All I Want Is You Read online

  “You’re very optimistic,” she said skeptically.

  About some things.

  Just then, Mr. Harrington could be heard yelling, “You’re fuckin’ insane, Lori! Fuckin’ insane!”

  And they both let out a laugh at the absurd irony—­even if the laughter was tainted with a little sadness. “Yep, it’s a great place,” she quipped.

  “Mr. Garver’s cool, and the Marches are nice,” he countered. “And you’re not half bad, either.” He found himself playfully nudging her bare ankle with his tennis shoe. “And who knows—­maybe I can sell this place to a nice family who’ll really tip the scales.”

  “If the kids on the corner don’t beat them up and scare them away.”

  He laughed again, because he couldn’t help seeing her point—­but he also couldn’t be sorry he’d chosen this particular house, for lots of reasons. It had character—­and the ­people here had character. And the most compelling character of all was Alice herself.

  When their bowls sat empty on the wood planks below their feet, she said, “Thanks for the ice cream, but I should go. Work in the morning, and . . . it’s been a rough night, like you noticed.” And as they both got to their feet, she added, “You made it better, though, so thanks.”

  “Don’t worry about that guy,” he told her easily. “You’re better than him.”

  She peered up, looking all pretty and innocent as usual. “Am I?” she asked. “I’m not sure anymore.”

  And maybe he still wasn’t entirely sure himself, either, despite having said so—­yet as they stood face to face in the soft light of his front porch, the pungent aromas of strawberries and bourbon wrapping around them, he found himself . . . inexplicably leaning in, placing his hands on her shoulders, and lowering a soft kiss to her forehead.

  She looked up, their gazes locking, her eyes as big as two bright round moons shining on him in the night. And he wanted to kiss her so badly—­this time on the mouth—­that he could taste it, could taste how hot and sweet it would be. His muscles ached with the wanting; his chest tightened.

  But then he took a step back from her.

  And he reached for the screen door handle.

  And he said, “ ’Night, Alice,” just before stepping inside and quietly pushing the front door shut.

  Despite himself, he was getting too close here. But no more. No more.

  SOME days Christy didn’t feel like she knew much. She didn’t know how to help her grandpa—­not to mention herself—­with money problems. She didn’t know how to date wealthy men with any success—­every such endeavor so far had fallen somewhere in the range of quiet, lackluster failure to raging disaster. But the one thing she knew was that when she’d said goodnight to Jack two evenings earlier, he’d given her the best forehead kiss ever.

  She’d felt it trickling down through her like soft, luscious raindrops that somehow seeped into each and every needy pore of her skin as he’d closed the door . . . and she’d nearly floated down the porch steps and across the street. In ways, she still felt it now—­as if his lips had left some indelible mark there, tattooing her forehead with his gentle affection.

  Why, oh why, oh why? Why did he have to make her feel that way? Why couldn’t it be James, the banker she’d had the most boring dinner of her life with last week? Why not Brooks, who, like his name, had just been too yuppie and arrogant for her, forcing her to eventually tell him so? It had been Brooks who had raced off into the night while Jack had watched from his porch. Why had she met the one man who really melted her soul—­that quickly—­when she couldn’t have him? And when she’d been in the midst of making herself look like a woman who was only after money.

  Wait, you don’t just look like a woman after money—­you are a woman after money.

  Ugh—­what a sobering realization, and one she still hadn’t gotten comfortable with.

  She sat curled up in a baby-­doll tee and Hello Kitty pajama bottoms, trying to watch TV. She wished she could talk to Bethany about all this right now, but she’d gotten a text earlier informing her that her roommate probably wouldn’t be home tonight—­she was with a hot guy she’d sold some fruit to at the market and things were going well.

  She and Bethany were so different in ways—­Bethany was cool with casual sex, Bethany was cool with being poor, Bethany was cool with . . . well, with most things, now that Christy thought about it. Christy envied her for being so laid-­back and together.

