Calling His Bluff (2 page)

“Yes, sir.” She flipped what she considered a properly respectful one-fingered salute
at his retreating back.

She tried to slam the door; a nice loud bang would express her frustration at the
anticlimactic nature of this fucking long-awaited reunion, thank you, but was surprised
to find that she needed to throw her whole body weight into it to swing the door shut.
It finally closed with an annoyingly soft click.

Heat blasted her like she’d stepped into a sauna. Sweat sprang out on the back of
her neck and along her hairline almost instantly. She was
not
sweating through her Armani. No way.

She looked for somewhere to hang her coat. Someone had clearly
begun
converting a warehouse here. She saw more unidentifiable mechanical equipment lying
around than she did furniture. But having started this project, it looked like the
money had run out before getting a tenth of the way through. The pile of aluminum
tubes against one wall explained the clattering crash from before, but it didn’t look
promising as a coat rack. She draped her coat over her arm instead and headed into
the cavern of a room, sweating in her pewter-gray suit.

She had always thought J.D. had done well with his photography. That he had more sense
than the flighty artists she knew. Apparently not. Or maybe it was just his congenital
inability to stop in one place for longer than six months. She could see it now. He’d
have decided that moving back to his hometown sounded great, but now that he was here,
the urge to hit the road again, just like he’d done fifteen years ago, would leave
this long-term project abandoned for someone else to clean up.

The left half of the open room was obviously where civilization had attempted to regain
a toehold. A kitchen area that looked as if it had been hammered out of galvanized
steel stretched along one wall and a fireplace hearth big enough to roast an ox claimed
the back, complete with a roaring fire. An enormous wood-plank table with benches
and an oversized leather couch, all of the furniture equally worn and battle-scarred,
anchored the room, running parallel to the walls. The rest of the walls were exposed
brick and steel beams that radiated industrial cool. Also, actual coldness, she bet.
She couldn’t even fathom what it cost him to keep a space this big warmer than an
equatorial jungle in Chicago’s deep freeze.

Since teetering towers of boxes covered most of the table and bench setup, she dropped
her stuff on the wide arm of the couch and flapped a hand at her face as she watched
her long-lost love hunt through the kitchen cabinets for god knows what.

In the brighter light provided by metal-shaded lamps suspended from the ceiling on
thick chains, not to mention the fierce glow of the fireplace, she could see him better.
His thick, straight black hair looked almost reddish in the firelight, but she was
sure that it would show blue-black in daylight.

He squatted down to peer into a cabinet under the sink, crutches leaning against the
counter, his injured leg sticking out to one side as he bounced comfortably on the
other heel. With his hands at the ready in front of him, J.D. looked like a baseball
catcher, preparing to glove a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball.

Two minutes in his company and she was already remembering that half the time when
she was around J.D. she’d have been tempted to wing a baseball at his fat head if
one were to hand.

“So, where’ve you been hiding out these days? Still spending all your free time at
the library? Sorry about the heat, by the way. The cat’s under the couch, if you wanna
get on your hands and knees and take a look.”

Her head was spinning. No way was she going to mention that she actually did still
volunteer for a shift or two a week, shelving books at her local branch, although
she couldn’t be sure what
would
come out of her mouth if she opened it, since her brain was still caught on freeze-frame
with images inspired by the “get on your hands and knees” thing.

Her dirty mind was as active as ever around J.D. Fifteen years hadn’t changed that
at all. Good to know.

“Just working a lot.” And licking her wounds. She’d been ducking her family a little
bit lately. Okay, a lot. But there were only so many times you could go back to that
well and admit that you’d just figured out you’d been suckered by yet another guy
who was some kind of compulsive liar who was going to end up on one of those daytime
talk shows, throwing a folding chair at a psychotic ex.

“Well, thanks for the house call. No rush, but if you take it with you when you go,
that’d be great.” Something rattled as he ducked his head into the cabinet. “Bet you
still spend all your time rescuing scabby alley cats, don’t you? Nothing ever changes
around here.”

He hadn’t even looked over his shoulder as he spoke to her.

