The Hierarchy of Needs (The Portland Rebels #2) (4 page)

She had, breath catching, her big brown eyes going wide.

Jesus, those eyes of hers. Almond shaped and framed with dark lashes, almost amber when the light hit them right.

He remembered the way they’d pinched shut in pleasured agony when he’d stroked her to her release. How they’d stayed closed for a few breathless moments, and he’d licked her flavor off his fingers, desperate to know what she tasted like. The drowsy way she’d opened them, low-lidded with syrupy satisfaction when she ran a tentative palm over his jeans and asked him to show her what he liked.

She’d been so unsure of herself, her grip under his fingers’ direction tentative and slow. Then she’d kissed his neck, scraped her teeth over his skin in a bite just shy of rough, and he’d gone from showing her the ropes to two seconds away from coming in her hand.

Dean was hard again, pulse thundering in his cock.

That shit needed to stop, right the fuck now. Because no matter how badly he’d wanted to follow through and ask her out again, once he’d dropped her off, everything had changed.

He jerked his thermal over his head, then stood and heaved the portfolio back into its place. The camera was up there too, somewhere. He’d stopped using it after that night with Jamie, when he’d gone home and shown his dad his work, casual as he threw around words like
community college
and
art major
and
what do you think
?

His old man’s reply? That photography could be a great hobby and all, but he needed Dean in the shop.

It wasn’t like his dad had meant to crush his dreams or anything. They weren’t even dreams, really. Just an idea he’d had. Still, having one hand clapped on his shoulder while his father reminded him that his future was in the business, and he needed to make sure Dean realized that, had stung like a bitch.

That was the moment he’d understood that starting anything with Jamie wasn’t fair to her. He was going to spend his life married to the garage. He was old enough to know the business was in debt, and he needed to make it his first priority. He couldn’t give anything to anyone, least of all Jamie.

Especially Jamie.

He wouldn’t risk sucking her into the same life his mom had, a wife to someone who spent all his time slaving away, her youth given up to a lost cause, a marriage they never should’ve had in the first place exhausted years later.

Dean shut off the light and fell into bed, reminding himself of the same shit he had since he was eighteen. One of these days Jamie was going to get out of Portland and make an awesome life for herself. She’d find the right guy, get married and live happily ever after.

It was the best future for both of them. She was everything happy and hopeful, and he’d had his hopes dashed long ago.

That was why Maslow’s Hierarchy was still the best thing he’d ever learned.

It taught him how to ignore what he wanted.

Chapter Four

Jamie stayed in her room as long as possible on Saturday morning, her door shut until the sound of starting car engines replaced her brothers’ voices. It was almost noon. She hadn’t eaten in hours. Her stomach gurgled angrily, but she wanted to stay put a bit longer—a little extra insurance in case they came back quickly.

Face down on her bed, she flipped mindlessly through her October issue of
Vogue.
She always waited until the first of the month to crack her magazines open, peeling back the cover like it was a shiny new present, but today she couldn’t concentrate. She couldn’t stop thinking about Dean, and what happened the night before. The taste of his kiss, the rasp of his stubble. The low groan that rumbled through him when he slipped his tongue into her mouth.

And then the words
We still good?
echoed through her head.

Embarrassment hit her stomach like lead dropping into water. Jamie buried her face in her hands.

He’d only kissed her because he was drunk. Nothing more to it than that. If anything, she should’ve been grateful he hit the brakes when he did. He’d stopped things before they went too far, making it clear that their friendship was what mattered.

He valued her as a friend. And if there was one thing Jamie could hold over Dean’s one-week wonders, it was that they’d come and gone while she was still in his life.

They’d be able to go back to normal. Whatever weird feelings that kiss had kicked up would fade by the next time she saw him, which wasn’t likely to be for a while, anyway.

A quiet knock at the door preempted Krissy’s entrance. She popped her head into Jamie’s room, her raven hair wound into two uneven pigtails.

“You up?”

Silly question. She’d been up longer than anyone. And she hadn’t slept in since the ninth grade.

“Yup. You know where the guys went?”

“To play golf with your dad.”

Of course. Because that was what four doctors did when they had a few hours to kill. “Awesome. Come on in.”

Krissy closed the door behind her. “You must be proud of them.”

“Oh, yeah. Super proud.” As if growing up in the shadows of their greatness hadn’t been bad enough, Owen was finishing his residency in emergency medicine, Brendan had recently joined a small family practice, and Sean was on his way to becoming as well-known a surgeon as their father.

She was the black sheep in a family of overachievers.

“You didn’t want to be a doctor too?”

Jamie snorted. “Wasn’t really my thing.”

Krissy sat down on the bed, and Jamie gave her a covert once-over. Another plaid button-down, this one blue and gray, worn over a lumpy T-shirt. Faded Chucks on her feet. It could’ve been an attempt at a geek chic look, if it weren’t for the bright red patterned tights and orange pleated skirt she had on too.

The girl was seriously fashion-challenged.

