Chapter Eleven
Before he left to pick up Jessie that evening, Garrett tried the number Marie had given him one more time, getting the voice mail of a guy named Bill.
“Yes, Bill, it’s Garrett Kilcannon from Waterford Farm calling again. It’s about the tan and white collie mix you evidently brought into North Ames shelter in Greensboro. We have the dog, she’s well taken care of, and we’ll find her a great home. Before we do that, we want to exhaust every avenue to be sure the dog’s owner isn’t missing her. Call me at this number anytime. Everything will be confidential, I assure you. Thanks.”
As he hung up, Garrett grunted at the sound of Shane’s truck in the driveway. He kind of wanted to get out of here before Shane got home from his trip to DC, but he’d have to endure the Spanish Inquisition now.
A minute later, his brother, older by one year, occasionally mature by about ten less, walked into the kitchen from the back door, wiping his boots as he looked up and down at Garrett’s dark slacks and button-down shirt. “Funeral, job interview, or a date?”
“Out.”
“With a woman?”
“Yes, with a woman, Shane.”
“On a Wednesday?”
Garrett cringed. “Shit. I forgot what day it is.” The Kilcannon family dinner at Waterford wasn’t sacred on Wednesdays, not like Sunday was, but if you were in town, you were expected to be there.
“I’ll make your excuses,” Shane said, marching closer to sniff around Garrett’s face and neck. “Mmm. Pretty. You broke out Darcy’s Christmas stocking full of expensive men’s products for the occasion.”
He inched away. “I shaved.”
“You must really need to get laid.”
Not bothering to respond, he picked up his phone again and checked the time, calculating how long it would take to get downtown to the Bitter Bark Bed & Breakfast. Maybe fifteen minutes across town, but he didn’t want to be too early. Or late. Or too on time. God, why the hell did it matter?
“Based on the turmoil in your current expression, I’m guessing the possibility of sex is weighing heavily on your brain.” Shane grinned. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
Garrett glared. “None of your business.”
Shane ambled to the fridge, opened it, and looked from the beer to the OJ, picking the latter. As he yanked it out, he spun and used it to point at Garrett. “Is it the reporter?” His voice rose like he was playing, and winning, a game of twenty questions. “Jessie Curtis?”
“She’s a journalist, not actually a ‘reporter,’” he corrected. “And yes, we’re having dinner.”
“Ohhh.” He dragged out the word, mulling it over, nodding. “Be careful, little brother.”
“Don’t worry, she’s not interviewing me tonight.”
Shane slipped onto a barstool, sloshing orange juice into an oversized Hurricane glass he’d stolen from a bar on Bourbon Street. “Then be extra careful. You need protection?”
Garrett angled his head and gave him a look he hoped communicated his disgust. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, I mind. I can’t remember the last time you went out with a woman. Months, maybe more. Since that chick from Boston. What was her name?”
“I don’t know.” He did, but it didn’t matter. She hadn’t been his type. “How’d it go at the DOD?”
“Amazing.” Shane chugged the juice and put the glass down. “They’re putting the paperwork through to have Waterford on a very short list of preferred training sites. Big money. Many dogs. Don’t change the subject. Do you need protection? Or maybe a refresher course?”
He reached over the counter and grabbed a banana from a bunch, holding it upward in his hand. “You slide it over the tip, like such.”
Garrett ripped the banana out of Shane’s hand and threw it back on the plate that held their fruit. “I’m not having sex with her tonight.” Or was he? The thought had crossed his mind a hundred times after that near-miss kiss and while they talked all the way home, which was easy. Talking to her was easy. Was that because she was a trained interviewer or because talking to her was just…nice?
Would everything be that nice?
“So can the protection jokes, okay?”
“So why the dress-up dinner? I thought you were trying to limit your time and do as little as possible with her, except what you had to. I heard she’s great with Lola, by the way.”
“She is. And speaking of time…” He picked up his phone and read it again. Still too early. “Dinner was Marie Boswell’s idea, and it sounded, you know, reasonable. For all she’s doing with Lola.”
“You like her.” It was a statement, not a question. Of course. No one knew him like Shane. They’d lived together for most of their lives, shared a bedroom as boys and now a house as grown men. A big house, a great investment, but sometimes it wasn’t big enough.
“I’m taking that silence as a yes, Your Honor,” Shane quipped in his courtroom voice. “Exhibit A. Shave balm and pressed shirt. Exhibit B. Forgotten Wednesday night dinner. Exhibit C. Twisted expression of torture I haven’t seen since…well, since Claudia.”
His gut clenched. “I’ve had enough.”
