The Sweethearts’ Knitting Club (14 page)

But Patsy had been staunchly on his side after his arrest, telling him not to take the plea bargain even though her husband, Jimmy, the lawyer, had advised him to do so. Patsy was certain he would be exonerated. He hadn’t been, and in the end, he should have taken Jimmy Cross’s advice. His sentence would have been years shorter. Yet the fact that his aunt had believed in him wholeheartedly had meant a lot to Jesse. She’d known who he really was at heart.

Whereas Flynn…

Jesse sighed, flopped over on his side, punched his pillow. He couldn’t blame Flynn for believing what everyone else in town believed. Trainer had filled her head with lies, poisoned her mind against him.

The old anger pushed up inside him. Trainer. The bastard.

He had to get out of here. Had to do something to put a headlock on these unwanted emotions.
Jesse threw back the covers, pulled on a pair of gym shorts and sneakers, and then slipped out the back door. He went for a run around the lake, pushing himself hard, flying over the jogging path until his legs ached. Normally running calmed him, but not tonight. The air was muggy and stagnant, but it smelled of freedom. Overhead the moon shone down and the stars twinkled while Twilight slept.

And all he could think about was Flynn. Even his revenge scheme against Beau couldn’t compete. Everything was coming together just as he planned. He should have been excited, elated. Instead he was worried. He had one shot at this and he wouldn’t blow it. He couldn’t make his move too soon. That’s why he hadn’t kissed her when she’d practically begged him to, and nothing had ever required more of his self-control.

Ten years had only added to Flynn’s sexual allure, making it almost impossible for him not to touch her in some small way. He adored her wicked sense of humor that she was just as likely to turn on herself as on anyone else. And he couldn’t ignore the sharp-eyed intelligence that gleamed from behind her good-girl mien.

Jesse admired her grit and determination, and he even admired the way she stuck to her guns, even though she was clearly on the wrong track with this knitting store thing. The woman was as stubborn as he was. And she was going to be renting out the top floor of his motorcycle shop.

It was a serendipitous turn of events he could not have anticipated. For once fate had smiled on him, delivering him not only a legitimate reason
for hanging around her, but giving him a metaphorical sword with which to pierce Beau Trainer’s arrogant armor.

Priceless.

He swiped the back of his arm across his sweaty brow and cornered the lake not far from the marina. Froggy’s lay two miles north. Flynn’s house was a half mile beyond that. He picked up the pace, kept thinking about how she’d looked in that loose-fitting T-shirt, how it draped softly over her breasts. She’d been trying so hard not to look sexy that she’d ended up looking even sexier in those faded jeans and those modest gold studs at her earlobes. The woman could make a tow sack look sexy. All she had to do was flash that double-dimpled grin and he was a goner.

But who was he kidding? He would forever be the kid from the wrong side of the tracks. He had no business believing he could have her for his very own.

No business at all.

He ran. Harder, faster, legs pumping, trying to outrun his demons, but it was useless. They hitched a ride wherever he went.

And then there he was. Where he hadn’t realized he’d been headed all along.

The old Twilight Bridge.

He sprinted up onto the runners, lungs chugging. The wooden slats creaked and swayed beneath his sneakers. When he got to the middle, he stopped, panting hard, chest heaving, and bent over trying to catch his breath.

Then
bam!

He was folded into the arms of the past. Jesse sank to his knees as the old bridge shimmered and memory eclipsed the present. He was back in time, on this bridge, right in this same spot, with Flynn in his arms.

He’d kissed her, cradling her head, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down on top of her. The bridge swayed, adding to the heart-pounding thrill of the moment.

She wriggled against him with pleasure as his hand slipped up underneath her blouse, skimmed over her bare belly. He undid the hook of her bra, pushed her shirt up, then moved his mouth from hers, traveling down her neck, burning her tender skin as he went. He found her nipples, nibbled them lightly one after the other.

Flynn moaned softly, and the sweet sound drove him crazy.

