Jumped (6 page)

He drove his Audi from the Hotel Jerome. As he approached Aspen Creek, a dull ache took root just behind his eyes. The driveway was a long affair, a snaking thing that led steadily uphill to the house. When he saw the house, his headache cleared. Beautiful structures could do that.

It was one of the best log homes Finn had ever seen, and since moving to the area, he had seen a few. He had never designed or built one—yet—and they intrigued him. He knew it would be large, but he didn't expect it to be so elegant. The exposed logs were the color of honey tinged with amber and somehow made the house look simultaneously cozy, rustic, and sophisticated. The roofline held a series of gables that echoed the Rockies. The windows were large, and he could imagine how inviting the house must look at night when golden light spilled out of them. With snow to reflect the light and add contrast, it would be spectacular. The proportions were impressively balanced. Whoever designed it knew their stuff. He itched to see the inside.

Guests were to take the path to the back patio, where the cocktail party was hitting its stride. Lanterns lit the route, and although Finn wanted to go through the house, he figured he could get a tour later. He mounted the patio stairs and scanned the gathering, telling himself he was on the lookout for Kristen although he was really searching for Bethany. The large patio held comfortable furniture arranged in conversation clusters. There was a pool long enough to swim laps and an outdoor kitchen made of the same red native Colorado stone as the flagstones.

Finn found Bethany and stopped just to stare for a moment. She stood in profile, talking and holding a drink. She wore this sexy little black dress that showed off her legs, which deserved to be seen and seen often. She looked great. She turned her head away from him and her hair blanketed her back. It was nothing short of alluring.

He tugged the lapels of his jacket and walked over to greet Amanda. As he hugged his hostess, he noticed Kristen out of the corner of his eye. She was talking to a man and laughing almost constantly. Maybe she'd found a new target and he'd be off the hook. He got a club soda and lime. A server clad in black stopped so Finn could pluck an hors d'oeuvre—something wrapped in bacon—from a silver tray. He meandered over to Melissa and said hello, hugging her and chatting. Someone clapped him on the shoulder. It was Nick, the groom.

“Look who's here! Phil Mickelson!” All those who had been golfing earlier turned toward Nick and Finn. Several golfers ambled over. Nick put a beefy arm around Finn. “This guy tore up the course today. He was on fire. What'd you have, five birdies? You must've shot a seventy in the end.”

Finn shrugged. “I got lucky.”

“Lucky? You annihilated the ball.”

“It flies farther up here,” Finn said.

“Yeah. But in the wrong direction, at least for me.” It was Grady, who had joined the group. “You were a machine.”

“I had a good day. Doesn't happen often.” Finn looked over Nick's rock of a shoulder to find Bethany. She was looking in his general direction, but not at him. He wanted her to look at
him
. Ridiculously, he wanted her to hear how well he'd done on the course. The duffers went on a while longer; they liked talking about golf almost as much as playing. Finn didn't love golf—it was fine—but he'd played today to be polite. He itched to say hello to Bethany. As soon as he could get away from the golf chatter, he slipped out of the companionable fray.

It took no effort to turn up next to her. He could smell that shampoo again. “Hey,” he said.

She turned to him and smiled. “Hi! How are you?”

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “How are you? You look nice.” It was the understatement of the century, but it was the best he could do. His brain was busy processing the shampoo scent.

“Thanks.”

“Your feet better today?” He looked at her purple toes. “Ouch. They're bruised!”

“Very funny.”

Finn was as comfortable at a party as a hermit. He could converse and be charming, but he disliked the fake smiles and pointless babble. He much preferred to talk with one person and get to know them. And at this party, he wanted to further reacquaint himself with his former wife.

“Say,” he said after they had talked some more about her toes. “Would you mind giving me a tour? I'd like to see the interior layout.” It was a perfect excuse to spend time with her, away from the masses. And Kristen.

Bethany lifted her chin an inch. She was deciding whether or not to give him a tour.

“Look, if it's a problem, never mind,” he said, and took a step away from her.

“It's not a problem.” Those gray eyes lit up a little. “Not a problem at all.”

