One of These Nights (3 page)

The idea of Jason Evans, Animal Savior and Softy, wasn't one Zoe could quite reconcile with her mental image of him. So she set it aside as best she could, squared her shoulders, and decided to end the conversation before she was confronted with any other information she didn't know how to handle. Like maybe that Big Al Piche, who was the Cove's bizarre, weirdly intelligent village idiot, was a James Bond–level international superspy.

Though all things considered, Big Al being a spy was easier to believe than Jason having a heart of gold.

“I'll make sure we get something over to him,” Zoe said, then shifted gears. “So, are we doing food tonight, or just drinks? I'll wait to eat if this is a late dinner thing.”

She caught the knowing look Sam gave her, but Zoe didn't care if she'd been smooth about changing the subject. She wasn't about to let Jason take up any more of her time than he already had.

Especially, she thought as she locked the gallery door, because he already took up a lot more time than anyone, even—
especially
—Jason himself, knew.

“M
om, really, it's okay. No, no, I'm happy to have you come for a visit, but a week is more than enough. Yeah, I know I'm going to need help for a while.”

Jason sat on the couch and glared at his bum leg, the lower half of which was immobilized in a clunky cast. His leg might be the issue, but this whole thing was a giant pain in his ass. He adjusted the phone between his shoulder and his ear and listened to another dozen reasons why his mother was coming to take care of him, possibly forever. Her voice, calm and deceptively patient, continued to gently pummel him. People thought she was sweet. She was . . . sort of . . . but they tended to miss the steel underneath. He didn't, and he knew when he was in for it. This was one of those times.

“Honey, I know you don't like anyone fussing over you, but I remember what it was like when your father broke his arm falling off that ladder a few years ago. He needed a lot of help, and I'm sure you do, too. Are you eating? You never did cook; you're probably just living on cereal. Do you have any clean clothes? I know you don't, Jason Patrick Evans, and don't even think about lying to me. You need help, and I'll be there on Sunday, just like we planned.”

“Like
you
planned,” Jason muttered, which earned him a sharp snort from the woman who he had once been convinced kept the entire planet from spinning off its orbit and out into space through sheer force of will. He'd gotten his stubbornness from her. That was one reason why occupying the same enclosed space with her for an extended period of time filled him with dread. He loved his mother dearly, but he gave it a matter of hours before she was after him about everything from his holey old boxer shorts to his lack of a social life. And right now, the state of his house wasn't going to help his cause.

Jason scanned the high-ceilinged great room, which encompassed most of the log home's living space, and winced. Dust swirled lazily in a sunbeam. Dishes sat haphazardly in the sink. Clothes were tossed over the furniture, left there because just getting them off was enough of a chore right now. The sight did nothing for his mood—he was a lot of things, but a slob wasn't one of them. Unfortunately, his plans of powering through this with sheer orneriness weren't working out that well so far.

“If I didn't do the planning, nothing would happen. You'd sit there and fester until your cousin called me out of desperation, and we'd be back at the same place.” She sighed, and guilt mixed with his frustration. He didn't want to upset her. He just wanted to crawl in a hole somewhere until his leg was better.

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Uh-huh. I'm used to it. You were never a treat when you were sick. Unlike your brother. You know he still asks me to come make him soup when he gets a cold.”

Jason bit back a groan. This was one of the many reasons he had to find a way to give this impending visit a definite end point, and the sooner the better. He didn't want daily updates on the endless charms and delights of his baby brother, who had oozed perfection from his pores since birth. At least, according to the rest of the family. It wasn't that he didn't love Tommy. It was just that Tommy had never really seemed to need it . . . he got more than enough love from everybody else.

Story of his life.

“When your father gets back from this fishing trip they've got him going on for work—I don't think for a second it's not just an excuse for a bunch of them to escape onto the water and drink too much for a few days, but they're calling it work—he said he'd like to come out to stay for a bit, too, not just to get me and run. He has plenty of vacation time saved up. Maybe we can get your brother to come visit, too, at least for a weekend. What do you think? We haven't all been together since last Thanksgiving, and that was only for a couple of days. I miss the Cove this time of year. You know we love Florida, but it's hotter than hell right now and I don't want to learn to fish, even if your dad does keep after me about it. Oh, if we can get you up and around, maybe we can go to the field days! I told Tammy and Paul I was coming into town, and they said . . .”