Jamie resisted the urge to give style advice. It wasn’t her place to do that with someone she’d known for less than twenty-four hours, even though Krissy was technically about to be family.

“What are you reading?” Krissy asked.

Looked like the Q-and-A portion of the program had begun.

“
Vogue
.”

Krissy’s brows bunched down low. “You’re into fashion? I thought you were a swim coach.”

Jamie smoothed a hand over the glossy cover. She’d been reading it for years, poring over style reports of the newest trends, devouring the images of haute couture designs and timeless looks of glamour.

“I am,” she said. “I just like reading it.”

And imagining what it would be like to create the kinds of clothes it showcased. The magazine was a portal to another world, one she’d never get to live in but could experience vicariously through posed photographs and perfume samples.

“Do you swim a lot? Being a coach and all?”

Jamie’s head spun at the new line of questioning.

“Not as much as I used to, but I still do my laps every day.” She paused and scrunched up her nose. “Well,
almost
every day.”

She always felt a little guilty when she skipped a workout, but she’d taken the weekend off. Showing up at the center would’ve only given her boss an opportunity to talk about the Assistant Aquatics Director position he’d mentioned the week before.

Dodging people worked wonders.

“It sounds like a fun job,” Krissy said. “Being in a pool all day.”

“Trust me, having goggle marks imprinted on your face, super dry skin and constantly smelling like chlorine isn’t as exciting as it sounds.”

“You don’t like it?”

Jamie hesitated before answering.
Liking
swimming wasn’t the problem. The pool was the only place she’d felt a sense of accomplishment. There was no comparing her to her brothers when it came to a meet, because you couldn’t argue with a clock. They’d tried to race her once, back when she’d made her record. Leaving them in her wake with her legal turns and stroke recovery had felt awesome.

It felt somewhat less than awesome now, since it looked like swimming was going to be all she ever did.

She shrugged. Threw on a big smile. “It’s a job.”

Needing a subject change, she started to ask how things went with Mikey at the beach, but a sharp rap on the door cut her off.

“Jamie, do you plan on making an appearance at any point today?” her mother asked. “Or will we only be seeing you at the rehearsal dinner?”

The tinge of exasperation in her tone had Jamie closing the magazine and getting to her feet. “Coming.”

She and her mother had a decent relationship. They spent time together—usually shopping or having lunch and insignificant conversation during the downtime her mother had in between more important obligations—but for the most part Jamie felt like an outsider in her family.

Each of her brothers’ births had been spaced an even two years apart, but she’d come along six years after Owen, and was fairly certain she was an accident. A curly-haired misfit who upset the balance of their perfect little family.

Perfect grades, perfect hair. Perfect acceptances into Ivy League schools.

She’d wanted one tiny accomplishment to set her apart from them, but she’d never been able to keep up, barely scraping by with C’s, hiding her frustration in her smiles and practical jokes. She hoped swimming would be her thing, but even that had fallen flat, and since she finished college, she felt almost casually forgotten by her parents. As if they’d successfully fulfilled their parenting roles with her brothers and had done all they could with her.

Of course she was grateful they’d let her live at home rent-free for the last two years. It was something she would’ve felt guiltier about if they weren’t constantly passing off questions about why she hadn’t embarked on some noble and important career with a wave of a hand and words like “That’s just Jamie. She’ll figure herself out eventually.”

Downstairs in the kitchen, Kim was putting the finishing touches on a massive salad.

“Afternoon, ladies.” She handed each of them a plate. “Krissy, did you tell Jamie how nicely your bridesmaid dress fit?”

Suddenly shy, Krissy shook her head and focused on the food.

“Well, it looked great,” Kim continued. “Thanks again for picking them out, Jamie. I think you might have found the elusive dress that doesn’t get donated to charity ten seconds after the wedding is over.”

Jamie beamed. “Thank you.”

She’d sketched the dresses when Kim asked her to be a bridesmaid, then hunted through magazines and websites until she’d found a match. They were sleeveless, navy blue sheaths made from a smooth knit crepe. The surplice neckline dipped down low, the hemlines kissed the spot above the knee. She’d instantly known the dark hue would offset the burnt oranges, buttery taupes and fiery reds chosen for the linens, bouquets and centerpieces.

“Was fashion something you ever thought about doing seriously?” Kim asked.

Jamie’s chest went tight, lungs constricting with that familiar pressure, prompting a need to escape. She sat down with her plate and jabbed her fork into a tomato.

“Nah. Not seriously.” It was easy to hide the lie as she busied herself with chewing.

“You were more serious about swimming then?”

Yup, that was exactly why she was stalling the discussion with her boss. “I guess.”

“Haven’t you figured Jamie out by now?” her mother asked as she sat down with them. “She’s never serious about anything.”

It was said with a smile, but the comment was like being stabbed with a butter knife—not sharp enough to do any real damage, but painful all the same.

“Nope,” Jamie said as she punctured another tomato, hoping her smile belied the churning in her gut. “Life’s a lot more fun that way.”

