. . . it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled.
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
THE NEXT day Jeremy sat at the Hungry Fisherman in an old orange booth with cracked vinyl seats which he suspected had seen decades of use. He’d spent the morning working in the hot sun on the golf course hut—again without Tamra’s company or supervision—and was getting a fish sandwich for lunch. The place was completely empty at noon on a Wednesday, so he was glad he could actually pay for his meal this time around.
After he gave Polly his order and tucked the plastic menu back behind the napkin holder on his table, his cell phone notified him of a text message. He looked down to see it was from Marco, an old Marine Corp buddy. WHAT’S UP, MAN?
He typed in an answer. NOT MUCH, BUD. YOU?
He and Marco had been close in Afghanistan and it was good to hear from him. If he hadn’t fallen into such a funk, he’d have probably done more to keep in touch. As it was, Marco reached out to him every few months and they texted a little until it died down and they went quiet again for a while.
SAME HERE. JUST SORRY TO SEE SUMMER GO—HAD A GOOD ONE WITH THE KIDS. Marco lived with his wife and two little girls in St. Louis.
Before Jeremy could fashion a response, another text from Marco arrived. YOU GETTING OUT AND ABOUT ANY, BUDDY?
He’d sensed Marco’s concern over the hermit tendencies he’d developed, so he was glad to tell him he’d made a change. YOU COULD SAY THAT. I HEADED SOUTH. LITTLE PLACE IN FLORIDA CALLED CORAL COVE. DOING SOME LIGHT CONSTRUCTION.
YOU SHITTIN’ ME, SHERIDAN?
The reply made Jeremy chuckle. NO. WHY?
I KNOW THAT PLACE, MAN. PLANNING TO BRING BRITTANY AND THE KIDS TO A BEACH NOT FAR FROM THERE ON THEIR FALL BREAK FROM SCHOOL. WE SHOULD CONNECT.
Damn. That sounded good. To see an old friend. A friend who really understood.
Well, at least he understood part of the stuff that haunted Jeremy—not all of it, because there were some things he’d told only Lucky.
But still, close enough. He typed back: THAT’D BE AWESOME, DUDE.
SOUNDS LIKE YOU’RE GETTING BACK ON YOUR FEET. THAT’S DAMN GOOD TO HEAR.
He probably wasn’t quite as on his feet as his friend thought—yet things were sure as hell looking up. YEAH, THINGS ARE A LITTLE BETTER.
GOOD DEAL.
Then it occurred to Jeremy to ask: YOU DOING OKAY, MAN? He wasn’t the only one who’d been through heavy shit, after all.
OKAY ENOUGH.
Hmm. Usually Marco was the one who sounded like he had his life together, like he’d left the past in the past. But now Jeremy wondered if he’d missed stuff—hints—in their brief bits of correspondence because he’d been too mired in his own issues.
He wasn’t sure what to say, though, because he wasn’t used to being on the other side of this equation. Finally, he settled on: IT’LL BE GOOD FOR BOTH OF US TO CATCH UP.
I’LL BE IN TOUCH, JER.
SOUNDS GOOD, MAN.
When Polly brought his lunch a few minutes later, movement near her feet drew Jeremy’s eyes downward—to see a lanky gray cat trotting along with her. He let out a surprised laugh. “Well, if it’s not the captain.”
After which Polly followed his eyes to the floor, let out a screech, and nearly threw his fish sandwich up in the air.
Jeremy just chuckled and said, “It’s okay, Polly—it’s a cat. Not a bat. Or a rat.”
“I know good and well what it is—and these cats are gonna be the death of me, I tell ya.” She lowered his plate to the table, sandwich intact, though a few fries had hit the floor in the upheaval.
Jeremy let his eyes widen as he looked up at her and her very tall, hair-sprayed hair. “Cats? There are more than one?”
The older waitress released a tired-sounding sigh. “Well, I’ve only had to deal with one at a time so far. But seems like one gets a home and another stray shows up to take its place.” Then she darted her glance around the room. “And thank God you’re the only person in here right now and you’re not raisin’ Cain about it, because believe you me, the health department don’t cotton to cats in restaurants.” Then it was her eyes that grew wide as she focused her gaze tight on Jeremy. “Would you like a cat?’
The answer was easy. “I don’t have a home to give a cat, Polly—remember?”
