Jumped (12 page)

“Oh yeah. I smell like a horse.”

“I am so sorry, but the water is turned off for at least another hour. They are doing something to the pool.”

“Oh. Maybe I could use the shower in Ellis's apartment.”

“It would be closer to use the guesthouse.”

“I don't mind the extra walk. It's not that much farther.”

“The guesthouse bathroom is much more desirable.”

Beth couldn't disagree. And it was closer. She wasn't crazy about seeing Finn again, but it would be her good deed for the day. “Okay. Thanks. I'll grab my stuff and go down there.”

Beth called Finn to see if he needed anything from the house. No answer. He must be asleep. She took a towel and some toiletries and headed into the warm afternoon.

Finn had every intention
of working through the afternoon, but his leg had other plans. It wanted to torment him. The eye-watering pain came full throttle, as though someone had taken to his tibia, fibula, and femur with a power drill. He took Percocet and ibuprofen, then slept. He hated to sleep today, but there was no way he would've been able to get anything done.

He awoke around five thirty to the soothing sound of the shower. Mingo, his tireless sleep buddy, lay next to him, snoring softly, his little brown head propped on a pillow like a human. Finn's head felt like it was brimming with spray-in foam insulation. He sat up and waited to stop feeling as if he had slammed down at least ten beers right before he napped. His thoughts were slogging through the La Brea Tar Pits.

Focus!
He needed to use the bathroom, but someone was in the shower.
He could use the great outdoors as his men's room, but he didn't want to chance it, not with two young girls running around the property who could see him. He'd just have to wait. Then what did he have to do? Dinner. Dinner at the house. That's right. This simple range of information seemed to take several hours to process.

He struggled out of bed and made his way into the kitchen, where he leaned against the sink and stared at the green pine forest.

Bethany is probably in your shower, dumbass.
He had half a mind—and today that wasn't saying much—to go in there unannounced. But even drugged, he knew it was a bad idea. Still, the thought of his ex-wife in the shower was more than pleasant.

Silence. Bethany must've turned off the water. He heard the bathroom door open and turned to see Bethany wrapped in a towel.
Well, well
.
This is almost as good as seeing her in the shower.
Finn inhaled and exhaled, which seemed to take around forty-five minutes. “Hi,” he mumbled.

“Oh. Hi. No water at the house, so Jacqueline sent me here. Dropped my undies,” she said, and scooped a scrap of lace from the wood floor. At the sound of his mistress's voice, Mingo raised his head and blinked. He got up, stretched fore and aft, then jumped off the bed and trotted to Bethany.

“Heya, fella, how's the Mingster?” she said, scruffling the top of his head. Mingo wriggled for all he was worth. She pet the dog as she spoke to Finn. “How are you feeling?”

“Not bad.”

“Are you still coming to dinner?”

“Planning on it.”

“I'll be out of there in a minute,” she said as she rose, holding her towel closed at her cleavage, and marched to the bathroom. She closed the door, but Mingo had followed and—full of indignation—scratched at the insulting barrier.

“Sorry!” she said and opened the door to Mingo width.

Mingo slid inside, but Bethany didn't close the door. Finn found himself looking through the narrow opening where he could see Bethany's bare back in the mirror above the bathroom sink. He knew he should turn away, but that seemed terribly taxing right that minute, so his gaze stayed put. It was dreamy and fuzzy and so familiar. He imagined her skin would be warm and moist from the shower, and she'd smell amazing. He could smell the humid, floral notes of the soap in the room. He blinked slowly. He could kiss her like that, just slide his arms around her and press his lips to her soft shoulder. Nip her there. Catch a drop of water her towel had missed with the tip of his tongue.

Bethany turned to put on her bra and he got a glimpse of her breasts. Those would be warm, too, he knew. His breathing, which was slower than normal, quickened. What he could do to her breasts, to her body. He could make her moan. He could make her beg. He could do things to her with his fingers and mouth and tongue.

Reality check.

A game-show buzzer shrieked in his head. He could barely walk, and if he did anything more strenuous than combing his hair right now, he'd collapse.
Oh yeah, McNabb, don't forget the part about how you don't know what she thinks of you, and you suspect it's not great
.
He turned his head to look at the rustic coffee table instead.

And to wait . . .

For the bathroom, for his bones to mend, and to see which direction his life would take after these summer days spent at Aspen Creek with Bethany Ann Fanelli, the former Mrs. McNabb.

Not long after,
long shadows slid across the native red flagstones of the patio as green ruby-throated hummingbirds, radiant as freshly cut emeralds, darted and dived around the feeders. Pine scented the air, and every now and then a bird's call would float in from the surrounding forest to punctuate the steady songs of crickets. It was, by any measure, a textbook-perfect July mountain evening.

