Chapter Four
Ikeptmyself busy all day, and went to great lengths to keep my eyes from watching the clock. In large part, I succeeded, although I did save an entire hour to travel the two miles from my house to her bakery-top apartment.
That meant I was driving in circles around Montauk for fifty-five minutes, and reading the newest posts from a Special Forces blog that I favored while parked on a side street for another ten because I couldn't show up at the stroke of eight. I might be into this woman—whatever the hell her name was—but I wasn't needy. Fuck no. The last thing I wanted was to be following her around like a lost mutt.
I scrolled through a few more blog posts—one about a new rifle with some unnecessary features, one about a movie that did a piss-poor job of depicting military life, and one complaining about politicians who'd never served a day in their lives—and by the time I was finished, it was almost eight thirty.
The alley behind the bakery was narrow and dark, and no lights illuminated the rickety staircase leading to the loft apartment. I paused to scowl at the shoddy setup. Nothing annoyed me more than the lack of basic security protocol. This was fucking ridiculous, and for a woman living alone? Really fucking ridiculous.
The only saving grace was that the stairs were too wind-worn to be quiet. Every one of my steps was greeted with the squeal and creak of old wood. It was a miniature, fully inadequate alarm system, and it worked because she appeared at the door before I was halfway up the stairs.
Her hair was tied back in a braid, and a long, loose tank top ghosted over her curves and swirled around her thighs. She was wearing leggings that ended just past her knees, and her feet were bare. She didn't look much different than she did this morning, but it was somehowmore. More striking, more interesting, more arousing.
"Wasn't sure you'd come," she said, leaning against the open screen door. "Didn't know if you were scared off, or if you'd rise to the occasion."
There were those innuendos again. I'd never met a woman who traded in thinly veiled penis humor before. Or perhaps I hadn't met one who did it this effectively. "Not much scares me, ma'am," I said.
"Did I just catch of hint of the South in thatma'am?" she asked.
"Guilty," I said, my hands spread before me. My time away from the Delta had softened my accent. It lived on in certain words and phrases, and came roaring to life whenever I was in the company of true Southerners. Or copious amounts of liquor. "Sometimes I can't help it. It just pops up."
She laughed as I stopped two steps away from her, and it was a raw, unfiltered laugh. I could roll with a chick who appreciated dick entendres. "Sounds like a hard situation."
"If you only knew how hard," I said, and her gaze dropped straight to my crotch. I hadn't experienced levity like this in months, and it was going to my head like champagne on New Year's Eve. It was perfect.
"I could guess," she said, winking. "Come on in, big guy. Let's do some work on those aches and pains of yours."
She ushered me inside, and the aroma of incense—or whatever it was that smelled like dirt, herbs, and old tea all at once—was the first thing to hit me. It should've been awful, but it wasn't. It was heady, and had the back of my neck tingling.
This was followed by the realization that her apartment was no bigger than a postage stamp. Opaque screens forced a bit of division, and added a trace of legitimacy to the sheet-draped massage table that stood just inside the space. The lights were low, and the shadow of a late summer sunset lingered.
Her place was more of an attic than anything else, yet thoroughly lived-in. There was an old-fashioned trunk in the corner, and the lid was covered with dozens of books. A small, slouchy sofa was tucked off to the side, and an afghan hung over its back. There was a wide coffee table, on it a bowl full of zucchini, cucumbers, and tomatoes, and a half-completed puzzle.
I was staring at the refrigerator, and the takeout menus trapped under a chunky magnet in the shape of a lobster with "Montauk" painted on it, when she cleared her throat.
"Okay, now tell me about that leg," she said. "Do you see a physical therapist for regular work? I don't want to trample on any treatment you're already getting."
I turned around and dipped my hands into my pockets. "I want to know your name," I demanded.
She touched her fingertips to her forehead as if realizing right then that we'd skipped that step. "I'm April. April Veach."
I stretched my hand in her direction. "Jordan Kaisall," I said. "Spring baby, huh?"
April's brows furrowed and she cocked her head to the side. "Why do you say that?"
"Why would you be named April if you weren't born in the spring?" I asked. I couldn't understand such a thing. "Unless it's a family name, at which pointsomeonewas born in April."
She looked irritated for an exceedingly long moment, and then dropped her hand to my forearm with a laugh. "I had you going there, didn't I?" She squeezed my arm, and I wanted to touch her more than anything right now. I didn't. All humor aside, I hadn't been offered the privilege yet. "I arrived a bit late. May first. After everything I'd put my mother through, she decided she was sticking with April."
"What kind of acupuncturist are you? Busting my balls and making dick jokes?"
April shot me a bright smile but edged away from me.
Come back here. Touch me again.
"The best kind," she said, jerking a shoulder as if it was totally obvious.
"You're snappy," I said. "I like it."
