Studfinder (The Busy Bean) Read online

  Suddenly, there’s a sharp crackle, and I turn my head in time to see smoke rising from the halogen light.

  “Shit,” I hiss, leaning over and pulling the plug, disconnecting the power source. Another spark cracks before quickly burning out. A slow hiss follows the bright snap. These lights run hot, and the slightest bit of construction dust could start a fire. With the lamp suddenly off, we’re submerged in darkness.

  When I glance up at Rita, enough light filters down the staircase to show me her back is ramrod straight against the stud supports at the base of the staircase. Her hands are behind her, clutching at the narrow strips of wood.

  “Shit,” I mutter again as I take two steps toward her. “You okay?”

  Rita’s eyes are still focused over my shoulder at the lamp where a sliver of white smoke hisses upward from the light source. I shift to block her view.

  “Sweet,” I whisper, forcing her gaze to my face. “You’re safe with me. I swear it.”

  Her chin dips once to acknowledge what I said, but she doesn’t relax. Her hands still cling to the wood at her back as her chest heaves. Slowly, I reach out for her, wrapping my hand cautiously around her nape.

  “Rita, focus on me. Take a breath.”

  She nods again, keeping her eyes on mine as I massage the back of her neck, feeling the tension under her skin. Stepping closer to her, I will her to inhale as I do and then follow my exhale.

  “That’s it. In. Out.”

  She exaggerates her breathing, sucking in air before heavily releasing it.

  “That’s it,” I repeat, still rubbing at her nape while her breasts brush against my tee-covered chest. Despite being sweaty from working under the heat of the lamp, I’m not stepping back until whatever frightened her subsides.

  “Are you afraid of the dark?” I question, although it’s not pitch black. Low light filters down the flight of stairs.

  “Fire,” she whispers.

  I turn to glance over my shoulder, making certain one didn’t start, then look back at her.

  “No fire,” I whisper.

  Her eyes close a second, and she swallows hard. My thumb wraps around the front of her neck, slowly stroking up the column of her throat. Her skin is warm while soft under the calloused touch of my hand. I can feel her heart beating through the pulse at her neck. Slowly, her eyes open, and those blues are like fresh flames on a newly lit stove. The heat in them is just as intense.

  Leaning forward, I lick my lips, watching where my thumb slides along her neck.

  “Please don’t be afraid of me.” My roughened voice does not match the pleading words; however, I don’t want her to fear for her safety. I’d never hurt her. I’d never purposely hurt anyone.

  She doesn’t respond to my plea, but I can’t seem to let her go. My eyes focus on her lips, slightly open and pink. Our breaths mingle. Our noses almost touch. Tipping my head as her nearness is too much, I can see down her loose top and note the swell of her breasts forced together by her bra. The dark purple silk matches the deep violet shade of her blouse.

  I lick my lips, wanting to slide my tongue down the column of her throat and between the crease of those swollen globes. Rita has a nice rack on her small frame.

  My hand slips from the back of her neck into the collar of her shirt. Slowly, slowly, slowly, I drag my palm to her shoulder, nudging the soft material to the side. Massaging as I move over her skin, I strum my thumb over her clavicle like I’d flick at fiddle strings. I want to play her and hear her sing.

  Her chest continues to heave against mine, and my heart hammers in my chest. Leaning forward, I rub my stubbly cheek along hers. My lips almost touch the shell of her ear, and I whisper, “Relax.” As if thirsting for blood, my mouth waters, wanting to lower for the pulse thumping at the side of her throat. My thumb continues to stroke at the short cliff of her collarbone. No longer allowing my face to touch hers, I pull back but still feel the warmth of her skin against mine. My fingertip glides the length of her clavicle to the hollow dip at the base of her throat. Tracing along the notch, I lick my lips once more.

  I could kiss her.

  I want to kiss her.

  Then I tell myself this desire is only because I haven’t kissed anyone in seven years. And kissing Rita would be a huge mistake. Despite my raging hard-on and racing heart, I cannot make a move on Rita. I’m needy but not desperate enough to fuck my boss.

