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by Tessa Bailey
Rita shook her head, lips clamped together. “Let me think. Give me a secon—”
“No,” Jasper growled, ripping the white tank top over her head. For a breathless beat of time, they ran eyes over one another. Confused, aching, heartsick eyes. And then Rita surged off the desk, pushing Jasper back into the armless office chair facing his desk. While Rita made quick work of her pants and slinky little underwear, Jasper unfastened his jeans, taking out his cock. “Come on, then. You won’t say the words, do the deed. Use that body that makes me fucking crazy and show me what we already know.”
Hurt clouded her expression, but their need was too thick in the air, the pull too strong, and they both had to feel it. Rita straddled Jasper’s lap, taking his hand and pressing it over her mouth. A safety measure against the scream that ripped past her lips as she sank down onto his ready cock. “Oh my God,” came the muffled words, branding his palm. “Jasper. Oh, God.”
Maybe someone should have covered his mouth, too, because hell if he didn’t almost curse the walls down. How many times had they abused one another’s bodies last night and still—still—he might as well have been living like a monk for ten years, the way his cock hurt. “If this is going to be good-bye, Rita, you better make it count.” He gave her tight bottom a slap. “But remember, I’m already going to be desperate for you the second this ends. I’ll spend my whole life this way. Desperate and dying for Rita. In my bed, in my house, riding my dick. All of it. All of you.”
“Stop, please, stop,” Rita demanded, wrapping her arms around his head, giving his mouth perfect access to her tits, which he sucked out of pure necessity. Her hips were a thing of magic, bucking and rolling, knowing when he needed easy to rein in his impending release, knowing when he wanted a few rough bounces. “So good,” she breathed, already beginning to shudder, her teeth chattering.
Jasper’s mouth moved over every inch of Rita’s skin, tasting, trying to memorize the feel of life pulsing beneath her flesh, tucking her scent into his memory bank and locking it away. “It’s so good because I love you, Rita,” Jasper confessed through stiff lips. “It’s good because you love me back. Fuck the amount of time it took. When it’s right, it’s right. We’re above time.”
Her face fell into his neck with a sob, but she didn’t respond.
The helplessness wrought by Rita’s silence forced Jasper to regain power and self-respect some other way. He lunged to his feet, taking her with him. When her back hit the wall, Jasper kept pumping, trying to imprint himself on her body, inside and out. Giving up a little more of his soul with every rough movement. “Remember how good it was. Remember who would always give it to you like this, even if it meant giving up his final breath. You hear me?”
“Yes,” she clenched around him, her sweet mouth falling open in a silent rendition of his name, her pussy milking him down below, so tight, so eager, there was no choice but to take his own climax, groaning into her shoulder as it drained him. They stayed that way for an unknown length of time, Jasper trying to will her into repeating back the three words he’d let fly free of his heart. But when her legs slipped down his sides and her back straightened, she still hadn’t said them.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rita walked on shaking legs back to the kitchen. Nothing compared to the quaking behind her ribs, though. The pounding in her head. Jasper had crucified her against that door and she hadn’t given him what he needed—to be crucified in return. Or maybe she had, only in a different way. A way that felt like betrayal, no matter from which angle she looked at it.
Jasper loved her. Wanted her to stay in Hurley and share his life. His livelihood. Her own life’s recipe hadn’t called for him as an ingredient when she’d left San Diego. Now she was mired in that state of uncertainty, caught between the menu she’d chosen and a new one that called to something unfamiliar and wild inside her. But the last time she’d gone for the unknown and reached outside her capabilities, she’d fucked up bad enough to burn down a restaurant.
Staying in Hurley would mean dropping the family she’d only begun to win back, nixing the mission she’d laid out for herself, and beginning new in a strange place.
As a chef, no less. She’d fallen into a familiar rhythm immediately upon walking into Buried Treasure, inspecting the kitchen, devising plans. Simply beefing up the specials menu sent her right back to the holding pattern she’d fled in San Diego. Now she had a chance to start over in New York, free of the failures she’d courted by being a chef, but the kitchen seemed determined to pull her back in. Because she loved it, loved the man who’d given her the fresh slate? Or because she didn’t know anything else yet?
