One of These Nights (5 page)

“What kind of dog did you used to have?” she asked. Immediately his gaze flicked back to her, shuttered as though she'd just asked him something far more personal.

“Golden retriever,” he replied, then changed the subject back to the matter at hand. “Look, Zoe, if it makes you feel better, I'll buy something next time I'm in Two Roads, okay? Sorry for dragging you into my family crap. I'll tell Mom I was full of it. Or if you'd rather, I'll tell her you dumped me because I was a complete asshole. Your choice.”

“Gallery purchases. See? There's that incentive. You
are
teachable.” She considered him for a moment. “Is it really that bad to have your family come take care of you for a month while you're down?”

His laugh was short, sharp, and humorless. “The last time she was here, my mother put me on an online dating service without asking, had the television on from six in the morning until ten at night, hid my PlayStation because she said it was making me antisocial, and spent at least an hour every day trying to get me to buy insurance from my brother.”

Zoe blinked. “She did not.”

“Swear to God. Week from hell. It almost broke me.”

She studied his face closely for any sign that he was joking, but Jason looked deadly serious. It made her feel a lot better about her own parents, who drove her crazy only in garden-variety ways and whom she wished
would
visit her. The problem was, she was beginning to feel sorry for him. That wave of sympathy was making her question things. Maybe there were good reasons why he was quiet and surly. Maybe she'd seen only one small facet of the man. And there was the matter of that brief but unmistakable stutter when he was on the phone. . . .

Suddenly, he seemed less like the world's most irritating fantasy and more like a real person. It might—
might
—be worth checking into. After all, he was closely connected to people who were her friends. They liked him. Could be he was worth helping. Could also be that he just needed to be smacked upside the head with one of his crutches. Regardless, just like she'd told him, Jason seemed to need all kinds of help. And she needed . . . something. A change. A challenge. Maybe just something to take her mind off her own boring problems. Maybe this was it.

It's just like Mama and Daddy told me when I packed up to move here. I have lost my damn mind.

Zoe sighed. Her mental state notwithstanding, she'd come to a decision. “All right,” she said, and stood. She tried not to notice the way his eyes immediately skimmed down her body, or her own body's reaction to his attention. That had nothing to do with this, she told herself. And she almost believed it.

“All right what?” he asked.

“You agree to purchase an item of my choosing from the gallery—maybe another of Zeke's rockers for your porch, since I know he could use a sale—and I'll play along. There are going to be ground rules, and if things get too crazy I will fake dump you so fast your head will spin, but if a week of my time helps Zeke keep working and saves you from a new profile on scarysingles.com and insurance you don't need, I suppose I can spare it.”

Jason stared at her. “You're not serious.”

“You're welcome. I'll come back tomorrow and we can figure this out, but I have someplace I need to be, and frankly, I need a glass of wine.”

She started for the door and immediately heard a commotion behind her as Jason struggled to get up. “Zoe . . . hang on. Wait just a damn minu—” Something toppled over and hit the floor, followed by a barrage of cursing. Zoe hesitated, then turned around, walked back to the couch where Jason was now sitting with both feet on the floor, and stooped to hand him the crutches he'd managed to knock halfway under the coffee table. She almost offered to help him up, but the expression on his face made it easier to bite her tongue. Instead, she watched silently as he got up, then closed the small distance between them to tower over her the way he always did.

As usual, Zoe couldn't decide whether having all six foot four inches of him close enough to touch was a good idea or not. Because close enough to touch was close enough to smack . . . but it was also close enough to drag him down for a long, lingering—

Oh my God,
I really do need a drink.

Tea was her beverage of choice for most occasions, but that just wasn't going to cut it tonight. Especially not when she was going to have to try to explain to her friends why she was about to go to a lot of trouble covering for a man she complained to them about on a regular basis.

With barely a foot between them, his presence was overwhelming. She always kept a certain amount of distance between them at the gallery, aware that getting too close would shift the power balance between them in his favor just due to his sheer physical size. She'd been right. Zoe started to bristle, but the warmth radiating from him, not to mention the scent he wore, a faint hint of woods and musk, kept distracting her.

He looked a mess, she thought, balancing there on his crutches in his ratty clothes and frowning down at her. The man needed a keeper. No sane woman would want the job, Zoe thought, and she prided herself on being very sane. But oh, did she want her hands on him, sliding under that old T-shirt over bare skin. The lust muddled her thought processes. It was the only excuse she had for not being out the door already.