Her words washed over him, but Jason stopped hearing them. It all sounded like a rushing, rising wave of pure panic to him. He had to do something. Anything. Otherwise, his small sanctuary in the woods was quickly going to become his idea of hell on earth. Unfortunately, in his current condition, running away until further notice wasn't a viable option.

It took a few seconds for the soft knocking at his door to register, and even then he might not have noticed but for the way the bundle of tan-and-white fur that had been sleeping smashed up against his thigh suddenly burst into motion, barking furiously as she flew off the couch and scrambled toward the door.

Her injuries sure hadn't slowed her down any, Jason thought, ruefully amused.
That makes one of us.

“Oh, somebody there?” his mother asked.

“Yeah, probably just Jake. He said he was going to swing by after work to check on me.” He covered the receiver for a minute to call out, “Come in!” over the wild barking before returning his attention to the conversation at hand.

“Your cousin is sweet. I hope you appreciate what he's doing.”

“Sure,” Jason drawled. “He comes over, I verbally abuse him until I get tired, he plays with Rosie, and we both end the day happy. It works out.”

“Jason.”

He was in mid-smirk when he heard the light tap of a heel on his floor. A familiar—and very feminine—voice reached his ears and rippled all the way through him. Just the way it always did.

“Hello?”

He took a breath, pushed aside his immediate instinct to whip his head around and start snarling at her out of complete mortification at what she must be seeing, and managed a reasonably civil, “Hey,” with a slight turn of his head. “I'll just be a . . . second.”

Jason had to force the final word out, since his brain stalled the second he caught sight of her. He was used to seeing Zoe Watson in what he thought of as her work uniform: long, loose shirt, sometimes a sweater, usually with an incomprehensibly tied scarf, over leggings and a pair of boots from Zoe's wide and varied collection. The woman seemed to have some weird riding-boot fetish. Not that there was anything wrong with that. But this was after work—the first time he'd ever actually seen her outside the gallery, he realized—and either she was deliberately messing with his head or there was a lot he didn't know about Zoe.

Probably both.

She was wearing one of those shirts that looked like a silky handkerchief that had been cleverly tied to her in a couple of key spots, along with a pair of skinny white pants cut a few inches too short and some kind of strappy heels that made his mouth water despite the fact that they made no sense to him. Zoe was little, maybe five-two, and he knew she had a great figure, but this evening she was showcasing her hourglass curves in a way he'd only imagined. Every inch of her, from her long, shapely legs to the curve of her backside to the graceful neck she almost never showed off, was a feast for his eyes. Her mocha skin had a warm glow in the hazy light filtering in through the windows.

It took longer than it should have for him to realize she was watching him closely—curiously. However he'd been staring at her, she didn't seem to know quite what to do with it.

“Not a problem,” Zoe said with a small smile. “I'll wait.” Her big gray eyes regarded him with something like amusement before she shifted a potted plant she was carrying from one arm to the other and dropped into a crouch to fuss over Rosie. Jason tried to collect his thoughts, aware his mother was insistently repeating a few words. A question? Yeah, it was a question.

“Jason,
who is that
? Because if I didn't know any better, I'd say it was a woman.”

Jesus, you'd think she just spotted a unicorn.

He readjusted the phone against his ear, listening to Zoe croon at his dog. He hadn't had her pegged as a dog person. He hadn't really pegged her as an anything person, actually. He was usually too busy trying not to drool on himself while he was arguing with her. The body might be heavenly, but her face, a perfect oval with a pert little nose and full lips she often painted some lickable shade of red, not to mention those
eyes
, was enough to knock any sane man on his ass. He'd been sure he was building up immunity thanks to their regular arguments.

So much for that.

“Jason, are you still there? Who—”

A thought occurred to him then, just a wisp of an idea stamped This Might Work. He grasped at it like a drowning man confronted with the bobbing remnants of a shattered ship. It might not be enough to save him, and Zoe would probably kill him anyway, but what choice did he have?

“That's Zoe, Mom.” He saw her look up sharply from where she was petting Rosie.

“Oh?” It was a loaded question, and he knew it. He could hear all the other questions running just beneath the surface of that single, simple word. Zoe rose and came to stand before him, one hand on her hip in a stance he was well acquainted with by now. The arched eyebrow meant she was curious, but the hand on the hip? It didn't bode well for him.