“I'd appreciate it.” He was trying to make this interaction as smooth as newly sanded wood.

Bethany turned on her heel and started walking away from him. “This way.” He couldn't help but notice the half moons of her strong calves flexing as she walked in front of him.

She threw open a slider that led into the house. “There's the kitchen,” she said breezily, pointing to her left. She didn't pause, but kept pounding through on the broad pine board floors. Finn wondered if she was putting new holes in the floor, she was hammering so hard with the pointy heels of her shoes. He had to push himself to keep up.

“Dining room,” she pointed out a room off the kitchen with a large, rough-hewn table and large windows. “This is the living room,” she continued, raising both arms without slowing down a bit.

“You got a bus to catch?” Finn asked, lengthening his stride to keep up. She was a good foot shorter than he was, but she was walking as fast as a trotting horse.

“There's Amanda and Grady's room, up where the piano is.” She pointed up a flight of stairs to a grand piano and double doors with a scene from an aspen forest carved into them. She kept up her punishing pace.

This was getting absurd. “Bethany!” he said. She didn't stop. This was no way to examine a building. “Bethany!” he said, louder.

He jogged to close the distance between them. When he was next to her, he said, “Bethany, slow down.”

They were in a hallway off the foyer that ran parallel to the front of the house. As she turned, his momentum carried him right into her. He wanted to flirt because of the unexpected physical contact, but he did the gentlemanly thing and grabbed her arms to steady her. To his surprise and delight, she was grinning madly. She was power walking on purpose. Her competitive streak was as strong as ever.

“What gives? By the way, I think we ditched whoever was following us somewhere back by the piano.”

Bethany exhaled a laugh. “Whatsa matter? Can't keep up? And, uh, you can let go now.”

Finn let go of her arms. Which were firm and soft at once. “Sorry.”

“S'okay.” She looked around and shrugged. “Here's the hallway.”

“This house is amazing,” Finn said. “Even when viewed at Mach one. You trying to get a run in?”

She dipped her head, which he found endearing. “Just funnin' ya.”

He did his one-corner smile. “Yeah, okay, but can we slow it down to a jog? I'm not aging as well as you. And it's hard to take in the architectural details when they blur by.”

“Now that we're alone . . .” Bethany began.

“Yeees?” Finn's brain switched gears from architecture appreciation to Bethany appreciation.

Bethany chewed the inside of her lip, one of her “tells.” She was uncomfortable about something, and Finn hoped it wasn't him. Or if it was him, that it was because she wanted to jump him right there in the hallway.

She inhaled. “How did you and Melissa become such good friends that you got invited to the wedding? No offense, but it's weird that you're here. I was wondering about it today.”

He licked his lips. Bethany still cut to the chase faster than anyone he knew. “I told you. I built their house. You get to know owners pretty well, and she and I had been acquaintances first.”

“Is this code for you dated her?”

He laughed. Melissa was great, but he'd never been interested in her. In truth, he hadn't been interested—not really—in anyone since the divorce. “No. No code. We never dated. You can ask her.”

“So you were on the crew that built her house and you became buddies? Because you hung out after work?”

“That's what you think?” He laughed. “I designed her house, then oversaw the construction.”

Bethany's eyes, which were the color of an overcast sky above the ocean, widened considerably. Her mouth opened, too. He had shocked her with his success.
Why so surprised?
A frisson of anger bloomed in his center and adrenaline surged into his arms. In a second he'd gone from wanting her to wanting to bean her.

“Then you're . . .”

“An architect. Imagine that. Despite everything, including your father.”

She stared at the runner in the hallway. She rubbed the back of her neck, another sure sign she was uncomfortable. She looked at him and spoke quietly. “Congratulations. That's great for you.”

He waited for an acerbic addition to bring up the rear, but none came. He met her gaze. “Thanks.” Then he nodded—the flash flood of anger had evaporated—and looked at the framed watercolor of an alpine landscape on the wall next to him.

“Do you work for a firm? I don't even know where you live,” she said.

“I have my own firm. You know how I am with authority.” He smiled at her, trying to ease the tension that charged the air between them like electricity in a thundercloud.

