One of These Nights (4 page)

Homicidally.

“What. Did. You. Just. Do?”

Z
oe stared at the big scruffy idiot on the couch and tried to decide whether the man was some sort of cosmic punishment for a whole lot of wrongs committed in a former life. If he was, then his continuing torment of her might make some kind of sense. If he wasn't, well . . . somebody up there had a very twisted sense of humor.

Even now, laid up with one leg in a clunky cast and wearing a pair of ragged old cargo shorts and a T-shirt that had seen better days, Jason was too appealing for his own good.
Nasty, miserable, inappropriately attractive dirt farmer.
He lifted his face from his hands to look at her, and it was hard not to feel sorry for him. Well, a little sorry. The rest of her was too busy being furious with him right now.

“I can explain,” he said, the low rumble of his voice rippling through her in ways that were just as inappropriate as the rest of him. His brown eyes were pleading, a new look for him. They were also flecked with gold when the light hit them, a fact Zoe had been determinedly ignoring ever since he'd first clomped into her gallery. Not that it was ever easy. And not that she ever really managed it anyway. His fault, obviously. Right now, she was happy to blame him for everything from his pretty eyes to the phases of the moon.

“Explain what?” she snapped. “Why you just told your mother I was your girlfriend? Good, because this is something I really have to hear.”

“I didn't say that.” Now he was getting defensive, and that was something she
was
used to. She stared at his guilty face—his annoying, ruggedly handsome, guilty face, with all its interesting angles and stubble and
Damn it, Zoe, focus
—and pressed her lips together, exhaling loudly.

“Jason,” she said, “I am standing right here. Don't you lie to my face.”

He screwed up his mouth and seemed to consider this, then winced as he shifted uncomfortably on the couch. His little dog jumped up beside him, panting happily as she settled herself against his side. Jason stroked her absently. Rosie, he'd called her. The fluffy little flat-faced dog, who'd done a happy dance while she'd petted her, was about the last kind of creature she would have expected to find Jason living with. Snakes, raccoons, maybe even a turtle, sure. Pampered lapdog, no. And Rosie was wearing a very sweet little pink collar. With rhinestones on it.

Zoe had no idea what to do with that, so she tried to stay focused on her anger. With Treebeard, that tended to be a good rule of thumb.

“Okay,” Jason finally said. “I heavily implied it. I know.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes. You do.”

“I was kind of desperate.”

“That's flattering.”

He growled, sounding more like a bear than a human. “That's not what I mean. Zoe, look. I need help.”

She kept her tone as cool and indifferent as she could. It was hard, since she'd never seen him looking this helpless or dejected before, and the way he was scratching Rosie behind her ears in a way she obviously loved was very sweet. Still, she managed.

“You do need help. All kinds of professional help.” Zoe looked around at what would be a really great space minus the clutter and out of pure pique added, “You also need a maid service. Because
damn
.”

His brow furrowed, and the familiarity of his glare was a weird sort of comfort. She knew where she stood if they were arguing. If they stopped doing that, then she might do something stupid, like be nice to him, and that would just lead to all kinds of trouble she didn't need. He was the furthest thing from her type possible, a leaf-covered hermit who probably thought that wearing a clean T-shirt was “dressing up.” She liked men who were refined. Men who were cultured.

Well, she also fantasized about big, sexy alpha males who came from other worlds and could knock down buildings and fly and fight evil, but since Jason hadn't exhibited any superpowers except the ability to irritate her beyond all reason . . . no. Just no.

“It's usually clean, for your information. You try housekeeping with a busted leg.”

“I wouldn't. I'd hire help.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Of course you would.”

“Yes, of course I would,” she shot back, letting him get to her. She always did, despite her best efforts. Something about him just got her going.
Everything
about him. “Because I have a brain in my head and don't have a problem asking for help when I need it. Unlike other people who apparently have rocks in their heads and think they should just—”

She forced herself to stop and took a deep breath. If they headed down this path, she'd end up storming out of here without ever discovering why Jason had decided to make her his imaginary girlfriend. Really, really imaginary.
So
imaginary. Zoe held her hands in front of her, palms out.

