When new beautiful thoughts began to push out of the old hideous ones, life began to come back to him . . .
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
“YOU . . . DID this for me?” She found herself blinking, repeatedly. Nervous and still trying to wrap her head around this new and improved Jeremy Sheridan. He looked improved anyway. He looked like . . . a hot, sexy dream come true.
“It was time,” he said. “But . . . you gave me a reason.”
She sucked in her breath once more, and finally let it out in a rush. Crap, she kept forgetting to breathe. But it was hard with him standing in front of her suddenly looking so . . . wow. Drop dead gorgeous. She could really see him now. And she couldn’t get over how much she liked what she saw.
“Wanting to let me really see you,” she clarified, still taking that in, too.
He nodded. “After you said that, I guess I wanted to let you see me more the way . . . I used to be. More like I used to see myself.”
She didn’t know how to respond. It seemed like a profound gift at a moment when she’d least expected it.
“In case it matters,” he went on. “In case it fixes anything. Between us.”
When she pulled in her breath this time, she reminded herself to let it back out. And she was honest. “It matters,” she said. And it wasn’t just that he was suddenly so much more attractive to her—Lord, he even wore a short-sleeved button-down shirt with nicer-than-usual shorts—it was that he’d done it. He’d made the effort. For her. A big one.
“There’s something about you,” he continued. “Something about us.” He moved his fingers back and forth between them. “War changed me. It made me see things clearer—but not in a good way. It made my life feel . . . small. And pointless. And like I didn’t deserve to be happy. But since I came here, I’ve started . . . feeling a little better. Sometimes. And a little more normal. Sometimes.” He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh, then shook his head. “Maybe I should shut up. Maybe I’m saying all the wrong things when I want to say the right ones. But . . . I’m trying. Because you make me want to do that. You make me feel things I haven’t for a while. And maybe I just don’t want to let that go.”
A lump had risen to Tamra’s throat. Because he was pouring his heart out to her. He was doing exactly what she’d asked of him and never expected him to do—really let her see him. And not just on the outside, either.
So even as hard as it was—and had always been—to let herself be that open, too, she knew she must. And not only because she’d promised Fletcher. But because Jeremy made her want to. He made her feel like she could be real with him. Like she had to, in fact. Because if someone was real with you and you couldn’t give that back to them, at least a little, what was the point in even living? “You . . . make me feel things I haven’t felt in a long time, too.”
“Why?”
“Huh?” she asked.
“Why haven’t you felt them? I know why I haven’t felt them—but why haven’t you felt them, Mary?”
Just then, John and Nancy Romo came walking up. “Cake!” John announced happily, like it came as a surprise.
As his wife said, “Why, Jeremy Sheridan as I live and breathe. I heard you were here—why haven’t you come and seen us?”
Once again, Tamra let out a breath she hadn’t quite realized she was holding.
“John, Nancy—hi.” He lifted a small wave, and Tamra could feel him being as nice as he could but also wishing they hadn’t been interrupted.
“I owe your mother a phone call,” Nancy was saying now. “I’ll have to tell her I saw you. You look wonderful, by the way.” She was reaching out, grabbing his hand. “You’ll have to come over—we’ll grill out, make shish kebobs. You know how John loves his shish kebobs. And I want to hear how you’re liking our little town—we were thrilled to hear you’d come down to stay for a while. And you know if you need anything, you just give us a call. Or knock on the door, for that matter. You’re family, after all.”
After a little more small talk, the Romos departed and Tamra asked, “Family?”
“My sister is married to their son. And our parents are close friends. I visited here with my mom and dad once.”
She nodded.
And he said, “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I didn’t have a chance before they walked up.”
“You have a chance now.” His eyes burned with the same intensity as the sun shining down from a bright, clear sky—even though it was long past dark and the lighting behind the motel was dim, so it was something she could feel more than see.
And when it looked like more people might be heading toward the cake table, Jeremy removed the slicer from her grip and set it down, then took her hand and drew her away into the shadow of a palm tree near the dock.
His question, though, was a complicated one, and she didn’t know how to make her answer simple. But she bit her lip, thinking it through, and tried her best. “I . . . I was raised in a commune out west,” she began.