Rita entered the kitchen to find Aaron and Peggy tossing a lime back and forth. The chef clearly wanted to be irritated but couldn’t quite pull it off in the face of Peggy’s giggling. Sage danced into the kitchen behind Rita, catching the lime in midair and giving the two siblings a stern look before making it a three-way game of catch.
“I’m done going through the books,” Aaron said to Rita without looking at her. “Your boyfriend knows what he’s doing. Low overhead. Great cost efficiency. He doesn’t need me so I’m here to offer my cooking expertise.”
“You can’t fry an egg,” Rita pointed out.
Aaron rolled the green fruit along his shoulders, making Peggy and Sage laugh. “I was thinking more along the lines of official taste tester.”
A minute earlier Rita had sworn she might never smile again, but having them all in the same kitchen reminded Rita of days when Miriam would cook and they’d all congregate around the stove, trying to steal bites of food. And something mended itself inside her chest. The only one missing was Bel—
“Am I the only one working here?” Her older brother grumbled from behind her.
Aaron tossed Sage the lime, but she missed the catch because her wide gaze had fastened itself on Belmont. The fruit thudded on the ground.
Rita decided to take pity on Sage. “Hey, what song was it Mom used to sing when trying out a new menu? I can’t remember. …”
“‘Raspberry Beret,’” Aaron said. “By Prince.”
“That’s right.” Peggy hopped up on a waist-high refrigerator, ignoring the chef, who tried to shoo her off. “Except she would change the words to ‘Raspberry Sorbet.’”
It was well known that nary a Clarkson could carry a tune, so they all raised eyebrows at one another, waiting for someone to start. Rita went to the pantry and began pulling out ingredients, wondering if she was a lunatic for putting her dignity on the line. But a distraction from the ache in her stomach whenever she thought of Jasper was necessary, so she took a deep breath and started to sing.
Peggy joined in halfway through the first verse, her voice a much higher pitch than Rita’s. Aaron’s baritone was low and almost inaudible, but there nonetheless. And when Sage chimed in, Rita thought Belmont might throw himself down at the girl’s feet, but no one expected her older brother to sing. And he didn’t.
Ingredients were diced, sauces mixed, meat prepped around the big white cutting station, each of the Clarksons—and Sage—focused on their work. The singing eventually faded away, leaving the sound of slicing knives and murmuring voices as they compared notes and talked over ideas to leave Jasper for menu changeups.
The more time passed, the more Rita began to experience a winded feeling. An impending sense of loss. Movements that were usually natural felt stiff. Scenes with Jasper filtered through her mind like sunshine through lace. Being picked up on the side of the road on his motorcycle. Dancing in Rosemary’s kitchen. Kissing in the motel parking lot. Seeing Buried Treasure for the first time, seeing all he’d worked for without anyone the wiser. Lying side by side in his truck bed, watching clouds shift, talking about anything that entered their minds. While she and her siblings were healing one deep-seated scar, another one was forming, making itself permanent.
And when she turned around to see Jasper watching her from the doorway, where she stood huddling with her
laughing siblings, that scar deepened and gushed fresh blood. Because without saying a word, in that moment, she’d given him her answer.
* * *
The dining room of Buried Treasure was full. With a line out the door. Several customers had already made reservations for the following night. Sage had started some sort of Instagram account—although God knew how he’d keep that straight when he was on his own—and pictures were posting steadily. Pictures of food. Food Jasper could look at and see Rita’s touch. See the subtle changes she’d made to give it the right flair. Even without seeing the dishes she sent out from the kitchen, he would have known they’d have little quirks, just like Buried Treasure.
A parmesan crisp in the shape of a heart stuck in the center of mashed potatoes. Little sticks of hardened sugar bundled together to resemble firewood. She sent out little pieces of her heart on the plate, and every time one passed, another piece of his own chipped away.