“All right,” she said slowly. “Let's just back it up. Forget about the clutter. What on earth possessed you to let your mother think you and I are together? And I mean, did I hear all that right? She'll be here in two days?” She searched his face for some clue as to what he'd been thinking, but he was as unreadable as ever. “What are you
doing
, Jason?”

He nodded slowly and seemed to be locking his own considerable temper away. His hand moved on Rosie's back, gentle, rhythmic, a sharp contrast to the venom that had been in his voice just a moment ago. When he locked eyes with her again, his had softened, full of a level of melancholy she wouldn't have thought him capable of.

“Okay,” he finally said. He lifted his free hand to push back the wavy brown hair that was even shaggier than usual. “You want the short version or the shorter version?”

“Whichever one makes more sense.”

There was a brief curve of his lips that had Zoe's breath catching, just for a beat. He wouldn't have noticed her pause . . . but she did, and she immediately wished she could kick her own butt to make it stop. If Sam ever found out just why she found Jason so frustrating, she'd never hear the end of it. Flustered, she schooled her features into polite interest and waited. Jason's flicker of humor vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“All right, the short version. My mother is coming. She figures that me with a broken leg is a great opportunity to try and fix my life for the billionth time, mostly because I can't escape. I can handle that for a week or so, but this time it's going to be more like a month unless I've met her threshold for having my shit together. She was really winding up about her plans to include my father and little brother in the festivities, you walked in, I had a dumb idea to try and save myself, and here we are.”

Zoe took a moment to process all that. It made a weird sort of sense. In a rude and unbelievably stupid way, yes, but she got it.

“What was the even shorter version?” she finally asked, curious.

This time his smile was more than a flicker, full of a boyish mischief that transformed his whole face for a brief instant. It was one of the first times she'd ever seen him look approachable. And maybe even . . .
fun
.

Dangerous stuff.

“Couple of grunts and a ‘Get out,'” Jason said. “Kind of like you sound every time I walk in the gallery.”

Her lips twitched with a smile she didn't want him to see. “I'm a lady. I don't grunt. And I don't tell you to get out when you remember to use that fancy doormat I bought just for you.”

“I use it. You just don't think I do it right.”

“Well, you
don't
.” They looked at each other for a moment, and Zoe couldn't stop the soft laughter from bubbling up. This was their little routine, she guessed. Funny how comfortable it was by now. A low rumbling reached her ears, and Zoe was startled to realize that Jason was laughing with her. It made her feel uncomfortably warm and sort of mushy and strangely sweet, so she blew out a breath and looked at the ceiling. “Well. This is a new one on me—I'll give you that. I don't even know what to say.”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It was a dumb idea. You don't have to say anything. I'll just . . . deal with it on Sunday. Forget about it.” Then he looked away and mumbled, “My family makes me crazy.”

That
was something she could understand, at least. And not something she would have expected to have in common with Treebeard the Annoyingly Hot Park Ranger. Much against her better judgment, Zoe found herself intrigued. And sympathetic.

With a resigned sigh, she set the plant on an end table, then settled herself into one of the big chairs facing the couch. If she left now, she'd just spend the rest of the evening sitting at the blues bar wondering what kind of family could push big, quiet, grumpy Jason into what was definitely an act of desperation. Since denying her own natural curiosity had never been her thing, Zoe crossed her legs, folded her hands in her lap, leaned forward, and tilted her head. If he hadn't tried to kick her out already, she knew, it wasn't going to happen at all.

“That's it?” she asked.

He didn't seem to know what to do with the fact that she was still there. “What's it? I explained. I had a moment, okay? I'm not going to grovel. You can chuck that pot at my head if you want, but I'm pretty quick for a cripple, so you probably won't get a lot of satisfaction out of it.”

