Heather Cochran - The Return Of Jonah Gray

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To David and our new tax deduction

Thanks are due to everyone who lent support and guidance throughout this effort—my parents for their consistent support and interest; my first-draft readers and thoughtful critics, David Allen, Zoë Cochran and Todd Laugen; all those who assisted with my research, including folks at the IRS and Dr. Bob Laugen; my wonderful and challenging editors, Farrin Jacobs and Selina McLemore, and my steadfast agent, Katherine Faussett.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

I MIGHT HAVE BEEN MORE DISAPPOINTED HAD IT NOT been so predictable. Martina and I were at the Escape Room, the dive bar where we’d meet after work, maybe one day in five. Martina would have gone there five in five, but she’d always been drawn to dark places and men of a certain unwashed quality. Me, I found significance in the fact that the bar was equidistant from my work and my house. Not precisely equidistant—wouldn’t that have been a fantastic coincidence though?—but within a tenth of a mile, assuming my measurements were correct. Having been an accounting major, I was trained to interpret the world through double-entry ledgers, where a debit on one side balances a credit on the other. At the bottom of the columns, if you add and subtract correctly, the totals match up. So I took symmetry as an encouraging sign, whether in a financial statement or bar location.

I was sipping my beer and leafing through the book I’d brought with me when Martina rushed back from the bathroom and practically leaped onto the bar stool beside mine.

“Sasha, I want you to meet someone,” she said.

“Well, I want you to meet someone, too,” I told her. “I want us both to meet men who are generous and kind and delight in who we are. I swear, my mother wants me to settle for any guy who will have me. But I’m not going to settle. So I’m thirty-one. That’s not old. Who says that’s old?”

“My God, would you please stop talking,” Martina said. “Sometimes, I don’t get the way you’re wired. I meant, I want you to meet someone specific. His name is Kevin.”

“Oh,” I said. I looked around. I didn’t see whom she was referring to. “And Kevin is?”

“In the bathroom. I just met him in line. He was asking me about you. He’ll be out in just a minute.”

“He was asking about me? And you’re giving me a minute warning?” I asked. She knew I needed more time than that. “You know I need more time than that. You know I like to be prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” Martina asked. “The most we’re talking about is bar chatter.”

“Prepared for everything. What to ask. What I want to know. What I’ll say. What he’ll say back, then how I’ll respond to what he says back.”

“How are you not exhausted all the time? Just relax. Give the guy a chance. I promise you, he’s not the usual Escape Room fare.”

“So now there’s something wrong with the usual Escape Room fare?” I asked. “What, he’s some freak? Some anomaly?”

Martina shook her head. I followed her gaze to the man at the far end of the bar, the one whose cheek rested against a coaster, his hand upending a bowl of popcorn. Martina looked from him, back to me, smiling as if she’d won something. “How long do you figure it would take you to prep for him?” As she looked past me, her eyes went wide. “Okay, there he is. There’s Kevin,” she whispered, vacating her bar stool. “Make eye contact. Be nice. And what is that book? Principles of Accounting? Jeez, Sasha, it’s as if you were trying to make things harder for yourself.”

I looked up to see the Escape Room anomaly. The first thing I noticed was his smile. He had a nice one. More than that, he had the friendly face of a boy who might mow your lawn or hang a set of shelves for you. In short, the kind of guy who showed up at a dive like the Escape Room maybe one day in a hundred, and usually by mistake. He was a statistical outlier, and a cute one at that.

He looked at me. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I said back.

He pointed to the stool that Martina had just left. “Mind if I sit?” He held his hand out. “Kevin Carson.”

I shook his hand. “Sasha Gardner.”

“Does that mean that you garden?”

“No, I’m afraid it doesn’t.”

He smiled. “I always thought Sasha was a boy’s name.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. Most people I met didn’t understand my name’s origin. “In the States it’s either,” I informed him. “But you’re also right, since it’s the diminutive of Alexander in most of the former Soviet bloc. Russia, Belarus, Latvia, Moldova. Almost all the Sashas there are male.”

“Moldova?” Kevin repeated.

I wondered if I had mumbled. Maybe it was just loud in the bar. “Moldova,” I said, louder and hopefully more clearly. “You know, in there between Romania and the Ukraine. The capital is Chisinau?”

“Chisinau?” he asked, stumbling over the pronunciation. “That’s a city or something?”

“Well, some people call it Kishinev, but you’ve got to figure that’s just a dialect difference. Besides, I’m not one for splitting hairs.” A minute in, and I was already lying to the guy, for I split hairs on a regular basis.

“I was just going to ask what you were drinking or start with the weather or something.”

I felt my cheeks flush. Why was I always assuming that people would be as interested as I was in lesser known facts and smaller topics, things that I found fascinating?

I thought quickly. “Maybe I’m Moldovan,” I said.

“But you don’t have an accent.”

“Or maybe Moldovan-American.”

Kevin nodded. “I guess I should have thought of that. I forget that everyone’s not a mutt like me. So who’s from Moldova? Your parents? Your grandparents?”

I didn’t want to lie to him again. “The truth is, I’m not the slightest bit Moldovan. That I know of, at least.”

He laughed. “Maybe we should start over,” he said. “Read any good books lately?”

Martina had shoved my dog-eared copy of Principles of Accounting into my purse, but I could still see it peeking out. “I did have a great-grandmother from Romania. Family legend has it that we’re all part gypsy.” As I said it, I picked up my purse as surreptitiously as I could and stowed it at my feet.

“Now you’re just pulling my leg.”

“It’s true,” I said. I could almost feel the words forming, the story of my great-grandmother as told through the generations. How she’d long sworn that we had nomadic blood. But I caught myself just in time. I realized that I wanted Kevin to stay and that a long-winded and unprompted account of my family history was an unlikely aphrodisiac. Besides, my father’s Anglo genes had washed out my mother’s gypsy swarthiness along with whatever remained of the ancestral wanderlust. I’d lived in California for twenty-six of my thirty-one years at that point, and with light brown hair and blue eyes, I didn’t look like any gypsy.