Gena Showalter - Can't Let Go

Irritation pricked at him. Be like a bar owner? A person who served alcohol to potential motorists? Never.

He would go on as always, pretending to live, breaking down, then pretending to live again.

I’ll never give up.

CHAPTER THREE

MENTAL NOTE: NEVER tease Jude Laurent.

After Ryanne’s “I think I would have enjoyed soothing you” crack, he’d stormed away as if his feet were on fire, his expression a mix of horror and dismay.

Okay. Revise: sometimes tease Jude Laurent.

Despite her former ban on romance, flirting had always come easily for her. Bottom line, she’d inherited her mother’s gift, though not to the same degree. Selma could pop the top off a man’s biscuits with only a wink and a smile. Ryanne had to work at it, maybe because the guys knew they wouldn’t get anywhere with her. But, with a little time and a lot of banter, she could charm the uncharmable. A necessary skill in her line of work. People tended to treat bartenders like therapists, and Ryanne wanted everyone who left the Scratching Post to feel good, or at least better than when they’d entered.

Not my biggest fan? Get ready, precioso. You will be.

The guy clearly had a stick up his patootie and yet, for one too-brief moment, he’d looked at Ryanne as if he wanted to devour her. And she’d liked it. A lot.

She wanted him to look at her with hunger again and again.

Jude was the one, she decided. The man who would break her amorous fast. Despite his surly attitude, he was the only guy her body craved. The only male her mind trusted. He might dislike her—presently—but he was still determined to save the people and things she cared about.

How sexy was that?

In order to win him over, she suspected she would have to teach him how to relax and have fun. In order to teach him how to relax and have fun, however, she would have to learn more about him.

Quickest way to gain info: covertly question Daniel and Brock. The perfect plan—until they finished their drinks and took off without saying goodbye. Disappointment delivered a swift one-two punch to her determination. Then she rallied. Jude would return tomorrow morning, and she would get her info straight from the source.

Then she could begin his training—uh, teaching him to relax.

After the bar had emptied for the night, the staff cleaned up and Ryanne fed the homeless. That done, she locked the back door, then the front...and thought she spied Jude in the parking lot, sans his truck.

Had he returned? When she blinked, he was gone.

I’m exhausted, that’s all. She checked the windows, making sure they were locked as well, and trudged upstairs. How much would Jude charge for his services? How much of her precious savings would she lose? Enough to turn a first class trip into economy? She shuddered. To live her childhood aspirations properly, she required luxury.

She also required surviving Mr. Dushku, so, there was that.

What measures would Jude the Ice Man take against the mob boss? For that matter, what kind of trouble would her new neighbors attempt to cause?

Would Jude use legal means or push boundaries? He struck her as the boundary-pushing type.

With a dreamy sigh—I’m turned on by outlaws?—she stripped to her underwear, set her alarm and crawled into bed. To her dismay, sleep proved impossible, her mind continually flashing on images of the prostitute. The fear on the girl’s face when those van doors had swung open...

Fear of arrest or fear of her guards?

Either way, Ryanne pitied her. And sympathized. As a kid, she’d often found herself under the iron rule of whichever man Selma happened to “love” at the time. Some had been kind, others cruel...like Harold Scott, Lyndie’s dad. Mr. Hit-and-Blame.

The mental and physical abuse he inflicted on poor Lyndie had continued long after Selma divorced him. When Lyndie turned eighteen, she moved out, finally free. Only, she’d started dating Chief Carrington soon after.

He’d been a regular at the Scratching Post, and she’d heard Ryanne complain about the monster lurking beneath his good ole boy veneer more than once. Even still, Lyndie accepted his marriage proposal without hesitation, as if she felt she deserved to be slapped around.

A high-pitched buzz sounded from Ryanne’s phone, and she groaned. Her alarm. It was already time to get up?

Hey, why was she complaining? Soon she would have to—get to—face Jude.

Well, well. Her nerve endings awoke in a hurry, tingling with anticipation. She stretched and grinned, her heart leaping, her blood heating. For so long, her body had felt frozen, hormones nonexistent. Now the ice was gone, fire in its place, desire as much a part of her as her lungs. She breathed, and she wanted...burned. It was ecstasy, and it was agony.

Her grin faded as she felt the full weight of her inexperience. Oh, she’d made out with the boys she’d dated before her ban on romance, but in her brief attempt at being a femme fatale, she’d never, well, gone all the way.

Yep, good ole Ryanne Wade was still a virgin.

She wasn’t embarrassed about it, but she was nervous. Years had passed since her last date, and times had changed. Vanilla was no longer the norm; guys expected varying shades of gray.

What did Jude like? What kind of women did he prefer?

How could she break through his icy reserve?

On some level, he reminded her of Earl. Strong, competent and concerned about her well-being. And he was nothing like the playboys who frequented the bar. He never hit on women. Heck, he barely even seemed to notice them. Difference was, Jude had only ever insulted Ryanne while Earl had only ever supported her. But then, Earl had loved her unconditionally, valued her and built her up, never tearing her down. He’d taught her that family didn’t have to be flesh and blood, or have legal ties.

Rubbing her burning eyes, she stood. Wobbly legs managed to get her into the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth, showered while sitting on a special bench she’d had made for times just like this, when she was too lazy—uh, tired, she meant tired—to stand. She applied lotion and dressed in a tank, a pair of faded jeans and flip-flops. She opted not to spend time drying her hair or applying makeup. Mornings sucked. No reason to dress up for one, even to attract a man.

If Jude didn’t like the look of her when she dressed-down, well, he wasn’t the one for her, after all. No matter how much she wanted him. Better to find out sooner rather than later.

After eating her favorite breakfast—Chips Ahoy! dipped in coffee—she tidied up her apartment, then slung a bag of trash over her shoulder. She made her way outside. Ugh. The sun! Too bright!

Eyes watering, she quickened her pace. As she turned to head back inside, a bottle rattled behind the Dumpster, and she paused, her brow furrowed. “Hello?”

As usual, the homeless were gone. Mornings and afternoons were often too hot here, despite the shade. Loner and friends would return in the evening, after the sun had set and the bar had opened.

Ryanne padded forward, searching...there! A morbidly obese cat was curled into a ball. He was black with white markings, his fur matted and dirty. Spotting her, he lumbered to his feet. Then he whimpered and sat back down, because “he” was actually a “she,” and very pregnant, her nipples distended.

Mierda! The little darling looked ready to pop.

“Something wrong?”

Though she’d detected no footsteps, the masculine voice came from directly behind Ryanne, and she yelped, her hand fluttering over her hammering heart. Jude.

She spun. When her gaze landed on him, her breath snagged in her throat. Okay, so, the sun wasn’t the enemy today but a welcome companion. Light illuminated him, painting him in shades of amber, gold and bronze. He looked like a fantasy come to startling life, a punk rock Prince Charming who’d stepped from the pages of an erotic fairy tale. His pale hair possessed a hint of wave this morning, and his jaw had the shadow of a beard.