Chapter Eight
God! She hated crying.
Hated it, but the damn tears just didn’t want to stop. They slipped down her cheeks, dripped onto the marble slab she was cleaning, splashed onto the floor when she leaned over to grab a piece of chocolate that had escaped the pot.
She didn’t want to be in the kitchen, surrounded by all the familiar and homey things, because it reminded her of what she could have had. Probably even should have had. The business, the chocolates, the pretty little vintage jars filled with high-quality ingredients. A family tradition that she could have passed down to her daughters and sons.
Only, of course, she wasn’t going to have either of those.
Footsteps sounded on the hallway floor, and she knew Jax was returning. She swiped at her cheeks, washed her hands, made a big show of pouring another coating of chocolate over the bonbons.
He didn’t say a word. Just went to the sink and washed the double boiler, set it back in the cupboard, put away the bottle of vanilla and an unopened jar of cherries.
When he finished, he grabbed boxes from the neat little stacks that lined the shelves. Pretty ones with muted pink roses on an ivory background.
“Those are for special occasions,” she said, her voice raspy from the tears. “Weddings. Showers. Birthday deliveries.”
“Good to know,” he responded, carefully placing five bonbons in a box.
“Jax, really! The boxes are—”
“Almost as lovely as you.” He handed her the box, filled four more flowered ones and a plain white one, and set them in a large cloth bag. When he finished, he wiped down the counter, swept the floor, cleaned up like he’d been doing it his entire life.
And Willow?
She just leaned against the counter, holding the box, and thinking that she should get herself together and help.
“Done,” he finally said, grabbing the chocolates and taking her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
“And go where?”
“Does it matter?”
“It should.”
“You’re sidestepping questions again,” he responded. “So, I’ll try again. Does it matter where we go?”
“I have to bring the chocolates up to Byron and see if—”
“He’s already gone. I saw him leave before you brought me the Bittersweet Cherries.”
“Bitter Cherry Bonbons. That’s what my grandmother called them.”
“Right. She should have called them Damn Addictive. I planned to give you one of the two, and ate it on my way down the hall.”
The comment surprised a laugh out of her. “Grandma Alice would probably appreciate the name change. She had a good sense of humor and a bit of rebellious heart.”
“She was a great lady.”
“You remember her?”
“How could I forget? She was one of Vera’s best friends. They used to make Christmas cookies together every year, and Alice always snuck me a couple when my aunt wasn’t looking.” He strode across the parking lot, opened the passenger door of his police cruiser, helped her in, and then handed her the bag of chocolates.
When he closed the door, she finally realized what she was doing: heading off God-knew-where with a man who was as dangerous to her heart as Lamont Family Fudge was to other people’s waistlines.
He slid in behind the wheel, closing the door and sealing them both in the dark vehicle. She expected him to start the engine, drive out of the parking lot and take her . . .
Where?
Does it matter?
That’s what he’d asked, and of course, she hadn’t really answered. She’d become an expert at sidestepping questions. He was right about that.
“So,” he said casually, but there was nothing casual about the way he turned to face her. Nothing casual about the look on his face or the intensity in his eyes. “What’s the verdict?”
“About?”
“Our destination. Does it matter or not?”
“Of course it matters.” She smoothed her hand over the top of the flowery box and forced herself to relax. This was not a big deal. This was Jax, taking her somewhere with a few pounds of bonbons. “Neither of us has a lot of time to waste, so if we’re just going on a midnight ride—”
“Then we’ll both be the better for it.” He started the engine and pulled around the side of the building. “But I do have a plan. Aunt Vera has always said that the best way to stop feeling sorry for ourselves is to start feeling sorry for someone else.”
“Who’s feeling sorry for herself?” she asked, and he grinned.
“Is that a rhetorical question, Willow? Because I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the one sniffling over the chocolate pots.”
“I was sniffling over the marble. I’d never cry over the chocolate pots,” she responded, and was rewarded with a quiet chuckle.
“I’d ask you what you were crying about, but I figure you’ll share if you want to.”
She didn’t want to, but she felt the strange urge to talk anyway, to tell him things that she hadn’t told anyone else. Not about Eric. Not about her nightmares. Just about how much she wanted to love the shop again, to be there and feel like it was home.
“I was just thinking,” she said, clearing her throat because the tears were back, and there was no way she was going to let them drip onto the pretty flowered boxes, “that I used to love Chocolate Haven, and I wish I still could.”