“Right.” The corners of her mouth twitched up. She had forgiven him, at least temporarily.

“I'm here, actually. But I travel some for work.”

“Aspen?”

“Just outside. I'm renting a house.”

“But you stayed at the hotel for the wedding.”

“It was more convenient to stay in town. I'm almost an hour away, up a mountain.”

“And you travel? Like, to Branson?”

“Yeah.”

“You like it?”

“Branson? Nah. It's like Vegas for kids.”

She smiled. “I meant the work.”

He nodded. “I do. I really do. It's very satisfying.”

“That's great, Finn.” She smiled, but it never lived up to its potential. It was fueled by sadness, and he wasn't sure why. Although it bothered him that she had asked if he'd dated Melissa—or was it the tone of voice she'd used that bothered him?—he decided to let this particular sleeping dog snore away with its paws twitching, because he liked the course the conversation had taken.

“I moved here recently, from Ohio. Like, two weeks ago. I really like doing houses, and if I could make a name for myself out here with clients who have the resources to build their dream homes, no holds barred . . . I could do pretty well doing what I love. So I got licensed in Colorado.”
Did you hear that, Bethany? I could do pretty well.

Bethany was looking at him, but he couldn't read her face. She sighed. “Yeah. That would be great for you.” She sounded like a lobotomy patient. She raised her arm, back in tour-guide mode. “Anyhow, um, so these are bedrooms, along this hall. Grady's trophy room is just down there—you should see it—it's round, and some of Amanda's trophies and ribbons are there now. It's where Amanda broke Grady's Emmy, and he'll never get it fixed because it happened like, a minute after they first met. Isn't that sweet?”

“It's round?” he asked.

“Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“May I see it?”

“Sure.”

She led him down the hall. The glass shelves were lit so that they glowed. A skylight kept the room from feeling like a silo.

“I'll be damned,” he said.

“So much metal in here? I know. Makes you sick.”

She gestured toward the living room, from whence they had come. “I'm going back out.” She graced him with another sad smile and said, “Don't steal any vases.” And left. He watched her retreating form in that killer black dress and wondered—as he had a zillion times before—how they had come apart so quickly and so completely.

4

F
inn was an architect.
Finn was an architect. Finn was an architect
with his own architecture firm
.

Beth almost body slammed Harris as she barreled onto the patio thinking about Finn.

He held his full flute above his head and reflexively put his tanned, manicured hand on her shoulder. “Whoa, girl—don't spill the bubbly!”

“Sorry. But he's an architect!”

“Finn?”

She nodded. Harris took her hand and led her to the bar. “Don't mind me,” he said to the bartender as he grabbed an open bottle of Perrier-Jouët and a champagne flute. He led Beth to a couch on the edge of the patio, sat her down, set his own flute on a small table, filled hers, and handed it to her. He sat next to her. “Sip.”

She did. It was cold and citrusy and made her think of Dom Perignon's supposed quote, “I am drinking the stars.” Then she filled Harris in on Finn's professional accomplishments. “And from the looks of his tux last night, he's doing quite well in the architecture game, but he wants to do better. He just moved here.”

Harris said, “Not to add insult to injury, but that shirt and jacket he's wearing tonight are yummy.”

“He wasn't supposed to have become an architect! He was supposed to have stayed on the construction crew and then gone out drinking every night after work with the rest of the losers and never had a rewarding romantic relationship and been miserable for the rest of his life. And gotten fat. And had a comb-over and boils! He wasn't supposed to be so . . . successful. Or so apparently happy.” She sipped again.

“I'm sorry, my little gloomy Gladys. But why do you care so much? You have nothing to do with him, the same way Coco Chanel had nothing to do with overaccessorizing. Why does it matter?”

“Because. Because I . . . I guess I hoped he . . .” She crinkled her nose because it was tingling and she was
not
about to cry.

“You would have preferred he be a tad more devastated and preferably emotionally paralyzed because you're no longer wed? Because if he couldn't go on without you, it would have been proof of how much he loved you?”