Beth, Finn, and Amanda sat at the large rectangular wooden table on the patio. They were snacking on a Harris-provided spread that included bacon-wrapped dates, homemade guacamole with homemade chips, a cheese and fruit plate, and roasted kale and eggplant. Harris placed the cheese plate in front of Finn and told him to gorge himself on the calcium.

Beth thought Finn looked great, considering the walloping he'd taken almost two weeks earlier. Although Grady had rented a wheelchair for him, Finn insisted on using crutches. The cotton fabric of the button-down white shirt stretched over the muscles of his arms and shoulders as he propelled himself up the driveway. It was a stimulating sight to behold. His face was thinner and paler than usual, but still striking in that tough-guy way. He wore baggy khaki shorts because they were easy to pull over his cast.

Harris emerged with two bottles of wine and a pitcher of margaritas.

Amanda smiled and said to Finn, “Wave has a total crush on you, you know.”

“Then we're even. She's adorable. She wanted me to see Ben tonight,” he said, looking around the patio for the dog. “Where is she?”

“Yeah, where are the girls?” Beth asked.

“They're out at friends',” Amanda said. “It was an offer they couldn't refuse—video games—since we don't let them have an Xbox or PlayStation or any of those here. Because we hate to see kids having fun of any kind, according to Solstice. Last summer they didn't have any friends here, but this year we met a family who have kids their age—so they went to their house. But, Finn, be warned—Wave talked about you nonstop yesterday and asked me how old she'd have to be to get married.”

“Awww,” Beth said. “Amanda would be your mother-in-law.”

“Eeuuw,” Amanda said. “No offense, but that's just creepy.”

“Tell me about it,” Finn said
.

Harris made sure everyone's glasses were full, then sat, and conversation resumed. After a few minutes he looked through the sliding doors, whistled low, and said, “Now
that
is one fine specimen of a man.” The others looked. Grady was ushering his baseball teammate from his Stanford Cardinal days, Jack Cormier, through the house toward them.

“He is handsome,” Amanda said.

Harris said, “Handsome doesn't
begin
to cover it, cupcake. I'd love to have that bull in my bullpen.”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Please, no jokes about the size of his bat.” She sipped some sauvignon blanc.

“Nothing to stop me,” said Beth.

Amanda slid her a warning look. Beth grinned, and purposely didn't look at Finn, but they all heard him groan. She didn't even want to flirt, but it didn't matter anyway. She had to be a professional. Jack could be the person to set her life—or at least her new career, which was a start—on the right course, and she didn't want to blow it.

Grady and Jack were laughing as they stepped onto the patio. They were about the same height, around six three. Jack was swarthier than Grady, with straight hair the color of roasted coffee beans that flopped onto his forehead and framed his wide, dark brown eyes. The effect was devastating to the majority of the female population.

It's crazy how I'm surrounded by all these gorgeous men.
Beth blew out a breath. She needed to impress this impressive-looking man, so she put on her smiliest game face.

Grady made introductions, sat Jack next to Beth, and explained how he had managed to break Finn's leg.

Jack did an admirable job of trying to put Finn at ease by relating how he had once broken a friend's leg sliding into home during a practice. Jack had a light Southern accent and soft delivery. Beth could have happily listened to him read the warnings in prescription drug ads.

Dinner was another
Harris masterpiece, featuring grilled salmon accompanied by a sauce so addictive Beth knew it must contain crack cocaine. Jack was a delightful dining companion, chatting amiably, holding serving platters for her, and topping off her margarita and water glasses. Of course, he did the same for Amanda, but Beth decided to pretend he was treating her specially. The margarita fortified her delusion.

Even with the handsome and charming former major-league, all-star pitcher—a career Grady told them about because Jack was too modest—to her left, Beth couldn't help but sneak glances at Finn. Toward the end of the meal, Finn was looking at Jack, and if Beth hadn't been married to him, she wouldn't have known Finn was giving Jack what they used to call his “cocktail party daggers” look, his subtle, out-in-public snarl. Finn did not like Jack. Not at all.

Too bad.
A small bubble of elation rose through Beth's torso. Call her petty, but she liked that Finn was, well, jealous. He had Kristen; she has Jack. Fair is fair.

“Grady tells me you are a new entrepreneur,” Jack said in an accent that could charm a rattlesnake.

Beth felt her face get warm. She was blushing! Amanda would have a field day with this. “Yes,” she said perkily. “High-end horse-show attire. I designed the shirts myself.”

“So I've been told. I'd love to discuss this after dinner, if that's all right with you?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me. You work at an ad agency in Aspen?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Grady piped up. “He owns the place. And he's too modest to say anything, but it's become the hottest agency in the West.”

“Grady exaggerates,” Jack said.

“Hardly. He wins those—what are they? Oscars for ad agencies? Clios.”