“You do love Chocolate Haven. You just don’t love what happened there.”
She went cold at his words, shocked by the accuracy of what could only be a guess.
He was watching her, waiting for her response.
For the first time in a long time, she didn’t know what to say.
She could have told him the truth. She could have let him see a part of herself that no one else ever had, but her lips were sealed tight by the silence that had become just what she’d said—its own kind of monster.
“I have massacred a few dozen batches of fudge there the past few days,” she finally said. “Chocolate making is a messy business.”
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t even blink, just kept watching her as if he could see everything—the dark shop, the black hallway. Eric, his eyes gleaming as she walked toward him.
She shivered and looked away, her heart galloping frantically, her hands clammy, her breathing uneven.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
His hand settled on her knee. The hem of her dress had ridden up her thighs, and there was nothing between his palm and her skin but a thin layer of silky fabric.
Suddenly, every memory of Eric was gone.
It was just Jax in her head. Just his hand on her leg. Just his eyes staring into hers.
“It’s okay,” he said, and then his hand slid away, and he started the car and they were driving down Main Street, turning onto a side street that led to the west edge of town.
She knew the area. Granddad’s new house was just a few blocks away, the cute little cottage sitting on a pristine lot that had once been overgrown with brambles and weeds. She could see it up ahead, every window glowing with light.
“Do you have that plain box of chocolates? The one without the flowers?” Jax asked as he turned into the long driveway. Byron’s car was parked near the house, its hood gleaming in the moonlight.
“Yes, but Granddad is probably asleep. He’s not as young as he used to be, and it’s pretty late.”
“All the lights are on,” he pointed out.
“Maybe he forgot to turn them off?”
“That doesn’t sound Byron-like,” Jax responded.
He was right. It didn’t.
Which made her wonder if something had happened after Granddad returned home.
“I hope he’s okay.” She opened the door, and he grabbed her hand, holding her still when she would have hopped out and run to the door.
“If you start banging on his door, he won’t be. You’ll scare the crap out of him.”
“I’m not going to bang. I’m going to knock. Quietly,” she responded, the warmth of his hand seeping into her palm and up her arm and into the cold, hard place that had lived in her heart for so long, she barely even knew it was there.
His fingers tightened a fraction, and then he released her, opening his door and climbing out.
She didn’t wait for him to come around the car. She jumped out and jogged toward the porch stairs, letting the cold air bathe her face and clear her head.
“Running away from something?” Jax asked, catching up in a few long strides.
“Of course not,” she lied, her hands tightening on the chocolate box. If she wasn’t careful, she’d smash it and send Bitter Cherry Bonbons rolling across the ground.
“Right,” he responded, knocking lightly on the door.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you’ve been running for years. Maybe it’s time to stop.”
Another totally accurate guess, and she probably would have said something about it, but the door swung open.
“Hi, Granddad,” Willow began, and then realized that Byron wasn’t standing in the doorway. Someone else was.
A woman.
A very familiar one. Pretty face with just a few wrinkles near the eyes and mouth. Soft brown hair that had a few strands of gray in it. Dark brown eyes that were wide with shock.
Laurie Beth Winslow. Former waitress at the diner. Current owner of the place. She’d been a fixture in town for as long as Willow could remember, but she was a newcomer by most people’s standards. There were plenty of stories about her. Most of them revolving around a long-ago husband who may or may not have beat the heck out of her and left her for dead.
“Willow! What are you doing here?!” she cried, and then must have realized how she sounded, because she pulled Willow into a hug, kissed her cheek. “It’s so good to see you! I’ve been to the shop a few times recently, but you’re always in the back working, and I never get a chance to say hello.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing we ran into each other tonight,” she said, offering a smile that she hoped would make Laurie relax.
Was she surprised to find a woman at Byron’s house this late at night? Sure, but if her grandfather was ready to pursue a relationship with someone, who was she to stand in the way?
Besides, she’d always liked Laurie.
She was hardworking, smart, and funny.
Since Alice’s death, Byron had spent his time working in the shop, running the business, hanging with his guy friends, hunting and fishing and watching football.
Maybe he wanted a little more femininity in his life.
Maybe he was lonely.
Maybe he needed companionship and affection and someone to talk to when no one else was around.
“Is that Steve and Janet?” Byron called from the back of the house. “If it is, send them home. I’m not done making the sandwiches.”
“It’s Willow,” Laurie responded.