He undid the snap on her shorts, eased his palm past the waistband, touched her through her panties, his mouth still softly suckling one nipple.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, whispered his name like a mantra. “Jesse, Jesse, Jesse.”

He stroked her, steadily, firmly. She wriggled, breathed in a sigh. He increased the tempo, his fingers rubbing against the thin cotton, strumming her straining nub beneath the material.

And then she shuddered in his arms, let out a strangled cry, tightened her hands in his hair.

She came! He’d made her come.

A deep sense of pride swept over him, and he felt a tenderness for Flynn so strong and true it constricted his throat. He zipped her pants, hooked her bra, tugged down her shirt, pulled her into his
arms, and rocked her slowly there on the swinging bridge.

Time passed.

It could have been hours. It might have been only minutes. They were caught in a blissful vortex stretching full of possibilities. They were young and falling in love and…

A pickup truck rumbled down from the highway. They paid no attention to the vehicle until it came to stop at the west end of the footbridge. A metal barricade erected at both ends of the bridge prevented cars from driving out on it, so even then, they didn’t take much notice. The truck, which had been jacked up with a lift kit, turned on a row of bright off-road spotlights—the kind hunters used—that ran along the elevated cab, and blasted them with a blinding glare.

Flynn untangled herself from his arms. He could hear her breathing quicken. “That’s Beau’s truck.”

The truck door opened. The sound of country-and-western music spilled out. Hank Williams. “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”

Jesse stood up, pulled Flynn to her feet. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go tell him about you and me.”

“No!”

He saw it then. The look on her face. Guilt, confusion, regret. She was
ashamed
of him. Ashamed of what they’d done. He couldn’t have been more hurt if a wrecking ball had smacked into him, crushed his chest.

“No,” she said, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Let me handle Beau.” She pointed to the east side of the bridge. “Go home now. We’ll talk later.”

She was trying to get rid of him. Hide him from her boyfriend. Sweep her little indiscretion away under the rug.

Despair stiffened his steps. He was pissed off at himself. Angry that he’d allowed his feelings to run away from him. He’d been so stupid to think a woman like Flynn could feel anything deeper than lust for a guy like him.

Idiot. Fool.

Contempt for his own foolish hopes ground him like a cigarette butt beneath a boot heel. His stomach sickened. His vision blurred. Blindly, he stumbled off the bridge.

Jesse gulped back the memory, stared down at the water. That moment had been one of the lowest in his life.

The next morning it had all turned around. Flynn called him to tell him that she was going to break up with Beau that night after high school graduation. His hopes had soared as swiftly as they’d been dashed the night before. He’d gone to the graduation ceremony, eager and happy, ready to declare his true feelings to Flynn and give her the motorcycle jacket he’d bought for her a few days earlier.

But he’d never gotten the chance.

Before he could enter the auditorium, Sheriff Clinton Trainer’s men converged on his car in the parking lot. They’d pulled him out, forced him on the ground. Then the sheriff had yanked Jesse’s keys from the ignition and made a beeline for his trunk as if he knew exactly what he was looking for.

Beau and Flynn had pulled up just in time to see
Jesse being stuffed into the back of Clinton Trainer’s patrol car.

“Jesse!” Flynn had cried, and rushed over. Beau, he’d noticed, stood behind her smirking.

“Stay back.” Clinton had come between Flynn and the patrol car. “This man is under arrest.”

“For what?” Flynn had exclaimed.

“Possession of cocaine. Over a kilo, intent to distribute. And possession of an illegal firearm.”

Flynn had looked into his eyes. “Jesse?” she’d asked, her voice small and tremulous.

He’d winked at her, all cocky bravado. “Don’t worry, Dimples,” he’d said. “It’s not the worst thing since Vietnam.”

After what had almost happened between her and Jesse, Flynn was determined to keep to the top floor of the theater and let Jesse have the bottom. He offered to help her finish the wallpaper, but she refused. She started entering the Yarn Barn by the side entrance, hustling up the outside steps rather than traipsing through the motorcycle shop.

Truth was, she was terrified of what she was feeling and what she might do if she found herself alone with him again.