“Hey, I’m yanking your willy, relax.” He scooted off the chair, held the juice bottle up to see how much was left, and downed the rest with no glass. “But you do like her,” he added as he tossed the bottle into the recycle bin.
“What difference does it make?”
Shane stared at him, the playfulness out of his green-gold eyes, looking a lot more like the hotshot attorney he used to be than a gifted dog trainer. “I have yet to actually meet this woman, since I’ve been off the property so much. Just saw her from far away.”
“You met her a thousand times when she was at our house.”
He nodded. “Little Jessie, not grown-up Jessie. Liam confirmed that she’s hot up close, and you obviously agree, or you’d be in shorts watching ESPN and eating wings from Bitter Bark Burgers.”
What was Liam doing sizing up Jessie? And talking about her to Shane? Liam didn’t talk about anything except K-9 training. “Man’s gotta eat.”
“And get laid.”
Son of a bitch. He’d drive around the block if he was early. He grabbed the phone and stuffed it into his pocket. “I’ll see you—”
“Tomorrow.”
“Who knows?” He gave his brother a grin, mostly to shut him up, which was impossible. “I’m out.”
On his way, Shane extended his hand over the counter and grabbed Garrett’s arm. “Speaking as your lawyer now.”
Garrett looked at him, silent.
“She is still a member of the media. Pretty, available, and good with Lola. Be careful with the pillow talk. Another woman, you might be able to come clean with. But this one does have an agenda, and the question will come up. Have you ever been—”
He shut his brother off by jerking his arm out of his loose grasp. “I know what to say.”
“And what not to say,” Shane added, “if she starts asking the deep questions.”
“I have no intention of getting deep with her, Shane.”
“Unless it’s under the covers.”
“You’re pathetic.”
Shane stepped back and gave him the once-over again. “That French place that opened up downtown? Or Bitter Bark Bistro?”
Why bother to lie? “It’s called La Maison…something.”
“Bushrod’s is right across the street,” Shane said. “If things go south and you need legal backup, I can meet you there.”
“And if they go north?”
Shane laughed. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, big guy.”
* * *
It was definitely a date.
And once Jessie got used to that idea, it was easy to realize that it was a really good date. She knew it when a clean-shaven Garrett Kilcannon walked into the reception area of the Bitter Bark Bed & Breakfast, wearing a crisp blue chambray button-down and dark trousers and looking absolutely…what had Marie the Matchmaker called him? Scrumptious. Well, she’d called them scrumptious, and Garrett hot. And he was.
And when he smiled at her, letting his eyes coast over her with raw appreciation in his expression and a silent wow slipping out of his lips, she was so glad that she’d picked a simple black dress and slipped on a pair of heels.
The restaurant was walking distance, he told her, not far from Bushrod Square in the center of town.
“This area is so completely different from when I lived here,” she said as they stepped out to the cobblestone street. “I swear it was abandoned warehouses and stores. And look at it now.”
She gestured toward the huge grassy area that stood in the dead center of town, a massive bitter bark tree in the middle, giving the town its name when Thaddeus Ambrose Bushrod founded it after the Civil War. His name was everywhere, or used to be. With the gentrification that had taken place down here, all of the shops, businesses, and restaurants were called Bitter Bark something.
The square, which ran a few city blocks on all sides, was marked off by four large brick columns. The grassy areas included a playground, a fountain, meandering stone paths, park benches, and wide-open areas meant for town gatherings and festivals.
“Bushrod Square and the whole Ambrose Avenue area was completely overhauled five or six years ago,” Garrett told her. “One by one, all these stores and cafes and even that bed-and-breakfast all popped up or were remodeled into new lives.”
“It’s adorable,” she said, admiring the scalloped awnings and precious storefronts.
“And it’s close to campus,” he said, referring to Vestal Valley College, a small liberal arts college that was founded the same year as the town. “So there are always a ton of students around.”
“They’ve always kept the town young.”
“But we haven’t really cracked the code with tourists,” he said. “Although we have a new mayor, and she put my dad and some other movers and shakers on a ‘Tourism Advisory Committee,’ and they’re supposedly obsessed with Bitter Bark turning into the next Asheville.” They rounded a corner to a pedestrian-only street that was clearly the heart of this happening district.
“Sorry, you’re probably not interested in the local politics.”
“I am,” she assured him. “And I’m interested in how you know all this, seeing as you spend your days with dogs.”
“Bitter Bark is still a small town,” he said. “And Gramma Finnie knows everyone.”
“I had a nice talk with her today,” she said.
“Don’t tell me, she either spewed Irish proverbs or gave you some Waterford history. All in the name of convincing you she was looking for a topic for the blog.”
“Yes!” She laughed. “Proverbs. About babies.”