“Willow? What’s she doing here?”
“You could come out here and ask me,” Willow called.
“Give me three shakes of a carved stick. I’m up to my elbows in chicken salad.”
“You’re making chicken salad?”
“He’s putting it on bread,” Laurie said. “I made it.”
“I added celery.”
“You added more celery. To my already perfect dish. And you did it just to annoy me,” Laurie corrected.
Byron chuckled. “True. Almost done. I’ll be right out. Don’t let my girl escape before I get there.”
“I won’t,” she said, then she leaned in close to Willow’s ear. “He’s going to try to convince you to stay for a game of canasta. Take my advice. Say ‘no.’ He’s super competitive. Sometimes, it’s not pretty.”
“Then why do you play?”
“For the snacks,” she said with a laugh. “Your grandfather always provides chocolate. Lots of it.”
“You talking about me again?” Granddad stepped into the room, a tray of sandwiches in hand. He’d changed out of the dark slacks and button-up shirt he always wore to work. Now he was wearing jeans and a blue sweater that matched his eyes.
He looked handsome and happy.
He also looked curious, his gaze skimming over Willow and settling on Jax.
“Seems we keep running into each other, Jax,” he said. “Is Randall complaining about me again?”
“I haven’t heard a word from him since you two made chocolates together.”
“Made a mess is more like it, but he’s an okay-enough guy. Now”—he speared Willow with a hard look—“back to my question. Are you two ladies talking about me?”
“Only good things, Granddad.”
“How could there be anything else?” Laurie added.
“That’s what I like,” Granddad said, grinning. “Two women who understand my finer qualities. You two are sticking around, right?” he asked. “For canasta. Steve and Janet are okay opponents, but I’m ready to up the challenge.”
“Actually, I just stopped by to drop off your Bitter Cherry Bonbons.” Willow held out the box, and Byron took it.
“Thanks, doll. I’ve been craving these damn things since you made the first batch.”
“I know. You asked me to make them, remember? And then you cut out on me before they were finished.”
“I didn’t cut out on you. I left. After I finished putting together the crib.”
“You could have come in and said good-bye.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Interrupt what?”
His gaze cut to Jax, lingering there for a moment before it returned to Willow. “Whatever was going on in the shop while I was putting together the crib,” he finally said.
She could have told him that nothing had been going on, but she wasn’t sure if that was true.
She’d made the man eggs, for God’s sake!
She’d given him bonbons.
She’d cried because . . .
Because he’d made her think about what life could have been like if she’d been brave enough to stick around.
“Speaking of interrupting,” she murmured, anxious to change the subject. “If you’d come into the shop and said good-bye, I could have given these to you there, and I wouldn’t have ended up interrupting your evening.”
“I am always willing to be interrupted for Bitter Cherry Bonbons. And for you,” he added with a wink.
“What are Bitter Cherry Bonbons?” Laurie asked. “And are you planning to share?”
“With you? Yes. But Steve and Janet aren’t getting a bite. These things are special. They’re one of Alice’s recipes. Hadn’t had them since she passed, and I’d forgotten just how good they are.”
“If they’re special, you keep them for yourself,” Laurie said gently. “I can visit the shop and get my chocolate fix anytime.”
“The bonbons are special, but so are you.” Byron touched Laurie’s shoulder, and Willow suddenly felt like a voyeur, watching a private show that she hadn’t been invited to.
“We’d better head out,” she said, grabbing Jax’s hand and tugging him to the door.
She wasn’t thinking about the consequences of that.
Not until all the good-byes had been said, and she was standing on the porch, her hand still wrapped around his.
Warm skin to warm skin, and all she could think about was that moment in the car when his hand had been on her knee.
Maybe he was thinking about that, too, because his gaze dropped to her lips, his palm sliding from her hand to her elbow to her waist. It settled there like it belonged. Like they belonged, standing on the porch together, the moon dipping below distant mountains, the cold night air wrapping them in its frigid embrace.
She should have moved away.
Not because it was such a bad thing to be standing there thinking about how it would feel to be in Jax’s arms, but because she had an entire life planned out. This wasn’t part of it.
He wasn’t part of it, but when his lips brushed hers—a featherlight touch that had her leaning into him, her palms resting on his chest—she forgot that.
She forgot everything but Jax.
The warmth of his hands.
The intoxicating taste of rum-soaked cherries on his lips.
Chocolate and heat and him, until the porch light went on, and Byron knocked on the window, and she was free of whatever spell Jax had woven.