At this, Polly took on a sneaky look and cast a sideways glance in the general direction of the motel. “Wouldn’t be the first time somebody secretly kept a cat at the Happy Crab.”
Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”
She gave a succinct nod. “Cami had pretty much adopted her kitty, Tiger Lily, when she was staying there. And it all turned out fine. Reece was real understandin’ when he found out.” She finished with a triumphant nod.
“Well, I don’t care to impose on his kindness any more than I already have. And I think Reece has a soft spot for Cami that he might not quite have for me.” Jeremy added a wink. “And besides, you just said yourself, when one cat gets a home, a new one comes along—so since you seem destined to have a cat issue here, I’ll just let you keep the one you’ve already got.”
Polly put her hands on her hips. “Just so you know, Reece told me defendin’ this fella’s furry little honor is how you got yourself in trouble with the law. So I know you like him.”
He smiled up at her. She was something else. “The fact is, Miss Coral Cove Sleuth, just because I got pissed off when somebody was mistreating him doesn’t mean I’m—like—a cat guy. If I was gonna have a pet, it’d be a dog. Man’s best friend and all that. And like I said, I live in a motel room. I’m not in the market for a pet. I’m more in the market for . . . a life.” A short laugh left him. “First things first, ya know?”
Now she smiled back, but remained undaunted in her quest. “Sometimes a pet is part of havin’ a life. A good ingredient, anyway. So you just think on that, why don’t ya?” Then she motioned to his plate. “And eat your fish before it gets cold, while I put this guy out the back door before anybody else sees him trespassin’ around here.” She rolled her eyes toward Abner, who sat on a booth on the far side of the restaurant, going over paperwork and wearing a straw hat reminiscent of one you might find on a scarecrow in the fields surrounding Jeremy’s hometown of Destiny. “If there’s cat hair in the buffet, somebody’ll have a cow.”
“I’d think anybody would have a cow if there’s cat hair in the buffet,” Jeremy pointed out with a grin. Then picked up his sandwich as Polly hefted the cat into her arms and headed to the kitchen.
After Jeremy finished his sandwich and fries, he paid his bill, pleased to leave Polly a healthy tip as she made him a to-go cup to take back to the jobsite. But as he turned to leave, his eyes landed again on Abner.
Since his arrival in town, he’d seen Abner wear many hats—literally, not figuratively. A fire chief’s hat, a motorcycle helmet, an airline pilot’s hat, a felt fedora, and more. Reece had explained that the man was just a little eccentric, that no one knew why he wore the hats, no one asked, and no one cared.
Even so, it made him sort of hard to approach—made him seem like a guy who was probably a little weird.
And still . . . Jeremy thought he himself probably seemed pretty weird to a lot of people here, so he followed his gut, and instead of heading out the door, he instead crossed the restaurant, past the buffet counter, to the darkish corner where Abner sat wearing his straw hat with an otherwise entirely normal outfit of a golf shirt and khaki shorts.
When Abner raised his eyes to Jeremy, his expression stayed stern, which Jeremy had noticed was the usual. But he didn’t let that deter him, either—since he hadn’t exactly been a barrel of laughs himself the last couple of years.
“Help ya?” Abner asked.
“Just wanted to thank you,” Jeremy said. “For your generosity since I got here.” The two men had never actually spoken before, but he knew from Polly and Reece that Abner had been fine with Polly giving him meals on the house. “I’m making some money now, so I intend to pay my debts.”
Abner’s face never changed or softened the tiniest bit as he said, “Everybody needs a little help sometimes.” And then he looked back down.
The briskness of the conversation, the way the harsh planes of Abner’s face conflicted with his kinder words, was a little jarring. “Well . . . you have a good day, Abner. And thanks again,” Jeremy said. Then he started toward the door.
“Wait.”
The command drew Jeremy up short, made him turn back around. He met Abner’s eyes beneath the brim of the straw hat.
“Most people steer pretty clear of me. I don’t blame ’em. I understand why that is. So I respect you for comin’ over. Most people wouldn’t. They’d just pass it through Polly. And that woulda been fine. But I appreciate the gesture. You’re a good man.”
Jeremy barely knew how to respond. He was taken aback. By the whole thing. Abner’s acknowledgment that, basically, he was kind of a weird dude. And the last part. It’d been a damn long time since Jeremy had felt like a good man.