She swallowed hard and wished there was a way to back up without looking as though she was intimidated by him. Intimidated had nothing to do with it. Though she guessed that was what he was trying for.

“What the hell?” he asked.

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Don't be a smartass. What's this about? Is business that bad?”

She looked up at him, wondering if she'd give herself neck strain trying to maintain eye contact. “No, business is good. How did we go from ‘please help me' to ‘how dare you help me'? I can't keep up.” She squinted into his eyes. “What kind of drugs do they have you on, anyway?”

“I'm not on anything. I should be asking you that. How is this supposed to work?” he asked. “We just irritate each other. We have ever since you showed up in the Cove, what, three years ago?”

“You mean ever since you poked your nose into Two Roads right after it opened and kept coming back. Which was three years ago, yes. You might be local, Jason, but I'm still not sure more than two words would have passed between us at this point if you didn't arrive in my presence in a cloud of dust on a regular basis.” She frowned, asking the eternally puzzling question. “Why
do
you do that, anyway?”

His eyes shifted away, ever so briefly. “I like art.”

Zoe shrugged. Something about the explanation didn't ring true, but pressing him on it would get her nowhere. Besides, it wasn't really relevant. “Well, this was your bright idea. As for getting along, I can manage, at least. Jake likes you, so you've got to be worth something.”

“He's my cousin. He has to like me.”

“I have a lot of cousins, Jason, and no, he does not. Look . . . do you want my help or not?”

He stared at her, his look turning curiously searching. Zoe didn't know what he was looking for, but after a few seconds, she felt heat creeping into her cheeks. Maybe she should have run before she'd waded into this mess. Of course, if he'd changed his mind already, it was a moot point. And since she didn't like to be told “no” once she'd made a decision, Zoe found herself in the awkward position of wanting him to let her follow through.

“Yeah,” Jason finally said, and he looked so deflated that Zoe had a hard time feeling very triumphant about it. Not that there was likely to be a whole lot of win involved in lying to someone's mother in order to get her to go away. “Yeah, it's worth a shot. I can't have another visit like last time.” His brows drew together, and he looked genuinely concerned. “What are you going to make me buy?”

Zoe waved her hand, too relieved to even think about messing with him. “You'll have some wiggle room on that. For now, why don't we just consider this a bonus opportunity for some mutually aggravating entertainment outside of our regularly scheduled arguing and go from there, okay?”

He still looked as though he expected her to change her mind and make a run for it. “You sure about this? You might decide it's not worth the trouble. And I'm not talking about me. What I said about my family . . . I'm not exaggerating, Zoe.” He seemed serious, so she decided to answer in kind.

“They can't hold a candle to some of the customers I've dealt with. Look, we have friends, close friends, in common. It's probably about time we tried for friendly, too.”

She decided his answering grunt was as good as an agreement. He needed to stop looking at her this way—any way, in fact—for a while so she could get her head back on straight and really think about what she'd just gotten herself into. She had a feeling it wasn't going to look any saner after a couple of glasses of wine and a rehash with Sam, but hope sprang eternal. She took a step away, making sure it looked casual and not as skittish as she suddenly felt, and turned with what she hoped was confident grace.

At the very least, she didn't fall over, so that was something, because her legs weren't sure they wanted to work properly.

“Fine, then. I'll be by tomorrow around dinnertime so we can work out the details.”

“I don't have food.”

He was back to sounding like a disgruntled grizzly again, and Zoe was relieved. She looked back at him, one brow arched. “Of course you don't. You probably share Rosie's food. But I'll take care of it.”

“I don't need taking care of.”

She had to stifle a laugh, only because she thought he might actually come after her with the crutches if she let it out. The smile, though, was impossible to suppress completely. She very deliberately looked around the house, and the clutter that seemed to cling to every available surface, then looked him dead in the eye.

“Oh yes. I can see that. Still, I'll bring dinner. Have a nice night, Jason. You're welcome, by the way.”

She wondered, for a brief instant, whether he would tell her to forget it. If he was miserable enough about it, she decided, she would. But a final glance at him as she turned to shut the door behind her told her that as much as he'd protested, there was no way he was going to turn her help down.

