Chapter Nine
When Jamie walked into The Panting Dog the next day, she was feeling pretty good. Their deal had been working out quite well, and the last few nights had been fantastic. He made her body sing, and last night, she’d been able to do something for him. She’d enjoyed giving without taking anything back for herself. He seemed to need it, and she was glad she was the one woman who would give it to him.
Becker was behind the bar, finishing up a phone call. Likely to a supplier, since he was discussing shipments and orders. She nodded a quick hello as she headed to her regular post, dropping her purse next to the iPad where she kept track of the wine sales.
She spotted a thick envelope taped to her iPad. Her name was on it, written in blocky letters. A man’s handwriting, for sure, but what intrigued her was the simple sketch of a dog’s paw next to her name. She slid a finger under the flap and opened the envelope.
Come to me in my dreams.
Her heart threatened to melt. It was a line from a Matthew Arnold poem, one she adored. Then, words from Smith.
These nights have been amazing. To “Another Time” very soon.
Okay, now a flock of butterflies swarmed her insides, turning her to mush. Damn him, with his double whammy of sweet words from a poet and sweet words from his own pen. Triple points for the dog paw since he knew she loved dogs. The grinding of a drill echoed through the bar, and, oddly enough, it thrilled her. Smith was here and she would be able to see him.
Wait. She wasn’t supposed to want to see him for more than sex, so why was she so dang excited for the possibility of a few minutes with him? She didn’t have time to contemplate, though, because Becker hung up and said a quick hello. He sounded frustrated.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
He scrubbed his hand across his jaw. “Just want this construction to be over soon and get things back to regular around here.”
“It has been a while, hasn’t it?”
“It’s taking longer than I thought,” he said, reaching for a glass and filling it with water from the sink as the drilling ended, replaced by hammering.
Jamie winced; the sound of the hammer seemed to reverberate in her skull. She could feel a headache start to take root from the noise. “It is getting a little annoying.”
“I know. What I would give for some silence in this place when the customers aren’t here,” Becker said, shaking his head and looking like a man longing for solitude. Odd that he’d chosen to run a bar when he seemed to crave quiet rather than crowds. But she wasn’t going to play amateur shrink. Instead, she honed in on how she could help him with the matter at hand, because she wanted to keep proving her value as his manager. An idea started to form. She flashed back to something Diane said a few days ago about adding some new hires at the winery, and how they’d worked out well.
“Well, let’s just move the project along then,” she said to Becker, a cheery tone to her voice.
“How so?”
“Smith needs to hire some help and I know how he can do it,” Jamie said, and marched to the unfinished section.
Smith’s back was to her and he had on headphones, singing along to some country song as he hammered nails into the wood.
He could carry a tune, and she added that to his list of positive traits. Good voice, head full of poetry, sinful body. And his heart in the right place, from his volunteer work to the sweet way he’d looked out for her when Diane had showed up crying the other day—quickly giving her the space she needed to talk to her sister. She stopped in her tracks momentarily, letting her mind wander. She could imagine herself in his house, him maybe working on some fix-it project, her tiptoeing over after breakfast and softly running her fingers along his skin. He’d turn around, plant a devastating kiss on her mouth, then carry her up the stairs two by two to the bedroom.
Pin her down, hold her close, make love to her.
Oh, crap.
She could not start thinking of him that way. It was sex, only sex. They weren’t making love, and certainly not in some imaginary house in her fantasies.
Because if it didn’t work out—and of course it wouldn’t work out—he’d eventually end it because they wanted different things—then she’d be saying sayonara to a friendship she didn’t want to give up.
He hammered once more, and the sound crashed into her head, sending off a new pang. She pressed her hand to her forehead as Smith turned around. “You okay? You got one of those nasty migraines again?”
“Yeah,” she said in a strained voice because it was coming on fast.
He reached for her shoulders, turning her around. He said nothing. Instead, he let his hands do the talking, his fingers kneading gently into her neck, then the dip of her shoulders. She sighed deeply and leaned into his touch. He lifted her hair so he could press his thumbs against the base of her scalp. The whole time, she moaned, but not the way she had in his truck or the storage room or his bedroom. The sounds came from relief, from the fact that he was taking away the pain, bringing her body back to the way it should be.