Finally he said, “You are, too.” Since that much seemed clear. Might be weird. Might be gruff. But again, Jeremy could relate. We all have our secrets, our reasons.
He finished with a nod, then headed back out into the hot Coral Cove sun to get back to work.
TAMRA held a cool glass of iced tea in her hand as she sat on Fletcher’s porch with him on a sunny afternoon. It was one of her favorite places to be, and Fletcher was one of her favorite people to be with. Their friendship was a nice, easy one—comfortable enough that they could discuss almost anything, or nothing at all. Well, except maybe sex. Just because she wasn’t particularly comfortable discussing that with anyone.
“If Kim ever comes back, I hope she’ll understand about our friendship,” she mused out loud.
With her eyes still on the shore in the distance, she felt Fletcher’s piercing gaze. “First of all, it’s when, not if.” Then a warm smile unfurled beneath his dark mustache. “And second, of course she will. She’ll love you the same way I do.”
And Tamra knew this wouldn’t make him happy, but she spoke her mind anyway. “Well, I won’t love her.”
Nothing more needed to be said on that topic—Fletcher knew Tamra held a grudge against his wife. She’d met Kim only in passing during the brief time she’d been in Coral Cove before Kim’d disappeared. She had no idea what she would think of Kim’s personality—their meetings had been too brief—but she knew what she thought of a woman who would leave her loving husband so mysteriously and hurtfully. No rationale Kim could invent would ever be enough.
“When she comes back,” he said calmly, evenly, “everything will change. You’ll see. Things will suddenly all make sense. And even if you never find it in your heart to forgive her, I know you’ll be nice to her, for my sake.” He added a wink, driving his point home. “And over time, all this will be forgotten—it’ll blend into the past because we’ll all be focused on the present.” He was peering out over the sea then, an idyllic, faraway look in his eyes, and Tamra thought, as she had so many times before, what a remarkable person he was. To forgive even before Kim returned. To forgive a crime he didn’t know the true extent of—why she’d left, what she’d done since she’d been gone, when she would come back. If she would come back. Like it or not, Fletcher, none of us still has any actual reason to believe she will.
Not sure how to respond—because Fletcher had a way of making you not want to dash his hopes, even if you thought they were farfetched—Tamra opted to say nothing and took a sip of her tea instead.
“How’s work on the golf course coming?” he asked. They both watched a large white sail cross the horizon in the distance.
“Early days yet, but fine,” she said. In fact, she was enthusiastic about the project—besides being pleased with the creative aspects, she liked adding something lasting to Coral Cove’s future.
“I heard you were lying around in the dirt with that guy.” Only the tiniest hint of smugness colored his voice—he clearly enjoyed knowing something she didn’t know he knew.
“Um, you heard wrong then,” she corrected him. “He fell on top of me, that’s all. A far cry from lying around. Trust me.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” He slanted a sly grin in her direction. “Because I thought it was an interesting development. Like maybe you’d decided he wasn’t so bad after all.”
“No, he is,” she assured him. And even if she had seen signs of the guy being a little more human—and maybe even a little more interesting—than she’d initially thought, Fletcher didn’t need to know that. It would only encourage his pushiness. She even added, “I’ve been working with him as little as possible, in fact,” just to drive the point home. Sheesh, why was everyone so desperate to make something happen between her and Mr. Scruffy Beard?
“You know,” Fletcher observed, “you practically bristle when I even suggest anything between the two of you.”
“Maybe it irritates me that everyone keeps suggesting it—when I’ve expressed no interest in the man whatsoever.”
“You have a habit of doing the same thing to me,” he pointed out.
“True,” she admitted. “Because I think it’s for your own good.”
“Likewise,” he countered simply.
“But then you also know how annoying it can be,” she pointed out reasonably.
“True,” he replied. “But . . .”
She turned toward him, her look filled with warning. “But?”
He met her gaze. “But if there’s anything there at all, any slight hint of attraction, what would be wrong with exploring that? What would be wrong with having some fun with him? It wouldn’t have to be some big, serious thing if you don’t want it to. It could just be a little fun. A fling.”
Tamra thought back to earlier times in her life, times when she’d surrendered to a man, trusted a man, and how horrible the results had been. Years had passed since then—she was older and wiser. And she tried not to be a slave to her past—she lived for now and was happy to leave bad things behind her, where they belonged. She was open to the idea of love, or any other kind of relationship. But . . . only with someone who had all the right ingredients. She had no intention of giving in to any sort of pursuit from a man who seemed all wrong for her.