And then there was Beau.

The fact that she’d been so tempted with Jesse, had almost crossed a line, rattled her to the core. Was Jesse just something she needed to get out of her system? Or did her attraction to him mean that her relationship with Beau was in serious jeopardy? She had a lot of thinking to do.

On Sunday evening Beau took her to see an action-adventure flick at the cineplex. She sat through the whole thing without seeing or hearing a word of the movie, her mind fidgeting with her dilemma. Were her feelings for Jesse real? Or were they leftover remnants from their childhood? What about Beau? What were her feelings for him?

On the drive home, he reached over, took her hand, squeezed it gently. “You’ve been very quiet tonight.”

She rubbed her temple. “I have a bit of a headache.”

“Have you given any more thought to going to the law enforcement convention with me next weekend?” he asked.

Great, she’d totally forgotten he’d asked.

“I’ve got to work at Froggy’s next Saturday. Janeen is still out on her honeymoon.”

“Can’t you find someone to work for you? I’d like to have you there for moral support when I give my speech.”

“You’ll do fine. Besides, what would I do with myself all day while you’re in workshops?”

“You could see the sights in Dallas.”

“I’ve been to the grassy knoll and the School Book Depository. That’s about the extent of tourism in Dallas.”

“You’re right,” he said. “But it would just be nice to have you with me. You could stay in the room, order room service, get a massage and spa treatments. You never pamper yourself. My treat.”

Okay, now she felt like a total shit. Wouldn’t a good fiancée be jumping up and down to go with him? “Honestly, Beau, I’m a little nervous about
leaving my father all alone for the weekend. Carrie is going on a weekend trip to San Antonio with her boyfriend, and if I go too, Floyd will be by himself and more vulnerable to temptation.”

“Maybe next year then,” he said.

“Next year,” she echoed.

He walked her up onto the front porch, kissed her at the door. It was a good kiss, a sweet kiss, a kiss that once upon a time would have caused her to take him by the hand and lead him up to her bedroom. “See you tomorrow,” he said.

“Good night, Beau.”

Then she’d gone to bed and dreamed of Jesse. A hot, erotic, endless dream.

Whenever she was at the Yarn Barn, she threw herself into her work. Pushing herself until her muscles ached. She finished the wallpapering and started putting down the parquet flooring herself. She came early and stayed late. And Jesse gave her space, which sort of irritated her when she thought about it, even though she didn’t know why. Was he avoiding her as much as she was avoiding him? She managed to go the whole week without ever seeing him.

But oh, she heard him. Each tread of his boot as he moved around below her, echoed in her ears. She brought her iPod, stuffed earbuds in her ears, but she still knew he was there.

On Friday, the day Beau departed for his conference in Dallas, she worked herself into a frenzy putting down the parquet, trying to douse her awareness of Jesse. She broke her fingernails and got splinters in her hands. Her knees throbbed from all the kneeling. At last she finished the floor
ing. Great, now she could go home. Then she got to her feet and looked down. For the first time she noticed the mismatched design. Somehow she’d gotten off track with the pattern. The floor was going to have to be ripped up and the whole thing done again.

“Son of a horse,” she swore, and in frustration kicked the stack of remaining parquet tiles, stubbing her toe. “Ouch, ouch, dammit, dammit.” She hopped around on one foot, clenching her teeth against the pain. The iPod in her ear blasted Gretchen Wilson’s “Work Hard, Play Harder.” She ripped the buds from her ears; the tinny sound spilled into the room as she sank to the floor holding her toe.

Jesse came plowing up the stairs. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay.” She glowered.

Concern etched his face. He rushed over, sank to his knees beside her. “What’s wrong?”

“I stubbed my stupid toe having a temper tantrum.”

He rocked back on his heels, a smile tugging at his lips. “A temper tantrum? What about?”

“Look.” She swept a hand at the mismatched floor. “A week’s worth of work down the crapper.”

“Let me look at the toe.” He reached for her shoe.

The last thing she wanted was his hand on her body. She swung her foot away from him. “That’s okay. It doesn’t really hurt anymore.”