She backed away. Just enough to look in his eyes.
“What the heck was that about?” she asked.
* * *
It was a good question.
Jax didn’t have a good answer.
He’d done exactly what he shouldn’t have—kissed her.
If Byron hadn’t been standing with his face pressed against the window, Jax would have probably kissed her again. As it was, he couldn’t quite make himself step away. He still had one hand on her waist, the other on her nape, his lips so close to hers, all he’d have to do was—
“Hey!” Byron rapped on the glass again. “If you’re sticking around, come in here and play cards. Otherwise, it’s time for both of you to go home. To your own places.”
“Shit,” Jax muttered.
Not because of Byron.
Not because of the kiss.
Because he wanted another kiss and another.
He wanted long days and longer nights, and a dozen things that he shouldn’t even be thinking about.
“I wouldn’t say that exactly,” Willow responded, her hands on his shoulders, her cheeks flushed.
“What would you say, then?”
“Wow?” she responded.
He laughed.
Which worried him almost as much as the way he felt when he looked into her eyes—like he’d found something he hadn’t even known he was searching for, something he suddenly realized he needed almost as much as he needed to breathe.
He let his hands drop away and stepped back.
“Wow is one word for it,” he said.
“I take it you have another one?”
“Besides mistake? No.”
“Mistake, huh? I’m glad we’re in agreement on that.” She walked down the porch stairs, yanked open the car door, and climbed in.
He figured she’d slam it closed.
He wouldn’t have blamed her if she had.
Kissing someone and saying it was a mistake was about as okay as wearing a Speedo to church. Sure, a person could do it, but it was going to leave a lasting impression. And probably not a good one.
Willow didn’t slam the door.
She closed it gently and sat stiff as a board as he climbed into the driver’s seat and shoved the key into the ignition.
“That was one of the stupider things I’ve said recently,” he admitted as he backed out of the driveway. “I’m sorry.”
“A person should never apologize for speaking the truth,” she responded. “It was a mistake. One we shouldn’t repeat.”
“Then why are you pissed?”
“I’m not.”
“Angry, then.”
“I’m not that, either,” she responded.
“Unhappy? Irritated? Annoyed?”
“Don’t try to make me laugh, Jax. It’s not going to help.” But she was smiling, her body relaxing against the seat. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I will once I figure it out.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That I don’t know what the kiss was about.”
But he did. It was about finding the right person at the wrong time, and knowing damn well there was nothing he could do about it. A sweet kiss in the moonlight didn’t change any of the reasons why he’d decided to stay single. It couldn’t change the past, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let it change the future.
“We’re heading back to the shop,” Willow pointed out as they turned onto Main Street.
“Yeah. We are.”
“I still have five boxes of chocolates in this bag.” She lifted it from the floor, set it on her lap with a quiet thump. She was annoyed, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d dragged her out on a mission that was supposed to get her mind off her troubles. Now he was bringing her back. Mission incomplete, chocolates still in the bag, the taste of that kiss still on their lips.
On his lips, anyway.
Rum-soaked cherry and chocolate and Willow.
God! He wanted more of it. More of her.
“It’s late,” he said.
“It was late before we left. The only thing that’s different now is that you kissed me and you regret it.”
“Who said anything about regret?”
“You did.”
“I never said I regretted it.” He pulled up in front of Chocolate Haven and parked the car, ready to walk her to her door, say good night, move on.
That was the right thing to do.
The safe thing, the thing that would ensure that the past wouldn’t be repeated in the future. No deep abiding love, no wife, no kids, no home.
No risk.
“You’re splitting hairs,” she replied, reaching for the door handle, ready to go along with his plan.
All he had to do was let her leave.
Of course, he didn’t.
His fingers hooked around her wrist, gentle and light because she had her own nightmares and her own demons.
“Not splitting hairs, Willow,” he said. “The kiss was a mistake, but I sure as hell don’t regret it. I’d make the same mistake again if I gave myself half a chance, but then what? Another mistake and another, until our lives are intertwined and we can’t imagine a day without each other in it?”
“I . . . you really don’t have to explain,” she said.
“I know, but I guess I will anyway.” He could feel her pulse thrumming beneath warm skin, and he ran his thumb over the spot, watching as her pupils dilated.
She wanted him the way he wanted her.
And there was no doubt about where that would lead. The path was clear as a neon sign and just begging them both to walk it. Too bad he could only see the beginning and not the end, because he was tempted to damn well step right on the road that led to her.