“Why are you all so eager to fix me up with someone who, frankly, seems like trouble?” she asked Fletcher, truly wanting to know.
He didn’t answer for a minute, clearly weighing his reply. Until he said, “Honestly?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“I’ve known you for four years. Reece and Polly and other people around here have known you since you got here, eight years ago. And as far as anyone knows, you haven’t dated anyone since then. And it’s a long time, Tamra. Especially for someone who has as much to offer as you. So maybe we just think you should . . .”
“Date any loser who comes down the pike?”
Fletcher finished his thought in a different way. “Not be so picky.”
And Tamra’s back went rigid. “Okay, now I’m bristling. Because you’re saying it’s wrong to have standards. Or that I can’t get a guy who doesn’t have major stuff wrong with him. Which is insulting. If you think I’m going to be into just any yahoo who happens to have a penis, you’re sadly mistaken.”
At this, Fletcher let out a laugh. “That’s not exactly what I was suggesting.”
“Well, it feels that way.” She raised her eyebrows. Then calmed down a little to add, “I have an idea.”
Fletcher appeared relieved, probably at her less abrasive tone. “What’s that?”
“From almost the beginning of our friendship, you and I have been pushing each other in romantic directions neither one of us seems to want to go in. So . . . maybe we should just stop. It’s never led anywhere anyway, except to getting on each other’s nerves. Agreed?”
In the wicker chair next to hers, Fletcher pursed his lips, obviously thinking this over. “I guess you make a decent point,” he finally said. Then added a short nod. “Okay—agreed. No more unsolicited advice or suggestions between us in the romance department.”
OVER the last year or so, much of Tamra’s pottery work had focused on fish. Fun, colorful, silly, happy fish. Some of them were plates, others bowls. Still others hung on walls. Smaller, more three-dimensional fish became knickknacks for tables or shelves, or were incorporated into windchimes.
Before fish had taken over her art, she’d gotten into crabs—making red crab-shaped dishes Reese had commissioned for each room at the Happy Crab, and making more crab plates and bowls to sell. And before that, she’d been drawn largely to creating more abstract pieces that were reminiscent of the sun or waves, and her stained glass suncatchers had often followed that same general design dynamic, as well.
But fun fish, it turned out, sold enormously well to the vacationing masses who patronized the Sunset Celebration at the pier each night, and she’d discovered they also made her happy. Something about just working on a silly smiling fish with big eyes or brightly colored fins made her feel uplifted. Sun and sea pieces had made her feel relaxed, calm, peaceful—and that was what she’d needed for a long while after coming to Coral Cove. Yet somewhere along the way, she supposed, she’d started needing less peace and more happy.
She generally kept the cottage quiet when she worked. Sometimes, though, in the mild weather of spring or fall, she could open the windows and let the sound of the surf echo in, as it was doing on this September morning the day after making her new agreement with Fletcher. An added benefit of the art studio in her cottage was the large window above her worktable that allowed her to look out on her garden as she created new pieces.
After using her string cutter to cut a fresh slab of clay for a new fish plate, she used a rolling pin, same as you would on cookie dough, rolling the clay out to about a quarter inch thickness. Then came the fun—the freehand design of a brand new happy fish.
Mostly it was shaping it with her fingers, but once she accomplished that, she would smooth down the edges with a wet sponge, then use a knife or the tip of a small paint brush to carve in indentions and detail. And later, she would add in additional pieces of clay—a fin, a tail, a mouth—to make the plate three-dimensional.
As the piece of simple clay became a fish in Tamra’s hands, she wondered how Jeremy was doing on the golf hut. As far as she could tell, the work had been looking good, but since that first morning, she’d only stopped by in her SUV a few times to check in with him, then driven away.
It’s stupid to let that one uncomfortable-yet-heart-rippling event keep you from spending time on the jobsite. After all, since when do you let anything or anyone intimidate you?
And yet, as she crimped one edge of clay with her fingertips to create a scalloped tail, she couldn’t not be honest with herself. The thought of going back to the jobsite brought about other feelings, as well.