“You’ve been working too hard,” he said. “Maybe you should take a page from Gretchen.”

“Huh?” She blinked at him, too unnerved by his nearness to snap to what he was talking about.

He picked up her iPod and handed it to her. “Work hard, play harder.”

“I don’t play.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said.

“I better get to work pulling up this floor.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” He touched her hand.

Flynn gulped, jerked back. “Um…what’s that?”

“Let’s go do something fun.”

“Jesse,” she said. “I’m engaged to Beau.”

“Does that mean you can’t have fun?”

“I don’t want to have to deal with it if someone sees us out together.”

“What if we went somewhere the locals never go?”

“Where’s that?”

“Mini golf out on 377.”

She laughed. He was right. The locals never played mini golf. It was always too packed with tourists.

“When was the last time you played mini golf?”

“When Noah and Joel were ten.”

“Well, that’s too long. Come on. Give yourself a break. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know.” She waved at the floor.

“I’ll help you fix it.” His eyes danced impishly.

She drew in a deep breath. “It’s not such a good idea.”

“I’ll buy you a hot dog,” he cajoled. “I promise, it’s nothing more than two friends letting off some steam on a Friday night. We’ll be out in public. Nothing to hide.”

Honestly, the thought of getting out of the building was tempting.

“I’m going to look pretty dorky playing mini golf by myself, but hey, if making me look dorky is your goal…” he teased.

“Okay, fine,” Flynn relented. “One round of mini golf.

Twenty minutes later, she had to admit to herself it wasn’t a bad idea. They took her car because she refused to ride on the back of his motorcycle. They were outside in the evening breeze and she could feel the tension easing from her shoulders. It was amazing how much fun they were having doing something as simple as miniature golf. Flynn had played a few times, mostly bringing Joel and Noah up to the Puttery, getting them out of the house for some semblance of a normal childhood. But she’d never been here on a date. Not that this was a date. They were just hanging out.

“So seriously, Ol’ Ramrod never brought you here?” Jesse asked, practically reading her mind.

“Ol’ Ramrod?”

“Yeah, he walks like he’s got a rod rammed up his back.”

“Beau has good qualities.”

“Not a many as you’d like to think.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jesse shook his head. “Never mind.”

“He’s been a good friend to me.”

“I bet he has.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Hell, yes. He’s had ten years with you. Ten years I’ll never get back no matter how many rounds of mini golf we play.” Jesse brushed against her as he went to line up his putt, and she knew the touch was not accidental.

“He was in Iraq for four years.”

“Okay, six years. It still sucks.” He made the shot and looked up, and for one lightning-quick second she saw his heart in his eyes, but he quickly cut it off.

Her own heart moved, shifted in response.

“Your turn,” he said.

“Oh yeah.” She took her shot, ended up far away from the hole.

“Tiger Woods has nothing to worry about.”

The wind changed directions, blew in off the lake, tossed Flynn’s hair in her face. She could feel it starting to frizz. Irritated, she pushed it behind her ears. “Damn hair.”

“What do you mean?” Jesse said. “You look gorgeous.”

“I don’t.”

He chuckled. “I’m not going to argue. It’ll just give you a big head.”

“Too late, I’m already big-haired.”

“You do have a lot of hair,” he conceded.

He was looking at her like he loved big hair. He was standing so close she could smell his darkly sexy Jesse scent. A shiver swept through her, and she quickly turned away before he could see the desire in her eyes. She wasn’t ready for these feelings. Not by a long shot.

“Oh, look what’s up next.” She pointed to the upcoming hole. “A castle. And it’s got a moat and a drawbridge that raises and lowers. Hurry and put your ball in the hole so we can move on.”

“My ball is already in the hole. You’re the one gumming up the works.”

“That’s my ball?”

He inclined his head. “It is.”

“I’m red?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t be red.”

“You’re red.”

Flynn narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Why can’t you be red?”

“Because Noah loves red. He’s always red. And Joel is blue. Carrie likes yellow.”