  When her cell phone rang, she was happy for the distraction from her troubles even before seeing who it was—­until she glanced down to discover it was Grandpa Charlie calling. Not that she didn’t like hearing from him—­she just wasn’t in the mood to be even more reminded of the current doom and gloom hanging over them both.

  “Hey, Grandpa,” she said, putting a smile into her voice as she answered.

  “Hey there, darlin’ girl, how are ya tonight?”

  “Fine,” she lied. “Just fine.”

  “Having a good spring?” he asked.

  And . . . she could lie some more, but since Grandpa Charlie and she had always been close, she made the split-­second decision to tell him the truth. Or at least part of it. “Well, Grandpa, just between you and me, things kinda suck.” She let out a laugh at the end, though, trying to inject a little levity.

  “What’s so sucky, honey?” he asked. “I mean, besides the obvious.” They both knew that neither of them had recovered from her parents’ untimely deaths—­and now they both shared the cash flow issue, too.

  “Boys,” she confided in him. “They’re so . . . stupid.” Which didn’t entirely sum up her troubles—­but in a way, it did. And sometimes it was best to just keep things simple.

  Grandpa Charlie gave a good-­hearted chuckle, the kind that made her miss being around him. “That they are, my girl. That they are.” Then he added, “You know what you should do? Ditch ’em all for a while and head south. Come see your old grandpa and have yourself a vacation. I bet you could use one.”

  “Wow, could I ever!” The very thought of it—­the beach, a getaway—­sounded amazing. Albeit pretty unthinkable. Even though she hadn’t seen him since the funerals and hadn’t had anything resembling a vacation since her mom and dad had died. To dip her toes in the sand or feel the Florida sun on her face sounded beyond heavenly.

  “Then come on down. Weather’s beautiful here right now. And you sound too tense for someone so young.”

  She sucked in her breath, hating to remind him of the sad truth. “I’d love to, but . . . I don’t see how I can. Money and all. You know the situation.” And it was even much worse now, given his situation.

  So it surprised the hell out of her when he said, “You know, every now and then in life the smartest thing you can do is just . . . do what you want to do. And trust fate to work things out.”

  Christy just sat there. She knew her Grandpa was in full possession of his faculties, but at the moment it sounded like he was giving her shockingly bad advice. “Um, Grandpa, saying I did this—­saying I took off work for a week or two and spent money I don’t have—­how would I pay my bills next month?”

  “Like I said,” he told her, “just have faith it’ll work out.”

  “Uh, while I appreciate the notion,” she replied, “I think maybe that’s how ­people end up homeless.”

  “Well, here’s another angle, darlin’. If you need help afterward, you can let me know and I’ll send you a little cash to help you get by.”

  “But you don’t have any, either,” she pointed out.

  “I have enough to last me ’til fall,” he said. “And if I end up getting kicked outta here a week or two earlier, what difference does it make in the big picture? Right now, I want my grandbaby to come see me and that’s that.”

  They continued talking and soon, to Christy’s astonishment, the idea actually began to seem almost feasib
le. Her boss was usually easygoing and would probably let her have the time. And it would be good for both of them to spend some together right now. And the last few weeks had left Christy pretty drained—­the idea of basking in the sun and not chasing around rich guys or trying to solve massive money problems for a little while sounded kind of dreamy.

  So by the time they hung up, they’d discussed a tentative plan. She would take off work, drive down to see him, and maybe the whole thing would end up just clearing her head, renewing her energy, and helping her find some answers.

  She went to bed lulled to sleep by the scent of lemon gin thanks to an open window, and somehow already feeling refreshed. She might actually have something to look forward to, something that was actually relaxing and happy as opposed to stressful and pressure filled. She still wasn’t sure how she would afford it, but the beach lured her.