Jason hulked over his crutches while his little dog hopped back up on the couch she'd been forced to vacate, shooting her benefactor an unmistakably dirty look for disturbing her. Zoe almost smiled, but she was struck all at once by just how alone the man looked. She felt a little twist in her chest—he might have the personality of a honey badger, but why would a man so physically appealing choose to be so solitary? The state of his house just reconfirmed what Zoe had always assumed about him. He liked to keep to himself. And since she knew he had people who cared about him, he was obviously as stubborn as hell about keeping them out.

But not her. Not this time.

It might just worry her when she got around to thinking straight again.

“Zoe?”

“Hmm?”

He stared at her for a long moment, and she could see a muscle in his jaw twitch. He seemed to be struggling with something but unable to get it out, until Zoe was ready to just dismiss it and leave. Before she could, though, he ground out four words that were like music to her ears.

“Thanks. I owe you.”

“I know,” she said with a smile, and shut the door.

“Y
ou're going to
what
?”

Zoe paused for a moment to appreciate the looks of pure amazement on the faces of her friends before lifting her glass the rest of the way to her lips. The Cabernet she'd ordered was like velvet on her tongue, the jammy currant flavor of the wine soothing even though she hadn't had enough to do anything about the knots in her shoulders. Yet. She suspected it might be one of those rare nights she'd need a ride home.

She set the glass back on the coaster primly, folded her hands in front of her, and tried to look as unconcerned as she wished she felt.

“I'm going to help Jason convince his mother to go home,” she said, hoping her voice didn't carry to any of the other tables. “He needs a girlfriend to do it, and I'm available, so . . . just play along and consider it free local theater.” The band was between sets, so she didn't have to shout, at least. Still, it looked like she might have to start shouting for the people now staring at her from around the table to believe her.

Shane Sullivan, a big, handsome redhead whose mouth was something of a local legend, was the first to react with something other than confusion. Unfortunately, that reaction was an evil grin worthy of an over-the-top B-grade horror movie, with an appropriately ominous chuckle to go with it.

“You have fun with that.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Zoe demanded. “You look like you'd be twirling your mustache if you had one.”

His friend Fitz, who'd been quietly nursing a beer beside him, was the one who answered. “He would be. He was the villain in every play our high school put on when we were there.”

Zoe blinked and stared at Shane, who'd stopped looking smug and started glaring at his friend. “You were into theater? I thought you were some big obnoxious jock.”

Shane's voice lowered to a growl. “I
was
.”

“He pretended he was just doing it for the girls,” Fitz replied, relaxing back in his chair. “Of course, no one knew that he went to see
Phantom of the Opera
twice with his mom in New York. And
Les Mis
when it was on tour . . .”

“Damn it, Fitz!”

Zoe laughed along with the rest of their small group as Shane hunched over his drink and turned a shade of red close to the color of his hair. It wasn't often she got to see the man taken down a peg, but Fitz, though relatively quiet, was usually the one to do it. She shook her head as Jake needled him a little more, looking around at the group crowded around one of the bar's bigger round tables. It was a motley crew—the infamous Henry sisters, Sam and Emma; Jake, the local vet; Shane, who was improbably a lawyer at his father's firm; Fitz . . . she still wasn't clear on what Fitz did for a living, though he seemed to have money to burn; and Seth, a cop who was an even more recent transplant than she was. One of these days they might stop surprising her, but she doubted it would be anytime soon.

So, Shane was a theater rat. . . . I'll just file that away to bother him with at my leisure.
Zoe smiled at him, and even in the dim light he seemed to pale. She was tempted to give an evil laugh of her own.

“Hilarious,” Shane said flatly, turning back to Fitz. “But we're not talking about me. We're talking about the infamous Molly Evans. You won't think it's so funny if she brings Tommy with her, like she usually does. You'll get almost as much of a two-for-one pain in the ass as Jason will.”

Fitz shrugged, his expression mild even though his dark eyes glittered with what looked to Zoe like slightly malicious humor. “That was forever ago. Like I told him last time he was here, some of us got over being sixteen.” He paused, then shot Zoe a smirk. “And some of us make a lot more money than the guy whose mommy made sure he took our spot as a starter on the soccer team.”

Zoe laughed softly. “That definitely helps heal old wounds.” She looked around at her friends. “You all are not giving me confidence in my decision.”

