CHAPTER 14
Kyle
I take one last glance around the living room, my eyes purposely avoiding Jane’s painting, and I’m satisfied. I’ve always been a bit of a slob when it comes to my living quarters, and I guess that comes from the last three years pretty much living in the shit hole of the Mayhem’s Mission clubhouse.
But in this little house that attaches to the lighthouse by a covered walkway, I have a duty to keep it neat and clean, not only because it doesn’t belong to me, but also because the stupid fucking historical society wants to give tours during the summer. I’m not sure why a tour includes my cottage, because it’s just that… a cottage. I’m guessing for the five dollars they charge for admittance, they have to include something other than the thirty-three steps of spiral staircase that leads up to the rotating light. Probably want to show the charm of coastal seaside living or some shit like that.
Today is the first tour and I’ve got to get lost, which is fine by me. When Joe arranged for this “job” for me, I was asked to be the one to give the tours. I think my answer was something like “no fucking way.” However he got this job nailed down… however he got it all worked out… all I have to do is ensure the cottage is clean and tidy every Saturday for the rest of the summer. I figure that’s the least I could do since this job is a cakewalk anyway. Outside of the repairs and maintenance, which are all pretty much done, all I have to do is ensure the light stays on. With a backup generator, that pretty much ensures I have squat to do while watching the lighthouse.
Patting my back pocket, I note my wallet is in place and I snag my car keys off the small table by the front door. No clue how to keep myself busy all day away from the cottage, but figure it will include multiple beers at The Lobster Cage. Pulling the front door open, I start to push at the screen door and come to a dead halt when I see Jane standing on the other side, her hand raised and poised to knock.
“Hey,” she says in surprise, and I’m struck for a moment just staring at her beauty. Hair in a ponytail, a pair of cutoff jean shorts, and a vintage orange Crush t-shirt. She’s got a satchel-like purse hanging on the diagonal across her chest, the canvas strap cutting through her cleavage, and I have to force my eyes upward.
She smirks at me when they land on her face.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as I push through the screen door. She takes a step back to give me room.
As I turn to lock the door, she says, “Thought I’d come see what you were doing today. Figured maybe you’d like to take a ferry ride across the bay to Bar Harbor.”
I secure the lock and turn back to her, stepping to the side to let the screen door swing shut. “I was on my way to The Lobster Cage to have a few beers.”
She holds her wrist out and glances down at her watch. “It’s 9:30 in the morning.”
“They open at eight,” I point out. I found since moving here that fisherman like to drink and that means Gus keeps the bar open most of the time.
“Seriously, Kyle,” Jane says in exasperation, and I’ll admit… it’s cute. Even that eye roll she just gave me. “You totally don’t want to waste your day in a bar when you could be spending it with me.”
I raise a dubious eyebrow.
“Because,” she finishes with an impish grin. “As I’m your only friend here, it’s my duty to show you the surrounding sights. Bar Harbor is amazing, and there’s a great bookstore there I thought I’d show you, and then, if you wanted, we could hike a bit over in Acadia National Park.”
And fuck if that doesn’t sound a hell of a lot better than sitting in a drab bar all day.
But still… I have to consider this carefully. First, I don’t want Jane to get the wrong impression if I agree to spend the day with her. It will have to be just as friends. And second, I have to weigh the risk. While there’s no proof that anyone is really looking for me, there is safety in being in a small town. If someone had located me and were watching, they’d be a lot easier to recognize here than in Bar Harbor.
“Come on, Kyle,” Jane says with an exaggerated whine. “I don’t want to go over there by myself. Miranda’s working and my parents are doing yardwork, so if you don’t go, I won’t, and I’ll be stuck planting petunias all day at their house.”
Hmm… well, it does sound like she’s only viewing me as a friend. And apparently a friend who’s low on the list, as she’d considered spending the day first with Miranda and secondly with her parents.
Now I’m not sure how that makes me feel. I should be relieved, but part of me is a little put out by that. I mean, it was just four days ago she’d her hand pressed up against my dick and it felt so good I was afraid I’d make a fool of myself.
Whatever.
“Alright,” I grudgingly say, although I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to at least myself that I was excited about the prospect of spending the day with Jane. While I still believe I made the right call in pushing her away the other night, it didn’t mean I was happy about it. Jane has brought a tremendous amount of brightness into my life the last few weeks, and she has made the hiding out and waiting at least bearable. As long as I can keep my hands to myself, why not take advantage of that brightness today?
♦
I peer over the edge of the book I have opened in front of me and look at Jane. She’s sitting across from me in a big, mushy-looking chair with her back pressed up against one arm and her legs thrown over the other. She’s reading a book she’d bought about fifteen minutes ago. After we both purchased coffees, we decided to have some quiet time to read in this pretty amazing bookstore she brought me to. It’s massive with rows and rows of books, but it has little alcove sitting areas all around where you can enjoy your spoils or peruse potential purchases. Jane had also bought a big cinnamon roll, and I will admit it may have been a little torturous watching her lick her fingers when she was done, but then she settled into her chair quietly and she’s been ignoring me ever since.
It does appear that she took me at face value and is accepting the friendship boundary I put in place. She seems to be her usual quirky self, throwing movie lines at me when the situation presents. The first one came on the ferry as we got out of my truck that was parked with several others that were catching the ride across Frenchman’s Bay to Bar Harbor. She’d put her sunglasses on her face, pushed them up the bridge of her nose, and said, “Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads. Back to the Future. 1985.”