“What do you like?”

“Whatever is left over.”

Jesse shook his head. “That’s really sad.”

“What?”

“The fact that you’re so used to giving away your favorite color that you won’t even claim it when it’s yours.” Jesse leaned over and fished his ball from the hole. “See, I’m green.”

“I’m red?”

“You are.”

“How did you know red was my favorite color?”

“You told me once. A long time ago. Before you brainwashed yourself into fulfilling everyone’s needs but your own.”

“And you remembered that?”

“Dimples, where I’ve been I’ve had nothing else to do but remember,” he said. “There’s another thing I remember.”

“What’s that?”

“You used to talk about becoming a teacher. Why didn’t you do it?”

“I couldn’t leave my mom.”

“She’s been gone a year.”

“So? There’s still Carrie and my dad and the twins.”

“All adults who can take care of themselves. What have you done for Flynn? What steps have you taken to achieve
your
goals?”

“The Yarn Barn.”

“That’s not your dream.”

“It is.”

“Only by proxy.”

They stood there looking at each other. All around them couples and families were laughing and talking and whacking golf balls through windmills and Eiffel Towers and into clowns’ mouths. The moment stretched, awkward and unsettling.

“What was it like?” she asked softly.

“What?”

“You know.” She wished that she hadn’t asked it.

“Prison?”

“No Disneyland.”

He laughed. “Not as much fun as those spinning teacups, but between that obnoxious Small World ride and prison…” He cupped his hands, palms up, moving them back and forth like a scale balancing. “Pretty much a tossup.”

Flynn started humming the “Small World” song.

“Now that’s just mean. That song should be outlawed.”

She laughed. “The lyricist was clearly a sadist.”

“They should play that in prisons,” he mused. “To the folks on death row. They’d all commit suicide.”

“Ooh, gallows humor. Dark and broody.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, softening her voice, “that you went to prison.”

“Why? It wasn’t your fault.”

“You lost ten years out of your life. That’s sad.”

“The way I figure it, we’re all in some kind of prison. Take you for instance.” He pointed at her with the end of his putter.

“Me?”

“Just as a for instance.”

She wasn’t so sure about this; she putted the red ball, sank it into the hole. “Okay. As a for instance.”

“You’re trapped here, just like I was trapped in prison. Oh sure, you’ve got a bit more space, but in the end you go through the same routines every day. Your prison might not have four walls, but you’re trapped just the same.”

“But I could break my routine any time I wanted. I don’t
have
to do it,” Flynn argued.

“That’s a good rationalization, but it’s still a rationalization.”

“What? Did you get a psychology degree while you were in the slammer?”

Jesse’s smile was wry. “Something like that.”

“It was bad, wasn’t it?”

“I survived.” He shrugged like it was nothing worse than a trip to the dentist.

She tried to imagine what he’d gone through and she couldn’t fathom it.

“Here was my day,” he said, reading her thoughts again. “Not so different from yours. Up at five-thirty. You get up what? Six?”

“Six-thirty,” she mumbled. “But I don’t like it.”

“’Course not. It’s something you have to do, not something you want to do. Then there was cell count.”

“I don’t have that.”

“Cooking breakfast for your family and getting them out the door for the day qualifies as cell count.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that.”

“Shower.” He ticked the items off with his fingers. “You do that. Lunch, ditto. Exercise yard, day room, for you the equivalent would be working at Froggy’s. Followed by dinner, cell count, lights out.”

She slid him a sideways glance, but she could read nothing on his face. “My routine varies.”

“Oh yeah? When?”

“Christmas, holidays.”

“Same thing as visitor days. See, prison, Flynn MacGregor’s life, not so dissimilar.”

When he put it like that, he had a point. Flynn moved onto the next hole. The one with the castle. “I’m going first,” she said, hoping he’d drop the subject.

“The only real difference is that your trap is of your own making.”

She hit the ball. It struck off the drawbridge just as it started to close and came bouncing back to her. “Oh yeah, like someone planted that kilo of cocaine and .357 Magnum in the trunk of your car.”