Jake shoved a hand through his hair, making it even more unruly than usual, and offered her a sympathetic smile. “Speaking as Jason's cousin, you're actually doing a really nice thing helping him out, Zoe. He was born into the wrong branch of the family. Mom always says that Aunt Molly must have been some kind of genetic fluke, and then she went and made a family that's just as, you know . . . fluky. Except Jason. He's pretty normal, really.”

Zoe huffed out a laugh and took a sip of wine. “I don't know if I'd go
that
far.”

“He's quiet,” Jake said with a shrug. “So?”

“He's grumpy,” Zoe shot back. “And difficult. And antisocial. And—”

“And that's a front, which you're going to understand pretty quickly if you go through with this. It hasn't been easy for him. Not his family, and not . . .” He trailed off cryptically, then shook his head. “Don't tell him I told you that, okay? He'd kick my ass.”

She rolled her eyes. “Evidence of true sweetness, right there.” Inwardly, though, she was intrigued by Jake's reaction. And she'd gotten yet another hint that there was much more to Jason than she'd seen in her three years in the Cove. Her intense interest in digging deeper on that was worrisome. It had gotten her in enough trouble already.

Jason's family sounded
special
. Of course, not all of her brothers were peaches, either, she supposed. Not like her . . . as she'd told them on many, many occasions.

Sam put a hand to Zoe's forehead, pulling her from her thoughts. “I just want to know what made you agree to this. Purposely spending time with Treebeard? Are you feeling okay?” she asked, and though her tone was playful, the puzzlement in her eyes was real enough. “This
is
Jason Evans we're talking about, right?”

Zoe swatted her hand away. “Yes, and don't pretend you're not secretly gloating. I took him a present. Your idea, remember? I walked in at just the wrong time, and he asked for my help. So I said yes.” “Asking” was maybe stretching it a little, but something stopped her from elaborating. Maybe it was that she'd stopped being mad that he'd boxed her in about two minutes after he'd done it. Or maybe she just felt wrong blaming him when he'd so quickly and sincerely offered her a way out. She'd been the one to insist.

It wasn't a decision she felt like explaining. She was already tired of the subject.

“Just like that?” Emma asked, her big blue eyes wide where she sat on Zoe's other side. “I guess I missed something. I thought all you two did was fight.” Sam's older sister had seen at least one of her and Jason's altercations in the gallery, Zoe knew. And unlike Sam, Emma had never teased about there being some kind of hot-and-heavy undercurrents there, taking Zoe's dislike at face value.

She'd been wrong, of course, but Zoe chalked that up to Emma dating about as much as she did, which was to say, barely ever. Well, until she'd met the man who currently had his arm across the back of Emma's chair, hand resting on her shoulder. Seth Andersen was a cop who'd moved here because of family and, according to him, fallen for Emma almost immediately. It had just taken the older Henry sister a while to notice, considering she was . . . well, Emma called it “focused.” And since Zoe was prone to some of that sort of focus herself, she was apt to defend it as a good quality when people tried to call it something else.

Regardless, Emma and Seth gave Zoe hope. If someone as tightly wound and relationship shy as Emma could find a man to share her life with, there had to be somebody around for her, too. Somewhere. Unless he'd been run over by a truck or something.

Or busted his leg out in the woods . . .

“Yes, just like that,” Zoe replied, knowing she sounded peevish. “I'm not coldhearted.” She glared morosely into her wine and took another sip. “He's friends with half the people at this table, unless I missed something. Maybe one of you could at least reassure me that this is going to be something other than painfully awkward? He does date, right? Sometimes? Maybe?”

Jake's eyes were a pretty green-hazel even in the dim light of the bar, and suddenly full of sympathy. “Well, ah . . . Jason is a good guy, but he was never a Casanova. We used to joke about the stuff he'd be more likely to do than ask somebody out. Chew glass. Staple his hand to a board.”

“Take a bungee jump in a loaded porta-john,” Fitz said.

“Wrestle a bear while wearing nothing but raw fish,” Shane chimed in.

Sam groaned and held up a hand. “Maybe stop there. That's enough visuals for me.”

“And me,” Zoe said. “I got the idea. He's bad with women. Thank you for making my misery complete, and pass those hush puppies in this direction before I bite you, Shane.”

“Now who's grumpy and difficult?” he asked, but he shoved the basket toward her.

She plucked one out and bit in, sighing a little over the warm, sweet, fried corn bread. It was as improbable a thing to find in Harvest Cove as a blues bar that looked like Steven Tyler's boudoir, but she was grateful to have both tonight.