It’s stupid that you want to see him. You don’t even like him. And yet, the truth was, every time she thought about him, even when Fletcher had brought him up yesterday and she’d so vehemently stuck to her story of having no interest in him, she’d continued suffering a reaction. A tingling sensation that ran the length of her body yet was undeniably centered at the crux of her thighs, emanating outward in waves, like radio signals coming from a tower.
Eventually pleased with the new fish she’d created, she placed it in a plastic container, where it would dry for a week or so before the first firing. Otherwise, it would crack or explode in the kiln.
Three fish later, she decided to go up to the golf course and start behaving like an adult here. She had a job to oversee, after all.
But this wasn’t because she wanted to see him. It was . . . to stop avoiding him.
Part of Tamra was tempted to put on one of her long, flowy skirts. Because so far she didn’t think Jeremy had seen her looking her best. But that’s ridiculous. Especially since you’re not interested in him. Or so you keep claiming.
Instead, she opted to just change the simple tee she’d been working in to a nicer top—perfectly casual but more fitted. There was no crime in showing off her shape a little, after all. Not particularly to him, but to just . . . anyone.
As she parked her car in the mini-golf course’s recently paved parking lot, she spotted Jeremy in the distance. Working in the hot sun, he’d tied a dark bandana around his head as a sweatband and wore a snug white T-shirt, dingy and soiled from work, but which still managed to outline the muscles in his chest and upper arms. His khaki shorts were loose, and a low-slung tool belt draped his hips above dirty workboots. He appeared to be hammering nails into a large window frame. His skin, more tan than the last time she’d seen him, glistened with sweat. And the spot between her legs tingled hotly. Oh hell.
Turning off the engine, she drew in a deep breath, let it back out. Looking again, this time she tried to focus on less pleasing aspects of his appearance—his longish, messy hair hung in unkempt waves and tendrils about his head. His pale beard remained gangly and ungroomed.
Unfortunately, she still suffered an almost giddy sense of nervousness to know she’d be approaching him. It made no sense.
Unless . . . this is what chemistry is.
If so, it was . . . well, either something she’d never truly experienced before or she’d entirely forgotten what it felt like. Like yesterday, her mind flashed on past men in her life, from when she was younger. Maybe she’d felt this then—a certain need, a fathomless magnetism that defied logic—but had chosen to forget, given how those relationships had ended. Maybe she’d wanted to forget—maybe she’d decided nothing good could come from a feeling that stole so much of her control, in such a non-sensical way.
Because, good Lord, if anything was non-sensical, it was that the man in the distance made her feel that. She barely knew him, she didn’t much like him, she found his unkempt hairiness unattractive, and she truly questioned whether he was a good guy or a bad one. And yet, under the surface remained a tingling that had intensified to a ridiculous degree since parking the car. Craziness.
Okay, pull yourself together here and just go talk to him. Like a normal human being. And his boss, for that matter. And . . . see how things go. More of her conversation with Fletcher came back to her now—the part about being open, and about fun. Maybe . . . she would be open to letting Jeremy change her opinion of him. Maybe.
One more deep breath and she exited the car and crossed the jobsite to where he still hammered nails into the little building, which appeared to be mostly done. He concentrated on his work as she grew nearer and made no indication that he knew she was there until he looked up and asked, “What do you think? Looking pretty good?”
He didn’t smile, but sounded proud. Almost like a guy who cared about his work.
Upon closer inspection she had to agree. “Yes, looks great. Good job,” she added. Trying to be nice. Even though it made her feel a little vulnerable with him. Maybe because they’d gotten off on the wrong foot. Inside, she supposed she feared seeming even the least bit weak to him—and sometimes in life, nice equaled weak. Sometimes, nice made you weak.
“Be ready to start painting it soon. And gotta build the doors that’ll close over the windows when the course isn’t open. We’ll need to paint those and the trim boards before I put them on.”
She nodded.
“You have the colors picked out, right? Should I buy the paint or is that something you want to do?”
The truth was, for someone who was usually on top of a project, Tamra hadn’t thought through any of the next steps—too waylaid by Jeremy Sheridan’s insertion into the situation. A realization that was all the more reason to get her head back in the game and just get used to having him around. Especially now that it actually appeared he was going to be a good, dependable worker, despite his other faults.
“I can pick up the paint. I can start painting, in fact, while you work on making the doors and cutting the trim.”
He returned his eyes to his work. “Never thought I’d say this, but might be nice to have some company.”