“Wow,” he said.
And she appreciated that he instantly grasped the gravity of what a different sort of life she’d led than most people.
“Yeah—wow,” she repeated numbly. “It’s . . . not the most normal environment.”
“I can imagine.”
“Relationships of all kinds there were . . . strange. I trusted the wrong people a couple of times. And I guess I just let it . . . harden me or something.”
He stepped closer, their eyes locking. “I felt that. That you were softer underneath. Under whatever made you act so tough on the outside.”
“Really? You could?” Tamra didn’t know anyone could see that part—sometimes she forgot it was there herself.
He nodded, his sexy eyes falling half shut, and she thought maybe he was going to kiss her—until she heard Christy’s voice. “Jeremy! Oh my God, is that you! Look at you! You look fabulous!”
One more breath Tamra had to let out—as Jeremy spun to face Christy. “Yeah,” he said, “thought I’d try to make myself a little more presentable for your party.”
“You look so much more like I remember you now!”
And then Reece approached behind Christy. “Whoa. Is that really you?”
“Guilty as charged, bro.”
And Reece just shook his head. “I can’t handle much more of having my mind blown tonight.”
And when Jeremy looked at Tamra, confused, she explained, “You’re the third person, including me, who’s shown up here tonight looking different.”
“We seriously need to start throwing more parties around this town,” Reece said. “Apparently it really makes people clean up.”
Everyone laughed, and Tamra stepped up and gave Reece a teasing slug in the arm.
“The good thing for you,” Reece told Christy, “is that everyone in your wedding pictures is going to look like they came off the cover of GQ.”
And Christy playfully lowered her chin to reply, “Um, speaking of that, you could use a trim. It didn’t seem important when everyone else around here was looking so shaggy, but you might be the weakest link now.”
More laughter erupted, and the next thing Tamra knew, Grand Funk Railroad’s version of “Locomotion” blared from the speakers, and Tamra spotted Polly trying to move Fifi out of the way in the area serving as a dance floor.
“Polly, Polly, Polly,” Reece said, leaving them to approach her, “you can’t make a conga line with an iguana.” And he grabbed her, spun her around, and put his hands on her waist. “You can make one with an iguana owner, though.”
Tamra laughed, beginning to realize Reece had downed a few mojitos.
“Come on, people,” he said, “don’t make me and Polly look foolish.”
“Um, you might be managing that on your own!” Cami called laughingly, but fell into line behind him. And the rest of the party joined in. Even Riley. Even Charlie in his wheelchair. And even—holy crap—Abner!
Though Jeremy and Tamra still stood on the sidelines. He looked at her said, “I’m not much of a party guy these days, but . . . if Abner’s having more fun than we are, something’s wrong.”
“We should probably join in,” Tamra agreed, and they fell in at the back of the line, Jeremy behind her. And she couldn’t deny immediately liking how his hands felt on her hips.
As is wont to happen during a conga line, there were occasional stops and starts that caused people to bump into the person in front of them. And when Jeremy bumped into Tamra from behind, it was . . . nice. Warm. It sent ripples all through her. Especially when he refastened his hands to her hips. His thumbs pressed into her flesh, just a little, more than if the person in front of him were a stranger. And then—mmm—his body came flush against hers, resulting in . . . a firmness against her ass.
She looked over her shoulder, found his face right there, an inch or two away. She dropped her gaze from his eyes to his mouth, his jaw, his chin—all visible now, even through his short beard. And she liked them. And she liked that they were so near. To her mouth. If she wasn’t mistaken, his hold on her hips tightened, his fingers splaying wider, somehow feeling as if he was touching a little more of her.
When the song ended, Meghan Trainor’s “All About That Bass” took its place and everyone fell into dancing the normal way—except for Tamra and Jeremy, who stood facing each other uncertainly. “I’m not much of a dance guy, either,” he said.
“We have that in common,” she informed him. And yet, she sort of wanted to. Maybe it was the mojitos. Or maybe it was just the vibe of the night. If she couldn’t release her inhibitions tonight, when miracles were taking place right and left, when could she?