His conversation with Belmont that afternoon had come into stark focus when he’d walked into the kitchen. As he’d stood there, watching Rita exchange tentative looks with Aaron, noticing the way she watched Peggy thoughtfully, as if dying to get inside her little sister’s head and rearrange things. Seeing the way everyone, especially Sage, stopped on a dime whenever Belmont spoke, staring at him as if it could be the final time he ever communicated in the open. So many intricacies. So much at stake. And it was all happening right before his eyes.
Jasper had one distinct thought, directed squarely at himself:
What a selfish son of a bitch you turned out to be.
He stood in the bustling dining room, witnessing the magic wielded by the Clarksons, and still he wanted to break that chain. Take his precious link—Rita—and stow her away in the kitchen. A place from which she’d only just broken free. So what if he would be standing there, right beside her. A teammate. A lover. Yeah, maybe if he got really fucking lucky, she would wear his ring one day. So what, though, when their three-day love affair couldn’t compete with the family she was fighting to get back. With the new life—far from the restaurant business—she so desperately wanted.
He loved Rita. So he had to let her go.
Dinner service wound down gradually, customers filing out the front door with surprised smiles in his direction. Waving, telling him they’d be back tomorrow. Nearly every table in the place was empty, save the one tucked in the corner. Jasper did a double take when Rosemary stepped out of the hidden nook—her hand tucked into the crook of his grandfather’s arm. A tinny ring began in his ears, the sides of his throat feeling tight, as his grandfather approached, eyes that Jasper shared scanning the room with something akin to approval. But that couldn’t be right.
Finally, the older man’s gaze landed on him. “Jasper,” he said, holding out his hand to shake his grandson’s. “Well done.”
For so long this moment had been what drove Jasper. Repaying the man he’d let down. Now that he’d reached that moment in time, there was definite relief. A rushing landslide of it down his back. There was appreciation, too, for having gained back the respect he’d lost. But when he searched that same landslide for happiness, it eluded him. Just then, he was positive it always would.
“Thank you,” Jasper said to his grandfather, leaning over to kiss Rosemary’s cheek. “For everything.”
After watching the people who’d raised him walk out the door—the final remaining customers—Jasper turned to find Rita watching him from the waitress station, one hip propped against the counter. Sadness lurked in her eyes, but there was pride there as well. In him. In Buried Treasure. The apron she wore was covered in splashes of sauce, a dash having made it up to her cheek, flipping his insides around like a pancake. Without thinking, he went to Rita, used his thumb to wipe away the sauce.
“Congratulations,” she whispered, watching his hand move away. “We had nothing sent back to the kitchen except for compliments. Sage said you’re booked solid for the next three weeks.” She reached out as if to lay a hand on his arm but let it drop, her tongue wetting her lips in what looked like a nervous gesture. “I’m so glad you created this place. It’s going to be a town landmark, and it’s due to your hard work.”
Lord, Jasper wanted to shake her. Her words were genuine, but they weren’t coming at the right time. They were unwelcome when good-bye was so close on the horizon. “I appreciate that. Everything your family did tonight.” A cannonball materialized in his stomach, dragging him down, down. He didn’t want anyone there to witness when he hit bottom. Especially her. “But this is where I let you go, Rita. I need you to go. I can’t look at you anymore without making a fool out of myself.”
Rita closed her eyes, opening them to reveal twin pools of tears. “I’m so sorry.” Her hands trembled as she peeled off the soiled apron and laid it on the waitress station. “I never expected you. Or them. Or any of this.” She swiped beneath her eyes. “Leaving at night feels wrong, doesn’t it? But I don’t think I’ll be able to resist one more day if we wait until the sun comes up.”
It was like releasing a gorgeous, majestic creature back into the wild. Except she was a woman he damn well believed was born to be his second half. And she wouldn’t go. The longer she stood there, the more hurt she heaped on him. So he leaned in close, careful not to let their bodies make contact, and he kissed her forehead. “Hey. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and find you on the side of the road again. My own version of Groundhog Day. Maybe I’ll get a second chance to do it all over again.”
Her breath puffed out against his neck. “Good-bye, Jasper.”