“You have magic hands,” she said softly, as the tension poured out of her, replaced only by the soft, noodly feeling of a massage well done.
“You feeling better?”
She nodded into his hands.
“Don’t stop, please.”
“Never,” he whispered, and she wasn’t sure if he was even talking about the massage anymore. But she knew this much—she didn’t want this thing between them to stop. Any of it. She inched her whole body closer as he moved on to her shoulders, rubbing her tight muscles between his fingers. Her back was nearly pressed against his chest, and she could feel his erection against her backside. She wriggled playfully against him once.
“You like that, too?” he asked.
“I like all the things you do,” she whispered. “That’s the problem.”
“But it’s not a problem. It doesn’t have to be a problem if you just give me a chance,” he said, and that idea was starting to grow on her. She didn’t know how to admit it, though, so she stayed silent for now, as he kept up the work on her neck and shoulders, then moved his hands into her hair.
“I don’t have a headache anymore.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
“You have no idea how much I needed this,” she said, and it sounded as if her voice might break. “I’ve been dealing with these stupid tension headaches forever and nothing has made them go away like you.” She snapped her fingers to demonstrate, then turned around to face him. “Thank you. Where did you learn how to do that?”
“I went to masseuse school. Didn’t you know?”
She grinned, then swatted his chest playfully. “Seriously. I know you studied business in college. But you’re like a magic cure. How do you do that?” she asked, then cursed herself for opening this can of worms. He probably learned how to give massages from a woman.
“Look, I could give you some line about how I’ve always been good with my hands, and it’s true. But I’m pretty sure that the talent you just saw came from the fact that I put myself through college making pizzas.”
She cracked up—of all the reasons to be good at massage, she’d never have picked that one. “Are you serious? You never told me that before.”
“I was a pizza boy. I got a job at this local pizza joint near school, and I worked my ass off five nights a week making pies. Yep, I can knead dough like nobody’s business.”
“You are a hard worker. I’m impressed too that you put yourself through college.”
“Paid every cent myself. I’ve just always believed you have to work for what you want in life.”
“I believe that, too. My parents offered to help me with a down payment on my first house, but I wanted to do it myself. So as I was tending bar, then managing bars, I saved the money to get myself a little house. It’s small, but it’s mine, and I love it. And speaking of working hard,” she said, shifting gears to a more serious note. “I have an idea for you.”
“Okay, what is it?”
“Now I know you don’t like to ask for help,” she said, doing her best to be gentle but firm. “But I want to help you with your business.”
He gave her a strange look as if she were speaking a foreign language. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you need to expand. You’ve hinted at that before. But you won’t hire anyone because you got burned when that guy you worked with stole from one of your clients, right?”
“Right,” he said, taking a step back, and she knew she was touching a nerve. Smith was very much man against the world, a true do-it-yourselfer.
“My sister runs my parents’ winery and she just hired a bunch of new part-timers to help out. Day laborers. She said they’re great and working out well. And I would really like to connect you with her and see if maybe you can hire some of them too.”
“Yeah, but how do I know it’ll all work out?” he asked, his voice wary.
“You don’t, but she’s good at her job and it seems to be going well so far.”
His features softened. “I guess I can talk to her. I know Becker wants me to get moving on this. But you sure she only uses trustworthy guys?”
“Of course. Diane is very thorough about vetting them.”
“All right. I’ll talk to her and see if I can throw some work their way too,” he said, then ran his hand gently along her arm. “Thank you for wanting to help. It means a lot to me.”
He was starting to mean a lot to her, and that was scary. True feelings were more than she’d bargained for when she masterminded this week-long affair. That’s why she had to stick to her guns, and be over and out after their one date. She’d miss him too much—their friendship and their fun—if they turned serious and then fell to pieces, as they surely would.
At the very least, though, she’d let herself fully enjoy their last night together. The week had neared its end, and she’d promised him one real date. They’d go out with a bang.