She jerked back as if she’d been smacked. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Did he think she was some kind of loser who hadn’t changed since high school?

So much for fifteen years of fantasizing. “If you think I cancelled my plans and came
all the way out here to relieve you of your sick cat…”

He stood, a pair of wine glasses precariously balanced in one hand.

“Got a hot date?” His voice rang with skepticism.

She clenched her teeth together. The last thing she wanted him to know was that she’d
been on her way to an evening of relentlessly awkward conversations that would undoubtedly
have left her feeling like a used-car salesman.

Deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Don’t strangle the injured man.

“You know, you can always bring the cat by the clinic in the morning, Damico,” she
said. “I don’t normally run a pickup and delivery service.” This wasn’t the kind of
desperate to see her she’d hoped for.

“Hey, I’ll pay you to get that cat out of here,” he said, closing the cabinet. “No
kidding.”

Pay her?

Pay
her
?

First embarrassed, now insulted. She cocked her hip and planted a hand on it.

“Don’t be an asshole. You’re practically family. I’m not going to charge you. Did
hanging out with celebrities and bazillionaires in Hollywood rot your brain?”

“Easy, girl.”

“Don’t ‘easy’ me, Joey Damico. I expected more manners from the guy who rescued my
bikini top when it came off after I did a high dive into the deep end of the pool.”

Great. Now she was thinking about him seeing her topless. She wondered if her face
had actually turned purple yet. All of her reactions felt slightly off, as if she
were both over- and underreacting at the same time. She wondered if she looked as
strange as she felt, like her skin was made of broken mirror shards, reflecting a
hundred different emotions at once.

J.D. wobbled on his crutches and for a second she thought he was going to topple.
She sprinted to his side and braced him with a hand on his elbow.

“Whoa, watch the wine glasses,” J.D. said. “I was lucky to find these two.” Stepping
back, she rescued the crossed stems of the glasses from his one-handed grip and caught
the wine bottle that he’d clamped to his side with one elbow. “Ah, c’mon, Sarah. Share
a glass with me.” She ducked her head as he reached up to tousle her hair in that
infuriating, older-brother way he’d always had. In an instant, the vibe between them
mellowed. Her shoulders relaxed and some of the stiffness left her spine. “And you
know I could never stand that name. Just J.D., okay? Whenever someone calls me Joey,
all I can hear is my mom shrieking my name out for the whole block to hear.”

She wrinkled her nose. Growing up, every neighborhood had them: the parents who embarrassed
their kids because they were crazy or drunk or oblivious to social norms like putting
on clothes before leaving the house. J.D.’s parents had managed to be all that and
worse.

“Fine. One glass. How are your folks?” She didn’t really want to know. She wanted
to know if he was dating anyone. Her brother had only given her the sketchiest of
details about J.D.’s recent divorce.

“Dad’s horrifying the neighbors down in Florida, last I heard, with Mom following
behind him to apologize. Some things really don’t change.” He grinned with his mouth
shut, a twisted line that sank into bitterness. Bracing his hands on the crutch’s
crossbars, he swung over to the couch and indicated with a toss of his chin as he
passed it that she should drop the bottle and glasses on the end table. Then he changed
the subject, lightening the mood once more.

“I saw your mom the other day at Tyler’s pub, looking fantastic as always.” J.D. had
always worshipped the Tyler matriarch with the pure love of a boy whose own mother
was a walking disaster. “She recognized me instantly, of course. But she could have
warned me about you. I hardly recognized you when I opened the door. You grew up just
fine, Sarah.” He winked at her. “Didn’t you have a crush on me at one point?”

She stuck out her tongue at him, pleased that she could take his teasing with barely
a flutter of uneasy excitement, and went to search the kitchen for a corkscrew.

“Yeah, well, as a girl I was easily impressed. Remind me to beat up my brother for
not keeping his mouth shut about it. And of course Mom recognized you—you were standing
next to my brother. The terrible twosome, reunited. You’ll have to come to her birthday
party next month.” She ducked her head, as if J.D. might be able to see on her face
the dozen voice mails about party planning she’d ignored from her family. Although,
he was probably the one person who’d understand wanting to avoid family for a while.
“Ah ha,” she said after another moment of searching the cluttered drawer. She lifted
the corkscrew in the air, and then strolled back to the couch, where J.D. had eased
himself down onto the cushions.