“Sounds about right.” He guided her to a sweet little brick building with a few tables outside and welcoming warm light inside. “I picked something French because…”
“Because it’s a date,” she supplied.
“And not an interview.”
Oh, her heart dipped a little. Was that why he insisted on calling this a date? “Do you think I’ll ask fewer questions that way?”
“I think we’ll both ask questions, and everything is off the record.”
“But I told you—”
“Just one night, Jessie. Just one meal. I want to be with you without being on guard.”
But why was he on guard? “All right. A date. Off the record. Conversation, not an interview. But tomorrow…”
“Is tomorrow.”
Inside the restaurant, he pulled out her chair at the table, and he ordered a bottle of wine for them, and it flowed as easily as their conversation.
And by the time their entrées came, Jessie was charmed by him and mellowed by the second glass of pinot noir.
“Now, this,” she said as she played with a mushroom on her plate, “is much more how I would expect a former high-flying Internet company owner to act.”
He looked up from his plate, brows drawing over eyes that looked extra dreamy in his baby blue button-down. “Not in a battered old Jeep carting dogs around? There are many sides to a person.”
“Exactly. And yours are quite varied.”
He shrugged and took a bite, chewing as he formulated a response. “I have to guess that there are many sides to Jessica Curtis, right? You have hobbies and a job and different kinds of friends and…why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
“Wow, that came out of nowhere,” she said with a self-conscious laugh. “And what makes you think I don’t?” she quipped, popping that mushroom into her mouth.
“I doubt you’d have gone out with me if you do.”
“I am here to interview you.” At his look, she added, “Tomorrow.”
He gave her a sly smile. “So, no boyfriend?”
“Fully committed to my job, which takes all my time and energy.”
“Then tell me more about your boss, the one who’s grooming you for this big promotion.”
“If I must. His name is Mac Thomas, and his latest nickname for me is wall-breaker, which I think I kind of hate, but I get the idea.”
“Wall-breaker? Are you sure he doesn’t mean…” His voice faded as he figured it out. “Like taking down people’s walls.”
She lifted her brows. “If they let me.”
He returned his attention to his food, cutting a bite with deep concentration. “So you don’t like this guy.”
“I don’t completely trust him,” she admitted. “He’s a win-at-all-costs kind of professional, which is great if you’re the one he wants to see win.”
“A shitty boss is the worst,” he agreed. “It’s the number-one reason for owning your own company.”
“That must have been a huge change for you,” she said. “Having PetPic and then going to work for FriendGroup.”
“You have no idea.” He put down his fork and took a deep drink of the wine, thinking. “There I was, having the time of my life in Chapel Hill, not two hours from home. I liked that town ever since college, and then we found this amazing warehouse and converted it to our headquarters, growing so fast I couldn’t even breathe half the time. I traveled a lot, worked side by side with Shane as my attorney and Liam in engineering. Dogs in the office, people motivated to come to work every day, all that unexpected success.” He shook his head and smiled. “Good times.”
“How’d you start it? How’d you get the idea?” She’d read snippets of the story here and there when researching, but there was nothing like hearing him say it. Or watching him talk. He moved his hands sometimes, drawing her attention to his long, strong fingers and blunt, clean nails. Or he smiled, which dragged her gaze to his mouth and perfect lips. Even the tenor of his voice was like rolling around naked on velvet.
She took a sip of water instead of wine. Calm down, Jessica Jane.
“I started it because I loved photography, and dogs, and knew enough about programming to be dangerous,” he said, looking at his wineglass for a moment, maybe blaming it for the uncharacteristic burst of candor, maybe gathering his thoughts. “I wanted to share pictures of my pets without having to deal with a bigger social media scene. Just pets, no sunsets, no kids, no politics, no ads. But then we started letting people sponsor images and, honestly, money poured in. Then we added the whole rescue network and started actually saving dogs’ lives. It was amazing.”
She pointed at him. “You know, you’re definitely more dog lover than computer nerd.”
He chuckled. “Guilty as charged. But you can’t put people in boxes, even though you happen to make a living doing that.”
She frowned at him. “No, I don’t.”
“Every person you profile ends up described in a three-paragraph box. I read your work, remember?”
“I don’t put people in boxes, Garrett. I take them out of their boxes.”
“But there will be those three paragraphs, right?”
“There’s a ‘blurb’ that boils down the main points of a profile, yes.”
“A blurb?” He made a disgusted face. “Sounds like something that falls out of a mastiff’s mouth.”
“A lovely thought for our dinner.”
He relented with a smile. “So what’s my blurb, Jessica Jane Curtis, journalist extraordinaire?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Come on, give it a go. Garrett Kilcannon is…what?”
She wasn’t close to knowing yet, but she decided to humor him.