“So, is this woman going to stab me on sight?” she finally asked.

“Oh no. That's not the way Molly operates. She's very, ah, enthusiastic,” Emma said.

“About
everything
,” Sam added. “And she's always working an angle. I've seen her be nice, but you can never take it at face value.”

“She's also really competitive,” Fitz said, his mouth tightening as he circled the rim of his glass with the tip of his finger. “
Really
competitive. But maybe you'll have it easier since you're not with the golden boy.”

“Tommy the insurance salesman?”

Fitz chuckled. “Yeah.”

“I didn't get the impression he and Jason were very close,” Zoe said.

Fitz shook his head. “Nope.”

“Tommy's a year younger than me. Jason's a year older,” Jake said.

“Tommy was in my class,” Sam said. “Actually, he was at my wedding. Drunk blond guy? Loud, bad dancer, kept hitting on Larkin?”

“Until he found out she was there with me,” Shane said, looking pleased with himself. “He's not a complete idiot.”

Zoe sifted through her memories of that day—it had been a good one, with nothing to spoil it, but she guessed there had been a few antics at the reception. Finally, it came to her. “The guy who took his shirt off during the Macarena?”

“One and the same,” Sam said. “He passed out at his table shortly thereafter and ceased to be a problem, thanks to the magic of having an open bar.”

“Wow,” Zoe said. “I would never have pegged him as Treebeard's brother.”

“A thing that would please both of them, I'm sure,” Jake said. “I told you, in that crew, Jason's the oddball. And he's fine with that.”

“No wonder.” She mulled the new information over. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. She was only getting the mother, and she had some experience with controlling, passive-aggressive women. In the past, she'd simply sliced and diced that type with her tongue. That wouldn't be an option here.

“I guess this explains why Jason is so charming,” she finally said. She tried to imagine what he might be doing right now, and immediately pictured him on his couch, Rosie at his side, watching TV. Maybe he'd have a beer on the coffee table, and some popcorn, or some chips and salsa. It was a surprisingly cozy image. Zoe had a fleeting moment of wishing herself a part of it before pushing the thought aside. Good friends, good food, good music . . . Everything she needed tonight was right here.

“So, how are you going to convince Molly you're crazy about her son?” Seth asked. “I know you two argue pretty regularly, but I don't think that's going to cut it.” He'd been sitting with his arm around Emma and listening with the quiet intensity Zoe had come to associate with him.
Leave it to the cop to ask the toughest question.
Her eyes darted to Emma for help, but she only nodded, silently seconding the question. She scrambled for an answer. It wasn't something she'd put a lot of thought into yet, but she didn't want to seem like she didn't have a plan.

“Well . . .”

“What kind of rules are you going to have,” Shane asked, waggling his eyebrows, “for, say, touching?”

“We didn't . . . what do you mean
rules
? Jason doesn't touch people.”

“You're not people. You're his girlfriend,” Shane replied.

“Fake girlfriend.”

“Not to his mom, you're not. Or to anybody around here not in on the plan, which is almost everybody. What are you planning to do, some kind of creepy platonic thing where you keep about five feet between you at all times? Nobody's going to buy that. People in new relationships are always gross.” His eyes went far off for a moment, and his small smile looked almost wistful. “You know. People yelling at you to get a room. That kind of gross.”

“If that's so appealing to you, then you go be his girlfriend,” Zoe said, hoping her voice was steadier than her nerves. She'd stopped herself from thinking about that particular subject several dozen times today, because what level of physical affection constituted a believable relationship? Should she hold his hand? Hard when he was on the crutches, but possible when he was sitting. Kiss him on the cheek? On the mouth? The possibilities were endless. Terrifying.

And really kind of tantalizing, if she was being honest. Which she refused to do about this, at least out loud.

Shane wrinkled his nose at her. “Uh, no, you can have him. He'd make a really ugly woman.”

Zoe tried to picture it. “You have a point.”

“I always have a point. I'd rather have another beer.” He waved down their waitress while the chatter at the table surrounded Zoe, enveloping her in friendly warmth as the band returned to the stage and launched into a soulful rendition of “The Sky Is Crying.” All the noise spared her further questions, allowing her to finally relax a little in her chair and try to enjoy the evening. At least, until Sam leaned over to speak softly in her ear.