  “I gotta go,” I state, my voice gravelly rough. Abruptly, I release her, hovering my hand over her skin for a mere second as her heat sizzles off my palm. She’s a flame, and I’m a moth, and that is just not a game I dare to play.

  Taking a large step back, I do a quick scan of the floor, unable to focus on anything I might be searching for, and then I take the stairs two at a time to get myself the hell out of the house and away from the intoxicating draw of Rita.

  5

  Rita

  He almost kissed me.

  Despite the slam of the front door, I remain where I am, holding the studs at my back like I’m nailed to them. I was drowning under him. His scent. His nearness. The touch of his hand on my skin. His fingers massaging my neck before his palm skittered to my shoulder. The calming effect he intended did not work. His hesitant touch made my heart race faster. I was ready to beg for him to lower that thick palm and touch me in other places. Then he stopped.

  I gotta go.

  His touch left my skin scorched.

  My gaze drifts to the work lamp, no longer illuminated and evidently cooled from whatever landed on it. I don’t know what happened to me. I’ve never had a panic attack in my life. Not ever. One minute, I was watching Jake, heart fluttering, belly twisting, and then the sizzle occurred on the work light. A stream of smoke and the flicker of the bulb set my imagination running.

  Ian.

  I can’t say it’s been a long time since I’ve thought of my former fiancé because I think of him nearly every day. But the ache of his loss isn’t as strong as it once was or as fierce as when he first passed.

  Fire.

  I wasn’t sensitive to flame, but that snap and pop along with the lingering hiss triggered something inside my mind. Forgotten nightmares, I suppose. The ones I used to wash away with alcohol.

  While other people might head to a bar after a moment like this to settle their nerves or numb their senses, I typically call my sponsor or go to a meeting to right myself. Tonight, I know where I need to go, as coffee has become my new drug of choice. Sitting on that damn couch might instill more wayward ideas about Jake, but I need my happy place.

  He almost kissed me.

  Those cinnamon-red lips were right here, so close I could almost taste the spicy hotness. Recalling the ruggedness of his cheek against mine sends another shiver down my spine. The toughness of his hand at my throat causes me to swallow, and his phantom caress lingers.

  I would have let him take me against these beams if he had wanted me.

  Which he clearly does not.

  I gotta go.

  With a shaky hand, I squeeze my forehead dismissing both my momentary panic attack and my overwrought imagination. Pushing off the studs behind me, I take another glance at the darkened lamp. My mind further represses memories of Ian. A refreshing gin and tonic could heal the tremor in my knees, but I know what I need is more than something to numb my thoughts. A dark roast and a baby fix are better than alcohol.

  My best friend, Scarlett Russell, now Scarlett Eaton, became a momma at forty-two, and I couldn’t be happier, especially as I get to reap the benefits of playing Aunt Rita.

  “Give him to me,” I coo when Scarlett meets me at the Busy Bean. I called her after the incident with Jake. The incident will henceforth be called the non-kiss incident. Some baby cuddles and nonsense murmurings will be a good distraction, and Scarlett was more than willing to get out of her house in the late afternoon.

  My oldest friend had a rough go of things about a year ago. Her no-good cheating husband had gotten himself in a pickle when he di
pped his dill into one of his med students who ended up pregnant. Scarlett left him and came to Vermont for a visit and decided to stay for a bit. Then she stuck permanently when she found herself pregnant from a one-night stand with her hunky cowboy, now husband, Bull. The Eaton clan is one fine man after another, but Bull’s younger brothers are just trouble waiting to happen.

  The newest Eaton addition, however—baby Harley—he’s a heartbreaker like the rest of them with his drooling kisses and sweet giggles.

  “Aunt Rita has missed you. Yes, she has,” I simper to the babe in my lap while Scarlett chuckles beside me. We’ve taken up residence on our favorite couch sans Jake.

  “He’s not a dog,” she teases at the tone I’ve taken to speak to the five-month-old.

  “But he’s as cute as a puppy, and he has eyes just like one, too. He’s looking at me like ‘give me everything I ask for, Aunt Rita,’ and he knows I’ll never say no to him.”