So that was why it made her happy when he said, “But . . . when in Rome, what the hell, right?”
She laughed and said, “Right. Let’s dance like fools and not give a damn.”
And that’s exactly what they did. They danced to fast songs, and they danced to slow ones, too, Tamra melting gingerly into Jeremy’s arms, secretly happy when the tempo slowed and Colbie Caillat began singing lyrics that told her she didn’t have to try so hard. And it was true—she didn’t. It was . . . easier than she could have dreamed even a few hours ago to lean against Jeremy, feel his warmth, welcome his embrace as his muscular arms cocooned her. It was no less new, but it was less . . . scary. Because . . . he’d let her see him now.
They laughed together, talking about nothing and everything. She knew people wondered who she was dancing with—she felt them watching, whispering—but she didn’t care. She was simply having fun. A kind of fun she couldn’t remember having had . . . ever.
When they took a restroom break, Tamra came out first and spotted Fletcher, also on the dance floor, looking like he was having as much fun with Bethany as she was with Jeremy. On impulse, she grabbed up a black pen to write on one of the little yellow napkins at the cake table:
It’s a night for miracles!
And she whisked past the two of them on the dance floor and gently tucked the napkin into Fletcher’s pocket. Just because. Whenever he found it, she wanted to remind him. Things were shifting. For both of them. Suddenly nothing seemed impossible. A happiness she’d never quite envisioned—for both her and Fletcher—seemed within reach.
And yes, she barely knew Jeremy. But as Fletcher had said, this was just about being open, having fun, living. She was taking this one moment at a time and enjoying the hell out of it.
When a hand closed over her wrist, she turned to find Jeremy—looking as handsome and strong as he had all night. She still couldn’t believe this was the same unkempt man she’d come to know on the jobsite. She still couldn’t believe he’d changed that—for her. “Dance with me some more, Mary?”
Another slow song was starting. “Yes,” she said.
Her arms circled his neck as his closed around her waist. As they swayed back and forth, it held all the tension and heat and new intimacy of a pair of teenagers dancing at the prom. But Tamra had never been to the prom—this was her first time dancing like that. She never wanted the music to end.
But when it did, Jeremy whispered in her ear, “Take a walk with me.”
It never occurred to her to refuse—she wanted to be alone with him, wanted to know him better.
When he took her hand, she didn’t balk—she let him hold it, liking the connection. Even that, just holding a man’s hand, was something she’d done so little of, and something in the simplicity of it felt special.
They walked in silence for a few moments, up the dock, away from the party, the noise and music fading as they strolled past the line of boats.
“I met your cat friend,” she volunteered.
She felt him look at her in the dark, then refocus his attention ahead. “I wouldn’t say we’re really friends. We just . . . hang out some. I’m more of a dog guy.”
“Okay,” she said, smiling inside as he tried to hide his affection for the cat.
“What made you change your hair?” he asked.
She considered her answer carefully, but it was hard because there was so much else to concentrate on and feel—his hand in hers, the soft breeze, the stars overhead. “I guess I was just trying to . . . embrace change. Be open to new things.”
“New things like me?”
“Maybe,” she said.
“New things like . . . kissing me?”
She pulled in her breath. Hesitated only a second. Then admitted “Maybe,” once more.
“It looks great,” he told her.
“You . . . look great, too.” It wasn’t easy for her to be openly complimentary of a man that way—she simply wasn’t accustomed to it and she’d spent so much effort trying to convince this one that she wasn’t into him.
“Thanks,” he said. “For, like I said, giving me a reason.” Then he stopped, turned to face her, and took both her hands in his. “I hope you’re open to it now.”
“Open to what?” she asked—right before he kissed her.
Unlike earlier when they’d kept getting interrupted, she wasn’t completely ready for it. She’d been totally in the moment with him, enjoying his company, not thinking ahead. And now—she felt awkward. Was she kissing him right? She didn’t know. She barely remembered how to kiss—just as when it had happened in her garden.