If Kim noticed any tension, she kept quiet about it. “Well, you should come down to New York sometime anyway,” she said. “Maybe during fashion week. You could stay with Krissy and her roommate.”

Jamie’s heart raced uncomfortably. New York Fashion Week was something she’d always wanted to see, but going there now would remind her of the exciting life she’d never have. She’d sit in the back row and watch, no different than any other tourist.

She wouldn’t really
be
there.

“Maybe. Thanks for the offer.”

“Sure.” Kim smiled, then threw Krissy the oddest glance. A pointed one that seemed to say
now
. When her sister didn’t speak, she cleared her throat. “Mrs. Matthews, Krissy has a question to ask you.”

Krissy’s fork fell to her plate with a clatter. She fumbled to retrieve it.

“I know it’s last minute, but I was wondering if it would be all right for Michael Pelletier to come to the wedding as…my date.”

Jamie grinned. Their walk must’ve been pretty interesting. Go Mikey.

“I think we can make it work,” Jamie’s mother said with a polite smile. “He can always eat standing up.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Matthews.” Kim’s gaze flipped to Jamie. “Hey, how come there won’t be a plus-one for you at the wedding?”

And Jamie was done with lunch.

“I wanted to spend the day focused on family.”

It was the easiest explanation. Better than saying she’d been weighing her options for longer than she wanted to admit, and still wasn’t interested in committing to anyone.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t liked the guys she’d dated. There’d been some promising candidates, from the captain of the track team she’d lost her virginity to shortly after Dean to the fellow jocks she’d dated in college. There’d been a handful of boyfriends in the years since, but none of them held her interest for long.

Relationships. One more thing she’d never been able to be serious about.

The phone rang. Jamie lunged for it, the escape a welcome relief. She was barely able to say hello before a panicked female on the other end identified herself as the wedding photographer’s wife.

“My husband’s been in an accident,” she said. “Can I speak to Mrs. Matthews?”

Crap. That didn’t sound good. At all.

Jamie extended her arm in her mother’s direction. “It’s for you. I think the photographer might not be able to make it.”

Her mother stilled. “Jamie Marie Matthews, you promised. No practical jokes until after the wedding.”

“It’s not a joke,” she insisted. “His wife is on the phone.”

Alarm flashed in her mother’s eyes. “You’re telling the truth.”

She nodded and handed the phone over. Her mother took it and walked into another room.

Jamie cleared her place, feeling like she’d taken a dolphin kick to the stomach. She rinsed off her plate, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. Of course her mother would think it was a prank. Her entire family thought she never took anything seriously, too wild and directionless to care. She supposed it was a fact she should’ve been proud of. It meant she’d become a rock star at covering her feelings of not being good enough, her sarcasm, smiles and humor never making anyone the wiser about how lost she felt.

Her mother returned to the table, phone in hand.

“The photographer and his assistant were hit by a truck when they merged onto I-95,” she said. “They’re being airlifted to Portsmouth Regional Hospital.”

Kim’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, that’s awful.”

Jamie winced. No wonder his wife had sounded so upset.

“I hope they’ll be okay,” she said, but after years watching her father get similar calls, she recognized the look on her mother’s face. Those two were going to be out of commission for a while.

“I hope so too,” her mother said. “Portsmouth has a good team. They’re in capable hands. However, this unfortunately means we have no photographer. Our contract didn’t have an in-case-of-emergency back-up plan, and there’s no way we’ll be able to find someone else on such short notice.”

A knot lodged itself in Jamie’s stomach and she let out a sigh. There was one person who might be able to help. Even if he was the last person she wanted to talk to.

“Hold on. Don’t panic yet.”

She retrieved her phone from her pocket and pulled up Dean’s number, last night hanging over her like a storm cloud. Calling him now could look like she was trying to throw herself in his path, but it wasn’t as if she could’ve manufactured this.

She hit send. The call went straight to voicemail. He was probably at the shop, his head bent under the hood of some busted old vehicle. Maybe it would be less awkward if she asked him in person.

“I’m going to call in a favor from a friend,” she said. “Be back soon.”

She grabbed her bag, stopping in the bathroom to check her appearance. Jeans, a white long-sleeved shirt and a hot pink vest. Lip-gloss and some mascara on her face. She looked decent enough. Except for her giant mop of crazy, curly hair.

She fished an elastic from her bag and twisted her hair into a messy pile on top of her head. Good thing Kim had hired a stylist to do the bridal party’s hair tomorrow. No matter how many fashion magazines Jamie read, she’d never found an easy way to tame her long brown spirals. It was impossible. Not unless she spent hours on it.

But her appearance didn’t matter to Dean, did it?

Outside, the midday sun was bright in the sky, but unpleasantly cool air was pushing off the Atlantic, a competition that would soon be won by fall’s advance. Jamie grimaced. It was so depressing here when autumn came, the tourists gone, the shores quiet and empty.