  Scarlett laughs at my ridiculousness. As college roommates, we immediately hit it off upon arriving at Boston University, but our lives took us in separate directions once we graduated. I’d intended to remain in Boston for law school. I was going to fight against true crimes and defend complex cases. Instead, my dad had his first heart attack, and I came home to join Kaplan and Associates. I was the associate. I worked days as a legal assistant while attending law school at Vermont Law. Once I was a full-fledged attorney, we remained Kaplan and Associates although my father became a judge. For some reason, Dad never promoted me to partner.

  “So, what’s new?” Scarlett asks, staring at me over the rim of her coffee mug.

  “Ugh. Jake Drummond is what’s new.” I groan while I wiggle Harley on my lap.

  “Jake Drummond,” Scarlett elongates his name. “Interesting. I didn’t know you’d found a stud.”

  Scarlett was an entertainment news reporter in her life before motherhood, and despite her gossip-loving days being over, she still loves a good story.

  “How do you know he’s a stud?” I wonder, sticking out my tongue at Harley and making faces at him.

  “He must be a stud,” Scarlett confidently states.

  I laugh, giving away my opinion.

  “No man would have you riled if he wasn’t.”

  “All men have me riled. I’m sexually repressed,” I mock myself. I might have a pink plastic boyfriend named Bobby, but it’s not the same as physical sex. And I can’t have nameless, faceless sex. I’ve already gone that route and crashed. I don’t like to recall that moment—and have trouble doing so as I blacked out during it—but I must never forget it as a pinnacle point in deciding to get my shit back together.

  “So, he’s hot?” Scarlett questions.

  “Maybe.” I shrug.

  “Rita Kaplan, for all the shi-shitake . . .” She pauses to glance at the baby, catching herself on the curse word. “. . . you give me about my husband, and you can’t give me more than he’s hot?”

  I laugh. “Well, your husband is hunky and handsome. I live through the details of your life because mine is so boring.” My gaze remains on little Harley in my hands. I’ve missed out on many things. Most days, I don’t dwell on the loss. No sense living in the past, my dad would say, but my future feels uncertain. I’m going to be forty-five in a few years, and if I live double that, what will I plan to accomplish with the remainder of my life? As I hold Harley, a zigzag of regret travels through my chest. I think I’ve missed out on something big by never having a child, but that ship sailed when I lost Ian. There just hasn’t been another man for me since his passing.

  “Your life isn’t boring. You’re a successful lawyer with your own practice, and you dedicate your extra time and talents to Building Buddies. Plus, you’re an advocate for AA and supportive of that community.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper, noting those are achievements, but many of them are service to others. What have I done for only me? What do I have that’s only mine?

  “Tell me more about this stud,” Scarlett softly demands, sounding like she’s ready to break into her rendition of the Grease classic “You’re the One That I Want.”

  As I speak, I focus on Harley. “He’s part of our restorative program at Building Buddies. I shouldn’t be attracted to him, but I just am. There’s something about him.” His scruffy jaw. His heated eyes. His rough hands on my skin. My chest clenches like I’m being pulled forward by simply thinking of him.

  “Why shouldn’t you be attracted to him?”

  I shrug, unable to answer.

  “What do you know about him?” Scarlett’s voice softens even more as being a recruit in our program means he’s had an addiction in the past or trouble with the law.

  “He’s been in jail. He’s on parole.” Silence follows my statements. “That’s it. That’s all you know.” I shrug again. “I don’t research those who come to us, respecting their privacy.”

  “You aren’t even a little bit curious. Just a little social media digging . . . er, research.”

  “No, Scarlett.” I’m not a sleuth like her in that manner. I don’t scroll social media for evidence. I deal in fact, and the facts were given to our director to review before being presented to the board for approval. I could use my connections with the DMV to run a background check on Jake, but I trust Alfred Jennings’ judgment on who might benefit from our Building Buddies philosophy. Most of our candidates did not commit a crime directly against another person, but more a misdemeanor of sorts. Curiosity has gotten to me, and I’ve wondered why Alfred thought Jake would be a good match with us, but I still have not looked into Jake’s history.