Only then . . . she stopped worrying. She stopped thinking altogether. Because it just felt good. To kiss and be kissed. To have his hands on her—they gripped her waist firmly, warmly. Like when they were dancing, hers circled his neck—and she liked that it was bare now, no longer covered with his hair, because she could feel his skin.
The kiss was slower than when he’d kissed her in her garden—now he came off like a calculated lover, a man who kissed well and often, even if he’d told her that wasn’t the case. When his tongue pushed into her mouth, she didn’t hesitate—she followed the instinct to touch it with her own. A low groan rose from his throat in response and she felt it between her legs.
He stopped the kisses to speak low and raspy into her ear. “Maybe you’re right—maybe you’re not so contrary after all.”
Her own voice came out breathy, girlish. “See, I told you.”
He pulled back slightly, just enough for her to see his small, flirtatious smile. “I just had to get past the contrary.”
She’d drawn her hands down, pressing her palms against his chest, and she used one of them to playfully swat at him. “You had a pretty good dose of contrary in you, too, mister.”
He just shrugged, looking a little smug about it. “Part of my charm.”
She laughed, and gazing down into her eyes made Jeremy chuckle, too. He’d never seen Tamra like this, so gentle and sweet, and he’d begun to think he never would. Damn, he was glad he’d been wrong about that.
As he leaned back in for more kissing, she was less tentative than before—he could tell she’d relaxed into it now, could feel it in her touch, in the way her lips melded more sensually to his. Each time he’d started kissing her, it had been as if she was afraid to let herself go, afraid to let him see she wanted it, too. But now she wasn’t trying to hide it anymore—she was kissing him more freely, more confidently, and he liked it. A lot.
He still couldn’t get over the way she looked tonight. He’d known she had curves, but this was the only time he’d ever seen them shown off to full advantage. And the way she’d changed her hair made her appear somehow both . . . prettier and wilder at the same time. It was hair a man’s hands could get lost in. But right now he was too busy exploring her curves with his hands, so he’d save that for later.
It moved him—and hell, turned him on—to know she’d made those alterations with him in mind. The same way he had for her. And God, it felt amazing to connect with her like this. After having her put the brakes on, it felt like the sweetest of rewards that her tune had changed now.
Jeremy sunk deeper, got lost in their kisses. He’d grown hard behind his zipper and now followed the urge to lean into her, to let her feel what she’d done to him.
She gasped, breaking the kiss, as he pressed his hips more fully against hers. Their eyes met—hers wide and wanting. He wanted to kiss her into oblivion.
As he brought his mouth back down on her soft, pliable lips, her fingers clutched at the front of his shirt. And his hand slid unthinkingly, unplanned, upward from her hip to the side of her full breast.
Another short, heated gasp. More need expanding inside him.
But shit, why did I start this here? Out on a dock just a stone’s throw from a big party. He wanted to take her right here anyway, though—wanted to just push up her dress and thrust himself into her warmth.
Yet as tempting as it was to proceed where they were, he had a feeling Tamra wouldn’t be into that kind of risk—and besides, he wanted to take his time with her, not rush this. And fortunately an easy solution hit him. He stopped kissing her just long enough to rasp in her ear, “Let’s go to my room.” Because, like the party, the Happy Crab lay only a stone’s throw away.
Her eyes changed then, and he couldn’t read them—but . . . uh oh. He had a feeling that this change wasn’t a good one. “I—I can’t,” she said on labored breath.
Aw hell. “Why not?” he asked. “No one has to know. They’re all busy—they won’t even notice us.”
Now she shook her head, looked distressed. Her fingers still clawed into his shirt. “It’s not that.”
“What then?” He pulled back, gazed down into her eyes. She’d wanted to see him and he’d shown her. Now he wanted her to see the rest of him. “Tamra, I want you.”
He watched her pull in her breath, saw the fear glistening more clearly now in her green eyes, the air around them lit dimly by lamps that lined the dock. “I’m sorry,” she said. And then, fast as that, she was racing away from him in the night, back toward the party, looking unsteady on the low heels she wore.
Well, shit. She was back to being contrary again.
He could have chased her but didn’t.
If she wanted to run away, who was he to stop her?
Even if his cock ached at her departure. A low groan left him as he tried to push down his rising frustration.