There was Harris's insight again, sharp as a farrier's hoof knife. She nodded. “He became what he's always wanted to be, with his own business. He got over me and our divorce like it never happened. He's fine with everything. He doesn't mind one bit that we're not together anymore. Worse, he's been thriving since I've been out of his life. It's like I was this big cement block he was chained to.

“And what have I done since we split? Here's what I've done. I quit the one thing I'm good at. I stopped teaching kids and taking them to horse shows. I'm still showing, but I'm not Amanda—I enjoy it, but I don't have her drive, or her talent, for that matter. I could give a rat's ass about the Olympics, and it's all she's ever wanted. I still have some students, but only to pay the bills. It's okay, but I don't love it. I used to love it; it used to define who I was. But I don't anymore. I tried working for my father—that was a disaster. When I got interested in clothing design, I got a job at Banana Republic. I lasted about a week because I told the customers the truth about how they looked in the clothes.”

Harris almost snorted champagne through his nose.

“
I
wasn't supposed to be the big loser.
He
was. But it's
me
. I had the privileged upbringing, not him! I had the advantages. And now I'm thirty-one and still figuring out what I want to be when I grow up. I don't even have a home since I moved out of our old Ocala apartment. My stuff's in storage. I'm a vagrant! An unemployed vagrant. And Finn's a flippin' architect.” She took a healthy swig of her champagne.

“You're an entrepreneurial vagrant. What about your clothing line?”

“With my stellar track record, I give it six months, tops.”

“That's the spirit! The ol' can't-do attitude! Finn might be a flippin' architect, but you're a flippin' clothing designer, marketer, and retailer all wrapped up in one adorable, personable package. You're launching a business, which a lot of people are too scared to even attempt. It takes a shitload of courage.”

“I'm only doing it because it's the only thing I could think of that's mildly appealing and I might be able to make a living at. If I really had courage, I'd run a horse rescue. But you can't make a living saving horses.”

“Look at me,” Harris said, and she did. “You're good enough, you're smart enough, and, gosh darn it, people like you. You can do whatever you want. Don't sell yourself short just because you're disappointed that someone who done you wrong has done well.”

“I know. Let's add immaturity to my list, too. Since I can't seem to be happy for him.”

“Here's what you're going to do. You're going to be scrupulously nice to him for the rest of the weekend.”

“How about I avoid him instead?”

“But then you have to stay home and not join in any reindeer games, and then he wins. But if you're scrupulously nice to him, you start to mend your little bruised ego. You see how that works? You take away the power you've given him over you. It's called being the bigger person. I know you know this because you're a Grade A, cage-free, free-range, no-antibiotics good egg. You'll feel better, believe me. And you'll get over this faster.”

“I like my idea better.”

“I'm sure you do. But you also know I'm right.”

Harris beamed his patented bazillion-watt smile at her, which was not only dazzling but radiated warmth as well. It could melt glaciers. On Mars. Beth felt her own lips curving up in automatic reply.

“Agreed?” he said, tilting his flute toward her.

“Agreed,” she said, and their glasses clinked.

Beth drained her champagne and tried to imagine her self-defeating attitude draining out of her mind as well. Although she agreed in theory with Harris, she didn't feel like being scrupulously nice tonight. She would start tomorrow, when she was fresh, as though it were some kind of emotional diet. Claiming a headache, she said good-bye to Melissa, Nick, Grady, and Amanda and, mercifully, didn't see Finn. He was probably still roaming around the house, looking for eyebrows over the windows or a sexy joist or something. Free at last, she slunk off to her room, shed the cocktail dress, and pulled on her favorite T-shirt—from the Hampton Classic—to sleep in. She snuggled into bed in the largest of the Aspen Creek guest rooms—which had thousand-thread-count sheets and was a thousand times more comfortable than her old bed in Ocala—turned on a movie, and fell asleep.

Breakfast at eight
was the group offering on Sunday, followed by either a bike ride or hot air ballooning. Then kayaking. Then dinner for those who were staying until Monday. Beth decided it would be best to have some bacon on board before handling whatever surprises Finn might have up his tailored sleeve today as she pursued her new Play Nice with Your Ex campaign. As she brushed her teeth that morning, she pondered her wardrobe. What shouted “nice” . . . pink? She wore her one pink T-shirt and white shorts. “I look nice,” she said to herself in the mirror before setting out to breakfast in town.