The last sound he remembered hearing was the screen door smacking, signaling that she’d gone. That was when the thunder began to roll in his ears, muting the world around him as he stumbled across the restaurant. He pulled out the chair Rita had sat in the first night he’d shown her Buried Treasure. The night she’d named the place. He sat, buried his face in his arms on the table. And he didn’t move.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It took only twenty minutes for everyone to clear their belongings out of the motel and climb into the Suburban. Something about that felt very wrong to Rita. Surely twenty minutes was insufficient for erasing any evidence of their stay in Hurley. Wasn’t it? On impulse, she’d left a T-shirt in one of the motel-room closets, closing the door on it while a tiny intruder played Whac-A-Mole in her stomach. Now they all sat in silence in the Hurley Arms parking lot waiting for Belmont, who had disappeared without telling anyone where he was going. Although, since that was typical behavior for their older brother, no one commented, even if Sage appeared anxious, her head on a swivel as she waited for his return. Aaron scanned e-mails in his cell phone—humming “Raspberry Beret”—while Peggy clinked together the engagement rings around her neck.
All so normal. Fuck. Why was everyone acting so normal? Air was being siphoned from Rita’s lungs, her skin itching, the interior of the car growing smaller and smaller. With a curse, she pushed open the back door, allowing the warm desert wind to roll into the Suburban. It slithered in under the sleeves of her shirt, climbed up her neck and held, held so tight. As if Jasper had taken the form of invisible wind, deciding to reach out for her one final time. His face, his words, the failure evident in both clawed at her consciousness. No, not a failure. You won me. I just have to leave anyway.
The reasons were all around her, taking up the seats, joining her on this insane journey, but something besides Jasper was missing. Realizing what it was, Rita reached into her slouchy canvas bag and removed Miriam’s journal, flipping to an entry toward the front, placing it in her lap and pushing two handfuls of hair back over her shoulders as she began to read.
My family isn’t one for noisy emotion. My children were meant to—
Belmont opened the driver’s-side door, starting up the Suburban without a word regarding where he’d been. While they released a collective sigh of relief, Belmont reversed the Suburban from its parking spot, the rumble feeling like an earthquake beneath Rita’
s feet. A seismic shift. As they pulled out onto the main road, a rope that had been tied around her chest without permission began to pull and pull. As if it were tied to the motel and the farther away they drove, the more it threatened to slice her in half. The urge to turn around to glimpse the Liquor Hole—no, Buried Treasure—was vast and unrelenting, but some irrational voice said everything would turn to dust if she followed through, like Sodom and Gomorrah. Or maybe it would just be her? She would turn to dust and float away, just a tiny speck that couldn’t possibly fit all the feelings.
Jasper. Jasper. What was he doing? Had he left Buried Treasure yet? Would he go home and sit down on the swing where they’d made love? Or maybe have a cup of coffee while leaning up against the kitchen island, casually looking over that night’s numbers? It took precious little concentration to envision herself perched on the island beside him, wearing his flannel shirt, stealing a sip of his coffee.
Oh, Christ. Ouch. Pain speared through her rib cage, hot bread rolls pressing behind her eyelids. Remembering the distraction in her lap, Rita ducked her head to begin reading once again, trying with all her might not to look out the window and watch the town repair garage pass. The place Jasper had appeared the second morning on his motorcycle, hoping she’d consent to lunch with Rosemary. Feigning surprise over the Suburban’s lack of function when he’d damn well been the reason. God. God, who did something so sneaky just to get one more day with a woman? Jasper did. Her Jasper.
Swiping at the moisture on her cheeks, Rita focused on the open page flapping in the breeze provided by the open window. Focused on the concise nature of her mother’s handwriting, attempting to find solace.
My children were meant to take different paths. They diverged early and intersect rarely, but when they do, they make beautiful music. Even if they don’t always hear it. I hope they know I heard it for them. Beats and bad notes alike. Some families reunite every year at scheduled events—and I admire that. I really do. But spontaneity just happens to suit the Clarksons. Those rare moments when my children’s paths take unexpected detours and they crash together, coming away different without realizing. Refusing to believe they can be influenced by someone with so little in common, but having it happen all the same.