I couldn’t fucking help it. Of course, I laughed. She gave me back a sparkling grin, and I thought perhaps this might be a very good day.
But sadly, the more I’m around her, the more I’m hating the boundary I put in place. I can smell her subtle perfume, which is as light and airy as her personality, and I can see the bare skin of her legs and how it glows, and I know damn well it would be as soft as silk if I touched it, and Jesus fucking Christ… this just sucks.
Jane’s head tilts to look at me, and she totally busts me staring at her over the edge of my book, which is some crime thriller I’d picked up.
Before she can even say anything to try to embarrass me for my blunt perusal, I nod at her book and ask, “What are you reading?”
Keeping her thumb inside the pages to hold her place, she turns it around and shows me the cover. It’s of a bare-chested man giving a smoldering look to the camera.
I look back to her and smirk.
“What?” she asks defensively. “I like romance books. So what?”
I hold one hand up, palm raised to her in defense. “Hey. I didn’t say anything.”
“No,” she mutters. “But you had that look.”
“What look?” I counter, but I know damn well what look I gave her.
“That totally judgey look people give you when you read romance,” she huffs.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” I tell her truthfully. I merely thought it funny she was reading a book with a half-naked guy on the front. “Why do people judge you for reading romance?”
Jane swings her legs off the chair arm and plants her feet, leaning toward me a bit. “Many people think this stuff is just fluff. It’s not literary. Waste of time to read and it’s for simpleminded people.”
“You are in no way simpleminded,” I point out. That’s the honest fucking truth as I think Jane’s about as bright as they come.
Jane holds the book out and waves it. “I read this because it makes me feel good. It transports me out of my reality and gives me all the feels.”
I eye the cover dubiously. “All the feels?”
“About love and romance,” she says dreamily, and I have to force myself not to grimace. “I know that’s a girl thing, but the authors who write this stuff? They really know how to reach you down deep into the center of your chest.”
“If it’s all about love and feeling emotion,” I have to ask, “then why does it look like it’s about porn on the cover?”
Jane’s eyes flick down to the cover, and she gives a shrug as she looks back up to me. Holding the book out for me to inspect the cover again, she says with a grin, “You got to admit. It’s eye catching.”
I give a short bark of a laugh, cognizant though that I’m in a bookstore, so it’s not overly loud. “I could see why it caught your attention.”
Jane leans a little closer to me and says in an almost conspiratorial tone, “While I read these books for the romance and the relationship, not going to lie… there are some smoking hot sex scenes in some of these books.”
And if that’s not a punch to the fucking gut. Thinking about Jane reading about sex. About hot, sweaty, dirty sex. And wondering then what she might do when she’s alone, reading about hot, sweaty, dirty sex.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair and give another nod toward the book. “I’ve never read a romance, and without a doubt never will, but really… how many ways can a love story be told?”
“Oh, hundreds and hundreds,” she says quickly. “No, probably thousands and millions. I mean, the characters are different, settings different, plots are different.”
I’m betting the sex is different too, as I personally know there are hundreds of ways to have an orgasm.
“You believe in that stuff?” I ask, another nod to the book.
“You mean love?” she returns, her head tilted in confusion.
“Love, romance, soul mates,” I say in a dismissive tone.
“I do,” she says simply. “Don’t you?”
“Nope,” I answer quickly and with utter honesty. My views on relationships are so fucking whacked based on what I’ve been immersed so deeply in over the last several years. I don’t have much faith in people or in love.
“Ah,” Jane says knowingly, her eyes turning soft. “You’ve had your heart broken before.”
I blink at her in surprise and sit up straighter in my chair. “Actually, I haven’t.”
Never had my heart broken… but it had absolutely turned to stone fairly early on in my days with Mayhem’s Mission. It was a necessary means to survive because I’d have never been able to make it through all those years of crime and depravity if I left open any soft spots to knock me off course.
“You’ve never been in love?” Jane asks softly, pity written clearly on her face over my suspected answer.
But I decide to deflect. “Why? Have you?”
Her mouth opens to answer, then it snaps shut. Her eyes seem confused, and she glances down at the book.
“Jane?” I prompt, because she looks like someone kicked her best puppy.
Her gaze slowly slides up to mine, and she looks at me sheepishly. “I was going to say ‘yes,’ I have been in love before. With Craig—that creeper you helped me with that day at the festival. But then I just realized… what I felt for him is nothing like what I feel when reading these books.”
“Maybe because what you’re reading is fiction,” I suggest. Because that makes the most sense to me.
Jane shakes her head adamantly. “No. I mean… yes, this is fiction, but it’s also real. This is what love’s supposed to feel like, and it just hit me… that’s never what I felt with Craig.”
While it is absolutely none of my business what Jane had with her ex-boyfriend, for some weird reason, I feel strangely fulfilled by her proclamation she never loved that douche. And also a bit sad, because Jane is the type of woman who should experience whatever it is in those books that brings such a smile to her face.
She absolutely deserves something good. Because it’s nothing but a pipe dream for me to hope I could be the one to give it to her, I firmly put it out of my mind and go back to reading the crime thriller in my hands.