And the comment begged the question, even if she asked it cautiously. “Um, why did you think you’d never say that?”
He shrugged, looked solemn. “Been more of a keep-to-myself guy the last couple years.”
Now she returned the nod. And wondered out loud, feeling a little braver, “What’s changed that?”
For the first real time since she’d arrived, he fully met her gaze. Reminding her how piercing it was. She felt as pinned in place by it as a butterfly in someone’s collection case. “Maybe I like the idea of this particular company.”
Her heart fluttered nervously. Lord, it had been so long since anyone had flirted with her—and here he was, at it again, this fast. She’d totally forgotten how to respond to flirtation. Perhaps she’d never really known in the first place. Her chest tightened as she drew in a tense breath.
“Oh.”
That’s what she said, what left her. She felt frozen in place. Socially inept. What on earth was wrong with her?
His eyes. It was his eyes. The way they held on her, so intently. It was nearly unbearable.
“Maybe,” he went on, “even though we didn’t exactly hit it off, I’m cool with giving somebody a second chance.”
Okay, that was easier to deal with. And it was fair—they’d both been at fault in ways so far. So she managed to say, “Me, too.”
“Second chances have been good to me lately,” he added, ending with a soft, deep laugh that seemed to vibrate gently all through her. And she could scarcely understand how she’d felt his laugh that way, as if it had somehow entered her, become part of her. And she was all into this second chances thing, but even this small exchange of flirtation had been enough to make her want to get away from him, just a little, so she could mentally regroup.
“Um, it’s hot out here,” she said.
A hint of amusement reshaped his eyes. He knows I’m nervous. “Yeah,” he said.
She pointed vaguely over her shoulder toward the strip of businesses including the Hungry Fisherman and Gino’s. “I think I’ll walk over and get us both something to drink.”
For the first time since her approach, he actually grinned. And just like his laugh, it moved all through her. “That’d be great—thanks.”
And with that, she turned and made a beeline for Gino’s Pizzeria.
Her heart beat too fast as she walked away.
She still didn’t get it, this effect he had on her.
He had a nice smile, when he chose to use it. And his blue eyes held a certain sparkle, along with those little crinkles around the edges that were always so much more attractive on a man who was beginning to age a bit than they ever seemed on a woman.
So . . . you’re going to work a little more closely with him. And that meant one of two things would probably happen.
Either you’ll start getting to know him and ultimately decide you really don’t like him in that way and all the weird, tingly feelings will disperse.
Or . . . the weird, tingly feelings will stay and you’ll want to act on them. A thought that didn’t do anything to calm the frantic beating of her heart.
But you’re getting ahead of yourself. What you need to focus on right now is just . . . acting normal with him. Pleasant when warranted. And not nervous. After all, you can’t go dashing away for a Coke every time he smiles at you.
By the time she had two cups of Coke in her hands and began making her way back up the street, she felt more like her usual self. In control. Normal. Ready to communicate with him like a regular human being, even when he flirted. It was something of an art, flirting. And it had caught her off guard. But I can learn to flirt back. Or at least be pleasant about it while I’m trying to learn.
And . . . maybe Fletcher and her friends were right. Maybe she needed to loosen up and be more open-minded. Maybe after the bad experiences of her youth, she’d put up some sort of invisible wall—not only about not getting too close to people, but one that didn’t let men in. And maybe it was time to slowly, carefully begin taking that wall back down.
But when she crossed the street toward the jobsite and Jeremy came back into view, he wasn’t alone anymore. Two younger women stood talking to him, wearing sexy little shorts and bikini tops. And every cell in Tamra’s body went on red alert.
The three of them were laughing. Clearly flirting. So flirting with her was nothing special. He was one of those men. He flirted with every woman.
Though . . . as Tamra grew closer, she realized that one of the girls was actually Christy. And she remembered that Christy had known Jeremy growing up. And of course she was getting married soon, too. But still . . . who was the other one? She was tall, thin, a pretty brunette with bright eyes and a confidence Tamra could never hope to muster. And not a day over twenty-five.
Tamra never considered her actions—simply followed her instincts.
Marching right up, she shoved one of the drinks into Jeremy’s fist and said, “Here’s your Coke. Now I’ll thank you to get back to work. We’re paying you by the hour, and not to stand around flirting with pretty girls.”