No longer able to restrain her burning curiosity, she heard herself asking, “You got
a new celebrity girlfriend we should put on the RSVP list?” Yeah, that was subtle.
And sheesh, it was hot in here. Seriously. A drop of sweat trickled down her spine.
No sweating in Armani, she reminded herself. Dropping the corkscrew in his lap, she
headed off into the dimmer corner of the apartment. “Is there a bathroom back here
somewhere? And maybe some beachwear for this sauna you’ve got going on?” she said.
“I’m inappropriately dressed.”

He groaned and tilted his head back to rest on the high cushions of the couch. The
light flickered around the edges of his profile, outlining the bump on his nose. It
had been broken by a wild curveball thrown by her brother a dozen summers ago. “In
the corner. Look in the closet for a T-shirt and shorts if you want. I keep workout
clothes down here. Bedroom’s upstairs. And I never should have sent Tyler the picture
from that magazine,” he called after her. “I go to one Hollywood premiere with the
supporting actress and your brother tells everyone within a two-hundred-mile radius.”

She found the bathroom back by what looked like a weight room, barbells and weight
plates stacked along the walls. She pushed the door halfway shut behind her and started
to shuck off her clothes while she shouted back to him. “You could have knocked him
over with a feather when the next picture he saw was your wedding picture. Same blonde,
different slinky ten-thousand-dollar dress.” Catching a glimpse of herself in the
mirror, she hoped she could blame the flush in her cheeks on the heat of the fire.

“Get a grip, girl. You’re just two old friends sitting in front of a fire while drinking
some wine.” She brushed a strand of long brown hair behind one ear and smiled at herself
in the mirror. “Yeah, he’s an old friend who just happens to be a phenomenally hot
man too injured to escape.”

Oh, for crying out loud. Now she was flirting with herself in the bathroom mirror.
She shut her eyes, threw every fantasy of seeing Joseph David Damico naked out of
her brain, opened her eyes and turned to the open-faced linen closet. The uninstalled
door was propped against the wall next to it. Now that she knew he hadn’t changed
as much as she’d feared, she saw this place a bit differently, too. It had gone from
a barely habitable, starving-artist space to a cool, incomplete renovation. Reaching
inside the open closet, she grabbed the first things she found and pulled them on.

“Where is the ex-Mrs. Joey, sorry, J.D. Damico, by the way?” she asked, determined
to nail down details about the dreaded ex-wife. “All the lunchtime construction boys
at the pub were hoping for her autograph.”

“Lost her in the Amazon,” was his reply, but she decided to wait until she returned
to the living area for a translation. This place was like a cavern.

Leaving her own clothes neatly folded on the counter, she flipped off the light and
padded back to the couch in her bare feet. She twisted one hand in the loose waistband
of the silky running shorts and used the other to yank the wide neck of one of J.D.’s
old baseball T-shirts back up her shoulder.

He was still sitting on the couch, two glasses of deep red wine on the table at his
knees, watching her walk toward him. Her own gaze bounced around the room so she wouldn’t
have to look directly at him. Even though only her legs and arms were bare, she felt
like she was naked and under a spotlight. She was extraordinarily self-conscious about
wearing his clothes, the scent of his laundry detergent rising all around her, the
slippery nylon sliding between her bare thighs.

“That’s a nice look for you, Sarah Bearah.”

The childhood nickname had an unfortunate effect on her maturity level. She stuck
out her tongue at him.

That’s twice now. What are you, twelve?

When she reached the couch, he patted the cushion next to him.

She didn’t even need her mind to protest,
“Bad idea!”
She was already sinking to the floor next to the couch. She patted the cushion herself.
“Throw your gimpy leg on up there. You know you want to.” With a groan, he stretched
out, leaving her face a less-than-comfortable twelve inches from his lap. She scooted
a little closer to the head of the couch, and he pulled a pillow from beneath his
head and tossed it to her.