, opening it on his desk and powering it on. Energy fizzled in his fingertips, knowing he might see Rita soon. Even a digital version of her would be welcome. Anything to replace the shock of being kicked out of his office, her mouth still wet from his kiss. Please. I’m dying.

  He had Google open in seconds, Rita’s name typed in lickety-split. First thing to
pop up was a video titled “Rita Clarkson Knife Attack” and ho-lee damn, a lot of people had watched the sucker. His eyebrows lifted as he read the description, mainly because a person usually mentioned when he or she had been on television, but apparently Rita had decided to leave out that vital information, although the title gave him a notion as to why. The idea of so many people putting eyes on Rita made the back of Jasper’s neck itch, so his finger hovered over the touch pad a mere breath before punching play on the hit-heavy video brought up by the search engine.

  He melted back in his chair when Rita appeared on the screen in a white chef jacket, staring down at an oven with tentative hope in her eyes, while someone screamed in the background—Two minutes!—people rushing past in the background, complete chaos all around. A boom mic dipped into the frame, just a touch, but close enough to Rita’s face to startle her out of the trance she seemed to be stuck in.

  Jasper tugged the laptop closer, as if he could climb inside and calm Rita down. Quiet, stretching-on-the-rug-during-a-rainstorm Rita, caught up in tsunami. What had she been thinking, signing on for this torture? Cooking was a skill Rita had been blessed with, whether she recognized it or not. But this? It was designed to be the furthest thing from the woman he knew. She needed to breathe, and they weren’t letting her. She had no room to think or—

  One minute! someone shrieked.

  Jasper leaned forward in the chair. Rita’s hands were shaking as she opened the oven and took out—a soufflé. A perfect one. Any layman would be able to see that. Had she won this round of the contest? Lord, she was so pretty, hair pulled back, lips lifting in a small display of pleasure, maybe even surprise—

  Someone in a white chef jacket hip bumped her oven.

  Jasper leaped to his feet, fist slamming on the desk. “Oh, fuck that. No way.”

  His heart ached as Rita’s shoulders sagged, along with the dish, and he just wanted to shout the whole bar down. Slam the laptop shut. But the video wasn’t over yet, so Jasper forced himself to watch as Rita calmly set down the soufflé pan, picked up a kitchen knife, turned, and breezed toward her fellow—bastard—contestant. He expected to see anger or disbelief on Rita’s face, but he didn’t.