He didn’t know what was wrong with the woman. But he wasn’t in the business of fixing people, that was for damn sure. He couldn’t even fix himself—or it was still a work in progress anyway.
He stood in the pale lamplight running his hand back through freshly cut hair, surprised for a second to find so little of it—he’d forgotten for a moment that he’d cut it all off. Trying to be better. Trying to be his old self.
His mind flashed on the tiny little nugget of her past she’d given him earlier—that she’d been raised in a commune. What had that been like? How badly was she screwed up inside and why?
But it didn’t really matter. Familiar feelings flooded him. Can’t fix anybody, can’t save anybody.
He’d come to the party tonight because Abner—of all unlikely people—had inspired him. But the truth was, he didn’t like crowds any more tonight than he had a few days ago and he’d sat in his room for a good long time before making himself come out. And right now, he was just tired of trying.
Trudging toward the party, he decided he’d just head back to his room. If he was lucky, he’d make a clean getaway without having to talk to anyone.
His chest tightened as the music got louder, the lights brighter. Re-entering the party area was a slight assault on his senses, same as when he’d walked in earlier, but just like then, he didn’t let it show. Most of the crowd was dancing, though some people sat at tables eating cake or stood talking near the makeshift bar. Abner sat by himself near the buffet tables, and Jeremy accidentally made eye contact with him. He gave a slight nod, hoping that would be enough to allow him to walk away unbothered.
He was about to pass through the breezeway that led to his room—when his eyes fell on a pale yellow sweater draped over the back of a white chair. The chair Tamra had sat in earlier, where her purse had been resting as well. She’d left her sweater behind.
Jeremy knew it would likely make its way back to her—her friends would know it was hers. But he picked it up anyway, then exited through the breezeway. It would be easier if he just returned it himself—that way he’d be sure.
As he left the party, though, he realized the only question was: Did he go back into his room and go to bed, holding on to the sweater until Monday? Or . . . did he return it now?
FLETCHER and Bethany had just left the dance floor and found drinks to quench their thirst. He held his up, grinning into her eyes, and said, “Here’s to new friends.”
In response, she lowered her chin slightly and flashed him a coy look. “I hope you don’t mean that.”
He didn’t understand, tilted his head. “What?”
Her smile held confidence. And mystery. “I like you, Fletcher,” she said. “And I want to be more than just friends.” And with that, she lifted one well-manicured hand to his freshly shaven jaw, her touch as soft as an angel’s, then lifted a kiss to his cheek.
“Be right back,” she told him then, quick as that walking boldly away toward the bathroom, and he realized he’d felt that kiss as keenly as if it had been on his mouth. It tingled all through him. He’d forgotten that—how good a woman’s touch could feel, the sensations it could send echoing through his body.
He wasn’t quite sure how this night had come into being. In ways, he felt like someone else—like she’d said earlier, some other version of himself from some other dimension. He looked different than he had just this morning. And he felt different, too. But at the same time, he was still himself. He just hadn’t expected to suddenly have shaved off the beard and cut off the ponytail he’d worn his whole adult life. He hadn’t expected to be dancing the night away with a beautiful, alluring young woman he’d just met. He hadn’t expected her to kiss his cheek, touch his face, tell him she wanted something more. And most of all, he hadn’t expected to want it, too.
A glance down drew his eye to something sticking out of his jacket pocket. Reaching down, he drew it out—a yellow napkin with something written on it in ink.
It’s a night for miracles!
He just stared at it, took in the words. The last time he’d found a note like this, it had ended life as he knew it. These words were so much better than those others had been. And he wasn’t sure where the napkin had come from, so it felt almost as surreal as the rest of this evening. But it also felt true. A night for miracles indeed.
When he saw Bethany returning, walking toward him with that same bold, purposeful stride, he shoved the napkin back in his pocket. And decided to embrace miracles. He smiled boldly, hoping she’d see, understand, that he was ready. For her.
That was when someone tapped on his shoulder from behind—and he turned to find his wife standing there, four long years after he’d last seen her. “Hi, Fletch,” she said. “I’m home.”