“I may get to that later,” Zoe replied. “Right now, I'm more interested in knowing why, if you really need a way out of this visit, you didn't just
ask
for my help.”

His eyebrows lifted so high she thought they might hit his hairline. “I remember saying ‘I need help' and you telling me to go to the shrink, like, all of three or four minutes ago. Did I miss some kind of nuance in that?”

“Yes. For one, you didn't ask nicely,” Zoe said. It was hard not to laugh at Jason's expression, which probably would have frightened small children.

“Jesus. If we're going to have a talk about saying the magic word now, I'm hobbling out the door and staying there until you find someone else to give a lecture on manners to.”

“My mama was very big on manners,” Zoe replied, offering a small smile. It was horrible, the fun she had poking at him. Especially when he couldn't get away from her. But if it was a vice, she figured it was a harmless enough one to indulge in, especially since Jason seemed to have the same one. “You also neglected to offer me an incentive. You didn't even try bargaining with me.”

“You think this is hilarious, right? Of course you do. Your family probably thinks you walk on water. You probably had your own horse and played the violin and went to finishing school. A real southern belle, right?” His jaw tightened, and he looked as though he might like to kick her with that big cast of his. She didn't bother to correct him, but his impression of her upbringing startled her. So did the way he spat the words at her, as though a privileged background was something distasteful. Not that she would know. She'd been privileged . . . but not in the way he seemed to think.

“Yes, Jason. I drink mint juleps and have a fainting couch at home and everything. But I'm not the one dragging you into
my
business. Pretty sure I'm allowed to be curious.”

He heaved a ragged sigh. “Zoe, my family's just . . . my family. You wouldn't understand unless you had to live with them. I was just trying to get her to back off a little. I don't think you want to hang out with me for a week pretending you like me. It's not like we're friends.”

It was blunt, but he was right. “No,” she agreed. “I guess we're more like antagonistic acquaintances. But I did bring you a present.”

Jason turned his attention to the plant, which she'd repotted in a copper-colored, crackle-glazed pot she'd spent far too much time selecting at Mason's Garden Center on her way home from work. Another faint smile flickered across his face. “Yeah, I guess you did. What is that, oregano?”

“It's supposed to bring happiness,” she said, surprised he'd known. “I figured you could use some.”

His laugh was a low rumble that again put her in mind of a bear, though an amused one this time . . . if a bear could ever really be amused about anything.

“You got that right.” He toyed absently with Rosie's fur. The little dog's eyes were half-closed, and as Zoe watched her, she gave a soft sigh, yawned, and dropped her nose onto her paws.

“Well,
she
looks happy, at least,” Zoe said.

“She should. She got new digs, a vet who spoils her worse than I do, and my undivided attention. The value of that last thing is debatable, but I guess she likes it.”

“Mmm,” Zoe replied. Unable to resist, she added, “You pick out the collar?”

Jason looked at her balefully. “This is honestly a question?”

“Jake,” Zoe guessed, and Jason nodded.

“He and Sam are helping me out with her, and every damn time she comes home it's with something new and pink. Food dishes, collar, toys.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “When I'm getting around better, she's getting new stuff. Dog looks like she belongs to either a teenage girl or a sixty-year-old socialite.”

“I suppose you'll go for something leather? Studded?”

He snorted. “At this point, as long as it's not pink, pinklike, or in any way related to pink, I'm good.” He looked down at Rosie, who had fallen asleep. “She's a sweet girl. I'd been thinking of getting a dog again. Granted, I was thinking of something, ah, different, but sometimes they just find you. I'd have let her go to a family or something, but she got all attached, so . . .”

He didn't finish the sentence, but the tenderness in his look when he glanced down at his sleeping companion put the lie to what he'd said. Zoe watched him, still trying to reconcile the differences between the guy who clomped into her gallery regularly looking for an argument and the one snuggling a little girly dog on his couch right now. It messed with her ideas about him in ways she wasn't entirely comfortable with. This whole situation did.