  And maybe getting away from Jack DuVall for a while would be wise, too. Maybe she’d get over this lustful little crush. Maybe she’d even meet some rich mogul type on the beach who wanted to take her away from it all. She couldn’t help thinking it was a nice idea—­even if, in actuality, the idea of being taken away from Jack made her a little sad inside.

  She wasn’t sure what time it was when she woke to noise—­yelling and breaking glass—­until a glimpse of the clock told her it was, yikes, just past two A.M. The Harringtons.

  And she really didn’t want to get out of bed and look out the window—­but it was the repeated sounds of something crashing, breaking, that made her get up. She almost knew what the sound was, and she didn’t want it to be true, yet she had to see for certain.

  And sure enough, a glance out the window confirmed her fears. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington stood in their front yard throwing her potted plants at each another, one by one.

  Some of the pots were glass, others simpler terra-­cotta. And many were still intact, but others lay shattered in jagged bits on the front walk and littering the freshly mown yard, dark soil and roots spilling out.

  Christy’s heart broke a little at the sight. But another part of her just pushed that hurt aside—­because she’d learned how to do that when she needed to.

  After a few minutes at the window watching the surreal scene, something drew her down the stairs on bare feet. There wouldn’t be any sleep until this was over, after all. And it was kind of like a wreck on the highway—­she didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t quite stop herself. Stepping quietly outside, she took a seat on the cool concrete steps leading from the porch, realizing a few other neighbors were out quietly observing, as well.

  The ­couple intermittently yelled at each other in between hurling Mrs. Harrington’s beloved plants at each other. He called her a bitch. She called him a bastard. Someone from down the block yelled at them to shut up. Mr. Harrington threatened to kick the unseen neighbor’s ass. It all struck Christy as obscenely sad and tragic and absurd.

  That’s when a dark shadow to the left caught her eye and she looked up to see Jack crossing the street toward her. He carried two small bowls, one in each hand. “Called the police,” he told her matter-­of-­factly as he passed a bowl of chocolate ice cream down to her, complete with a spoon, then took a seat at her side. He wore a wrinkled white T-­shirt and jeans she suspected he’d pulled from the dirty clothes, and his feet, like hers, were bare. “Probably a little melty,” he said, “but seemed like we should at least have refreshments.”

  They sat observing it all in silence for a few moments, like watching a movie, and as the horrible mess in the yard got bigger, Christy couldn’t help feeling how wasteful and destructive it was, and how it was ruining this wonderful thing Mrs. Harrington had put so much love and care—­so much of herself—­into. Until finally she said, “It’s like watching them throwing little pieces of her soul back and forth, breaking it into more and more tiny bits. Soon there won’t be anything left.”

  “That’s deep,” he commented.

  “It is deep. It’s the thing she loves. The thing she puts her heart into. And they’re just throwing it away, just using it to wound each other, like it’s nothing.”

  “I hate you, you son of a bitch!” Mrs. Harrington shouted.

  “Go to hell, you stupid whore!” Mr. Harrington flung back.

  God, this was just too ugly, too awful. Christy sighed. “My grandpa invited me to come visit him in Florida,” she shared for no particular reason—­maybe because the idea of escape suddenly sounded all the more appealing. “I can’t afford to go, but I’m trying to figure out a way. I think I need to get away from this chaos for a while.”

  Just then, three cop cars came racing up the street, sirens quiet but the blue lights illuminating the darkness to leave it glowing and iridescent, making the night feel even more unreal.

  “That sounds nice right about now,” Jack said. “Maybe you can find some cheap airfare.”

  But she shook her head. “I’m going to drive. By the time I pay to rent a car there, it’ll add up to just as much, and if I drive I can take all my jewelry and materials.”

  “Why do you need your jewelry stuff on vacation?”

  “I thought it would be nice to show Grandpa Charlie what my grandma’s jewelry ended up inspiring. And . . .”

  When she trailed off, he prodded her. “And?”