“Garrett Kilcannon resists type,” she said, leaning back, holding his gaze, and purposely using a voice that let him know she was “reading” in her head. “Tall, dark, and handsome with an irresistible smile and a twinkle in his deep-blue eyes, he can be rugged outdoors, metropolitan sophisticated, and obviously knows his way around a line of code, since he built a successful tech company. He has a soft heart for animals and his family, but doesn’t open easily to strangers. In a word, he is an enigma that drew this journalist closer, fascinating and baffling her.”
His jaw dropped. “You’ve been working on that for a while.”
“Nope.” She took a sip of wine, confidence soaring. “That’s a first draft, inspired by the company and”—she tapped the rim of her wineglass with her index finger—“the magic grape juice. I’m sure you’d like to change something.”
“Delete handsome.”
“Replace it with humble?” she suggested.
“Gotta hand it to you, Lois Lane.”
“It’s Jessica Jane.”
“You’re a good writer,” he said, holding her gaze so intently a few butterfly wings fluttered in her stomach.
“It’s not hard. Try drafting a blurb yourself.”
“On me?” He pfft a breath. “Too boring.”
“Then on me.”
He lifted a brow, interested in that challenge. “Okay.” He took another drink of his wine, as if he needed inspiration of his own, then studied her for a minute. “Jessica Jane Curtis is…pretty.” He gave a self-deprecating roll of his eyes. “I’m no wordsmith.”
“Points for using my first and middle name, which adds an I’m-an-insider sheen to your story. And pretty?” She tipped her head with exaggerated coyness. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“I can do better.” He inched his plate away, leaning closer over the table. “Jessica Jane Curtis was pretty as a teenager. She had cute freckles, big eyes, and the kind of body that made teenage boys try not to stare over the dinner table.”
She laughed. “First of all, the historical reference in building a profile is brilliant. A-plus for a great story lead-in. Second of all, you never, not once, stared at me. And believe me, I watched and waited.”
“I’m not done yet. But the pretty teenager,” he continued, “grew up into an intelligent, inquisitive, independent young woman with mysterious jade eyes, hair that turns gold in candlelight, and a…sexy mouth.”
“Whoa.” She let out a breath, not expecting that.
“You’d probably do much better with that description, but it’s what I see.”
“Thanks,” she whispered, feeling her face warm. Maybe more than her face. “Huge props for the alliteration. And, you know, the jade and candlelight stuff is wonderfully vivid. Not sure anyone’s ever called my mouth sexy.”
“Then they haven’t kissed it.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Is it time for our daily reference to the Manhunt make-out session again?”
“No need to reference. Replay, maybe. No referencing necessary.”
Replay. The idea slid over her like hot lava, heating her belly and below. “You know what you’re good at?” she asked in a soft voice.
“Playing Manhunt?”
“Not being interviewed. Why is that?”
He shifted in his seat. “You know I’ve been burned by the media before, that’s no secret.”
“I’m not going to burn you, I promise.”
The look he gave her said he didn’t believe that for one second. “That’s what Brad Darber said.”
The Forbes reporter. “Well, I’m Jessica Jane Curtis, and I’m not interested in contract negotiations with the company that bought yours. I’m interested in you. Inside”—she tapped her chest—“here.”
“How do you go about getting there?” he asked.
“Well, if you’d ever let me, I ask questions and find emotional beats.”
He made a face that mixed confusion and horror. “What the hell are those, and do they leave a mark?”
She laughed. “It’s a way of sifting through your personal story to find the things that carved you into who you are. Everyone has them.”
“Do you?”
“Of course.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, but signaled the waiter as he walked by and, after they both turned down dessert, he got the check. After he handed over his credit card, he turned to her, and she braced for the quick and clean end to the evening. Which would hurt, but maybe it was for the best.
“I have an idea,” he said, surprising her.
“Quick round of Manhunt?”
He laughed easily, relaxed again. “I like the way you think, but my idea is a little less fun. Why don’t you tell me some things that marked you with an emotional beating?”
“Emotional beat,” she corrected.
“Sounds like the same thing to me.”
Then she’d have to convince him it wasn’t. “I guess I could. What do you want to know about?”
“All that stuff you were telling Lola. About when you were sixteen and had to leave.”
She stared at him, growing cold inside.
“You could, you know, share it with a human this time.”
The waiter came back with the bill and handed it to Garrett, who thanked him, opened the folder, added a tip, and signed without a word. “If you teach me this emotional-beat business tonight, we’ll schedule your interview for tomorrow. All day.”
“Deal,” she whispered, suddenly knowing exactly what he must feel every time she threatened to dig deep.
Could a wall-breaker protect her own fortress?