The bright diner smelled of coffee, pancakes, and maple syrup. Most of the other guests were already seated, which wasn't saying much because only six people showed up after last night's cocktail party and wee-hours partying at the hotel. Naturally, Finn was there. Worse, he looked great in just a plain navy T-shirt with a construction company logo on it and khaki cargo shorts. This was one of Finn's superpowers: he looked like a
GQ
regular even in regular-guy clothes.

Doesn't matter
, she told herself.
Shake it off.
Her mind offered “Shiny Happy People” for her mood music. Happy and nice and nice and happy. And calm. And pleasant and polite. Then she tried to channel Mr. Rogers. Or, at the very least, a Canadian.

The planets refused to align, because the only seat left was across from Finn.
At least it isn't next to him.
So there was that. And Kristen—or was it Carol?—the geologist was nowhere to be seen. Beth made eye contact and everything, then smiled and said, “Good morning” right at Finn.

“Good morning,” he said, smirking.

Trouble was, when he smirked like that, it made her think of when they used to tease each other. Also, smirking only made his eyes look bluer and sparklier.

She plowed ahead, just as she would with a rail down on the first fence on a jumper course. “Did you sleep well?” she asked as she sat.

He tilted his head as if to scrutinize her. “Yes, thanks. You?”

“Like a baby.”

He smiled at her, and she could see he was amused. “Even with that headache? Is it gone now?”

For a split second she had no idea what he was talking about, and she could tell from the way the corner of his mouth twitched that he'd spotted her cluelessness. He could always tell when she was lying.
Damn!
She slapped on a smile again and said, “I'm fine now; thanks for asking.”

“Was it a migraine?”

Great. He was milking it. “No.”

“But you had to leave and miss all the fun.”

“How much fun could there have been if I wasn't there?”

“Touché. You do add something to a party, Bethany. Always have.”

She was afraid he was going to regale the table with tales of her past exploits, but the waitress saved her by taking beverage orders.

Beth and Finn were at one end of the six-top, so he could talk to her while the other four diners chatted among themselves. He said quietly, “Brass tacks time, Bethany. You didn't get your headache because of me, did you?”

She forced a laugh, but she was a terrible actress and even she didn't buy it. “No.” She picked up the little paperboard tent on the table that listed the specials. “Will you look at this? You can get breakfast all day here.”

“Damn it, really?”

“Yes, it's right here,” she said, showing him the card. “Want pancakes at midnight? No problem. Hash browns for supper? Coming right up!”

He swiped the tent from her and set it back on the table next to the big glass sugar canister. “What did I do?”

Beth leaned in. “Nothing. Not a thing. I was tired.” She tried to sound nonchalant.

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

“I don't want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn't. You don't. I'm fine.”

“Like hell.”

Oh, that was such a Finn thing to say. The waitress, a young woman with a Russian accent who was probably here only for the summer, set hefty white mugs of coffee in front of them. Beth had a flashback to fixing Finn his morning coffee: cream so that it was practically white, no sugar. Out of nowhere, a tiny spark of sadness flared somewhere near her heart.

The waitress looked at Beth. “What would you like?”

To be anywhere but here.
“Pancakes,” Beth said automatically, because she hadn't been able to concentrate on the menu and pancakes came to mind. “With hash browns. And bacon and orange juice, please.” She glanced at the waitress as the girl looked at Finn.

Beth saw it happen again. The poor thing was assaulted by Finn's masculine gorgeousness. Beth used to get a charge out of this.
Eat your hearts out, girls, he's all mine.
But now she was more like an anthropologist observing a female assessing a mate. The girl managed to take Finn's order, smiling mightily as she jotted with her pen. Finn was, as usual, oblivious.

Beth was watching the waitress walk away when she heard Finn.

“Bethany.” He used the singsong cadence that used to cajole her when they were together. She regarded him. He was dumping cream into his coffee and stirring. The spoon clinked against the mug.

He said, “Did I do something wrong? If I did, I swear I didn't mean to.”