Maybe she'd cut him some slack because he was injured. He was also desperate. And so while Zoe stared at him, he told Molly Evans the biggest lie since she'd been on the front porch at two a.m. asking his seventeen-year-old self whether he'd been drinking. “Yeah, well, she's been helping me out. That's why I'm not sure about all these plans you've got going. . . . I mean, I'd love to have everybody for the rest of the summer, but my place is pretty small and she's, you know”—he scrubbed a hand through his hair—“around a lot.”

Zoe's mouth dropped open.

Yep, I'm dead.

To Zoe's credit, she didn't hurl the potted plant in her hands at his head. She looked like she wanted to, but she didn't. Instead, her storm gray eyes full of fire, she mouthed,
I will kill you.

There was a moment of dead silence. Then his mother spoke: “Well,
finally
!”

Her laugh, her voice, held so much relief that any hope that his relationship status had ceased to be a topic of interest in the family evaporated. They still talked about him—poor, lonely, brokenhearted Jason—because of course they did. Because of Sara. When the divorce had been finalized, he'd assumed she was gone for good. He hadn't known that just the idea of her would continue to give him problems four years on. And as hard as she'd been at the end, he didn't think this was what Sara had intended, either. She'd just wanted to go. In the end, he'd let her.

He just wished everybody else would, too.

As Zoe's jaw tightened and the hand at her hip curled into a claw, Jason tried to tell himself that what he'd just done was no big deal. A girlfriend, even an imaginary one, would make his mother quit worrying and save him from weeks of having a social life forced on him when all he really wanted to do was convalesce and brood. It might keep Tommy Evans, Local Superstar, down in Miami where he belonged instead of up here showing off. Zoe didn't even have to be around. Hell, he'd invent a different Zoe if he had to, and then send her on an equally imaginary vacation or . . . something. But no matter how he tried to sugarcoat it, he couldn't escape the fact that he'd just dragged the real Zoe into his life in a big way, without asking permission, and with a whole lot of potential ramifications that she seemed fully aware of. That was why she was going to kill him. He probably deserved it.

But that was still a more appealing thought than having his family pile in on him for a month.

Damn. This is a new low.

His mother's voice chirped happily in his ear, pulling him back into a conversation he had no idea how to participate in. Not with Zoe's death stare fixed on him. He held up one hand toward her, tried for an expression that he hoped was somewhere in the vicinity of too-pathetic-to-annihilate, and mouthed the words,
Wait. Please.

“Hey, Mom, look, I've gotta go.” Jason hoped he didn't sound as panicked as he felt. “Yep, see you Sunday.” He was ready to hang up when she said the words that shoved a sliver of ice-cold fear directly through his heart.

“I can't wait to meet the mystery woman.”

She was being perfectly sincere. But as it tended to do on the rare occasions he slipped into panic, the verbal tic Jason had worked so hard to rid himself of when he was a child returned to tie his tongue in knots. “I-I-I-I'm sure she'll be h-happy to meet you, too.”

Nice. In front of Zoe, even. You're on a roll today, man.

Zoe's expression changed, ever so slightly, and Jason looked away. He had to. The last thing he needed was a dose of pity from a woman who was already way the hell out of his league. His mother clucked her tongue at him across the miles. “Oh, don't be nervous, honey. I'm sure I'll love her. It's about time you found somebody who appreciates you. After all Sara put you through, you deserve it.”

“Uh.” It was the only response he could muster, but she didn't seem to mind.

“Love you, see you Sunday!” she chirped. “I'll call once Moira picks me up and we're on our way!”

His aunt Moira, Jake's mother. A woman who knew damn well he wasn't dating anyone. His spur-of-the-moment plan was already in flames, and he hadn't even hung up the phone. Maybe he ought to be glad he now had an epic fail like this to hold up as the ultimate proof that he really just needed to give up on having a social life.

“Bye,” Jason said, his voice barely a growl, and hung up. He tossed the phone to the side, where it landed between a couple of couch pillows, and shoved his face into his hands. He didn't need to look at Zoe's face to know what must be written all over it. There was a long moment of silence. And then finally, in a voice that would have been as rich as cream but for the violence vibrating through it, Zoe spoke. Carefully. Deliberately.