“You know what I see when I look at you, Willow?” he said. “I see pretty little houses and white picket fences and cute little kids chasing after kittens and puppies. I see Valentine’s Days filled with flowers and chocolates and kisses stolen while bunches of kids giggle nearby. I see what my parents had, and that scares the crap out of me. Because what they had? It killed my mother. It killed my siblings, and once my father finished watching them die, it killed him.”
“I’d say I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s what you want to hear,” she said quietly.
“You’re right.” He’d heard the useless platitude a million times. People meant well, but words didn’t change the past, they didn’t pour blood back into broken bodies, breathe life back into the dead.
“What do you want to hear? That I agree? That any woman who falls for you will be risking her life and her future?”
“I just want you to know the truth.”
“What truth? That love isn’t worth the risk? There are plenty of people who disagree.”
“Don’t romanticize it, Willow,” he responded.
“I couldn’t be a prosecuting attorney and romanticize anything that had to do with hate or murder or innocent people being hurt.” She traced the scar he’d gotten trying to do what his beaten-bloody, tied-up father couldn’t—protect his family. “But we can’t live in our fear, right? We can’t give up dreams because we’re afraid.”
“Are you trying to convince me of that? Or yourself?”
“Maybe both,” she said with a shaky laugh. “It’s a lesson I’ve been learning for a long time.”
“How long?” he asked, and she stilled.
She was going to sidestep the question or give a nonanswer or tell him to mind his own business.
That’s what he thought.
It’s what he was prepared for.
He wasn’t prepared for the truth, but that’s what she gave him, the words rushing out in hard quick beats that slammed right into his heart.
“I was thirteen. It happened in the hallway of the shop. My father was dying of cancer, and my family was falling apart, and my grandfather hired someone to help out. I still can’t walk from the back of the shop to the front without catching a whiff of his damn cologne.”
“Willow—”
“I don’t talk about it.” She cut him off. “Ever. But I do understand the way the past can hold us captive if we let it.” Her voice broke, and he reached for her, but she was opening the door, scrambling out into the darkness.
“You were right, Jax,” she said, her voice husky with unshed tears. “It’s late, and we both have busy days ahead of us. Don’t follow me up, okay? I have a lot of work to do.”
She closed the door as gently as she had before.
He waited until she reached the corner of the building, and then he got out of the car, walked into the alley behind her.
When she reached the apartment stairs, she stopped.
“You weren’t supposed to follow me,” she said, and he knew she was crying, knew that if he moved closer, he could take her in his arms and press her face to his chest, let her tears soak his shirt.
She didn’t want that, though, and he shouldn’t want it, so he kept his distance, standing exactly where he was, moonlight filtering through the space between the buildings, painting gold highlights in her dark red braid.
“I’m just making sure you get inside safely,” he said.
“This is Benevolence,” she responded. “Nothing bad ever happens here.”
“Except when it does?”
“Except when it does,” she agreed, heading up the stairs, her footsteps echoing loudly in the silence.
He waited until she was inside. Waited until the door closed. Waited until he saw a light go on in the apartment, and then he went back to his car, and headed for the station.
Because, he had as good a memory as anyone.
And he damn well knew exactly who’d worked in the shop when Willow’s father was sick.
Eric Williams.
The former mayor’s oldest son.
Five years ahead of Jax in school. Which would have made him five years older than Willow. Eighteen to her thirteen.
He’d have been a full-grown man when he’d attacked Willow. Or pretty close to it.
Tall.
Muscular.
Tough.
He’d have easily overpowered a little girl who’d just started to bud into womanhood.
“Bastard,” he muttered, his rage as useless as an umbrella during a hurricane.
Yeah. Forget enraged.
Forget pissed.
They never accomplished anything.
He was going to find the guy, and he was going to have a little talk with him. The last he’d heard, the Williams family had settled somewhere in Virginia. More than likely, Eric had grown up, gotten a job, become what his father had always seemed to expect him to be—rich and successful and popular.
More than likely, he’d also become more of what he’d been when he’d attacked Willow in her family’s chocolate shop. Guys who attacked thirteen-year-old girls didn’t usually stop until they were caught. They didn’t just move on and become stellar citizens. They found ways to keep victimizing people, and they didn’t stop until someone made them.
If it hadn’t already happened to Eric, it would.
Jax was going to make certain of it.