  The air continued to be tinted a shade of electric blue. “Well, I’m not sure, but I was thinking . . . maybe I could try to . . . sell some of it. At the beach. They have a thing there every night at sunset with street performers and vendors.” The idea had just occurred to her while sitting and watching the Harringtons break all their pots. It had left her feeling the need to do something constructive, and this was what she’d come up with—­though she had no idea if it was a viable plan.

  “That’s a nice thought,” Jack replied, “but a long way to drive alone in a car that—­don’t take this the wrong way—­looks like it’s seen better days.”

  That part was true, but Christy just shrugged it off. She was trying to take Grandpa Charlie’s attitude, just trusting things to work out. It felt naïve in a way—­but she was tired of worrying and wanted to take a break from it. “I guess being on my own has made me brave. It’ll be fine.”

  “Alice,” he persisted, however, sounding downright adamant now, “it’s dangerous.”

  And for the first time since he’d shown up, she drew her gaze from the drama across the street—­the Harringtons were both yelling at the cops now, telling them to mind their own damn business—­and looked at him. Even in the dark, his eyes sparkled warm and sexy, and the sight stole her breath. But then she got hold of herself and said, “Do you have any better ideas?”

  He stayed silent a minute, during which a cop threatened to arrest Mr. Harrington if he refused to go inside and be quiet so his neighbors could sleep.

  But then Jack said, “I could always go with you.”

  And Christy laughed, replying, “Good one.”

  Until he told her, “I’m serious. I could use a getaway myself. And call me a worry wart, Alice, but you haven’t exactly struck me as someone who can completely take care of herself, brave or not.”

  At this, Christy gasped softly, offended—­but then she remembered the history of their relationship so far and couldn’t really think of a way to argue the point.

  “And since you’re, uh, not exactly rolling in dough right now,” he added, “I’ll even spring for the room.”

  “Room?” she asked, her eyebrows shooting up. “As in singular?”

  He shrugged away her concerns. “They all come with two beds. And I’m . . . not exactly made of money, either.”

  She thought he’d sounded a bit uncertain when he said the last part, and she couldn’t help thinking this all sounded like a terrible, hideous, horrendous idea. After all, traveling together? Sharing a room? With a man she barely knew? But was completely hot for? But who wa
s also completely wrong for her at this pivotal time of her life? It was an absolutely abominable idea. Which could surely only lead to more of the very chaos she was trying to escape—­well, even if it would probably be a very different kind of chaos. But chaos was chaos, and that wasn’t what she needed right now.

  And that was why it seemed so strange when she heard herself say, “Okay. Sounds like a plan.”

  They sat silently for a moment, both of them absorbing that, she supposed, and listening to the ruckus across the street—­until Jack asked, “So where does your Grandpa live in Florida?”

  And she told him, “A quaint little beach town called Coral Cove.”

  . . . If you drink from a bottled marked “poison,”

  it is almost certain to disagree with you,

  sooner or later.

  Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

  Chapter 6

  AS JACK had checked the oil in Christy’s old Toyota yesterday, he’d asked himself what the hell he was doing. Going to Florida with her. A girl he kept telling himself he should keep his distance from.

  As they’d talked last night about their travel schedule over more ice cream on his front porch, he’d asked himself the same question again.

  And now, as he shoved a few pairs of khaki shorts in a large duffel bag, he asked it one more time. What am I thinking? Why did I offer to go with her, for God’s sake?

  It had seemed like a sane enough suggestion at the time. Like a compromise. It was a way of ensuring her safety without letting on that he had money and could easily have sprung for a plane ticket and rental car for her. And a beach trip did sound nice—­he hadn’t done anything fun for a while and some fun sounded healthy.

  The problem was—­he feared he might be starting to care for her.

  Once upon a time, the answers here would have been easy. Once upon a time—­not too long ago, actually—­he would have just offered to help her out with travel expenses. In fact, he probably would have been dating her by now, and if things had progressed the way he thought they might have—­he’d have been perfectly generous financially.