  “I’ll look him up,” Scarlett says, reaching for a pocket in her diaper bag.

  “No. Don’t.” In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter what she finds. He committed a crime. He served his time. He works with Building Buddies. That’s it. That’s as far as I need to know because Jake and I will not be more to each other. We should not be more. Jake is not for me.

  However, if I search deep down inside myself, I don’t want Scarlett playing investigative reporter because I don’t want to learn he dates around or, worse, has a family with a wife and children. So, there will be no diving into his present life or his past.

  He almost kissed me. He wouldn’t do that if he had a family, right?

  The plea in his voice, asking me not to be afraid of him, echoes through my head, mixing with his quiet reassurance he wouldn’t hurt me. Does a man who has a woman in his life touch someone else so intimately?

  Shaking my head, I erase my questions. I’m being silly over nothing. So he stroked my neck. So he caressed my shoulder. He was only trying to distract me from that momentary surge of panic.

  “I thought of Ian today,” I say, diverting Scarlett from her phone as I bounce Harley on my knees.

  Her head lifts. “You never talk about him,” Scarlett states, opening the door for discussion. Scarlett flew in and out during Ian’s funeral, but we often spoke after his death until I couldn’t talk about him anymore. It was just too painful to keep bringing him up. Of all the people who offered sympathy and pity, Scarlett was the first to let me drop the subject and discuss anything other than what I’d lost.

  “What’s there to say? He was a good man, and then he died.”

  “Rita,” Scarlett whispers, understanding passing through my name. Scarlett knows me better and doesn’t accept my flippant answer. I’m not upset, though. Not in a manner of hysterics and rants, like I once was when I cursed God for taking Ian from me and then threw myself at men and alcohol in hopes to sew up the hole in my heart. Alcohol became a patch instead of a stitch, and one night with the wrong man ripped through my attempts to hide how I felt.

  Scarlett is one of few who understood my spiral. I didn’t even see the downward spin into alcohol dependency happening. A drink—or two—to help me through the quiet, lonely evenings in the house we shared before his death. A glass of wine—or the entire bottle—to help me sleep in an empty bed we’d bough
t to make babies in after we married.

  “You’re a survivor, Rita. Don’t ever forget that.”

  I huff but agree with her, which is why my reaction in the basement earlier has me baffled. Was it a warning? I’m not superstitious like that. Was it the universe forcing Jake and me together? Even that seems farfetched. It was a fluke, plain and simple.

  “Okay, enough of the maudlin. How about dinner, chickie? I could go for a burger the size of my head at the Goat, but Tuxbury is the opposite direction for me. How about a bite at Speakeasy?”

  Speakeasy is a brewpub located on the old gin mill property along with the Busy Bean Café, where we sit, and the Gin Mill, another bar specializing in Vermont beers.

  “Are you sure?”

  Given my history with alcohol, people are cautious about asking me to visit establishments that serve the damning liquor. Still, as long as there is good food and I leave before the rowdy crowd starts, I’m okay in a place that pours my past poison. I know my limits. While I appreciate Scarlett’s concern, I don’t want my friend to be squeamish about us eating at the brewhouse.

  “Are you willing to take your baby to a bar?” I tease, recalling a similar line in one of our favorite movies, Sweet Home Alabama.

  “Well . . .” Scarlett chews her lip.

  “Want to call that hunky husband of yours and ask him to join us?”

  “What I’d really love is a night off mommy duty. I promised to help you find a stud, and we haven’t done that yet. That is if Jake isn’t already the one that you want.”

  I laugh at the reminder that I once told Scarlett I needed a stud because she hooked up with a man named Bull.

  “Let me just check in with Bull. We can keep it just us girls tonight.”

  “Us girls and Harley as our man,” I tease of the baby, bouncing him on my lap. Scarlett excuses herself a second, and I’m grateful. Sometimes, it’s difficult to listen to the sappy happiness that drips from her to Bull. I’m thrilled my friend has found a happily ever after, but I’m also slightly envious. The sweetheart and honey endearments, plus the way they look at one another like no one else is in the room . . . gag me with a spoon.