Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome #3)

Chapter Eight Emily

Chapter Eight

Emily

“Thanks again for helping, Em,” says Annie, as I carry another bucket of flowers to the trailer hitched to the four-wheeler. “I feel bad you’re sacrificing your morning to do this for me—but it’s a huge help.”

And I know she means it. Annie hates taking up any kind of space—especially when she thinks it’s at a cost for anyone else.

“Annie,” I say, turning to face my overalls-clad sister. “Helping you is literally a fun activity for me.” I wish I could say I was joking, but I couldn’t get my boots on fast enough when she called this morning. “And getting to do it on a sunny day at the farm, surrounded by flowers instead of asking twenty second-graders if they heard what I said for the tenth time in an hour? That pretty much makes it a vacation.”

She smiles fully, looking like some sort of royal flower nymph in her magical garden. The woman is stunning and glows kindness. She and Maddie share that quality. They possess a charm that makes you want to either be them or be their best friend. Annie is tender, and Maddie is wild, but they’re two sides of the same coin. But me…I don’t think anyone would ever accuse me of being soft.

For instance, a few nights ago when Jack told me Zoe didn’t like him in glasses, I have never felt so unsoft in all my life. How dare she? First, she’s wrong. He looks so sexy in glasses it physically hurts. Second, it’s clear he prefers to wear them. What kind of partner would make someone they love feel insecure over something they need to wear? I know from watching Madison’s experience with glasses that wearing contacts all the time is miserable. And yet one day, he found out Zoe thought he looked dorky in glasses, so he just took them off and put them in a drawer and left them there. Because that’s what he does. He’s so considerate of everyone else’s feelings (except mine) that he just bends over backward for them. And Zoe took advantage of it.

Why didn’t he wear them anyway? Why is he always so damn nice to everyone? And why doesn’t he treat anyone else like he treats me? I mean, he’s had no trouble pissing me off all week by waiting to start construction until right after I turn off my light to go to sleep. Or intentionally taking my corner table again last Saturday.

I’ve been retaliating in kind, however. The bike lock on his breaker box was my favorite. But sneaking into his house while he was gone the other day to steal all his nails was a close second. And I even managed to talk Phil into moving all of his boxes of nails to the back and claiming they were out of stock when Jack came sniffing around for more.

It’s killing my poor town to ostracize Jack, though. I don’t know how much longer I can ask them to keep it up. They like him—and of course they do because everyone loves Jack. He’s charming like my sisters—which makes him so much harder to compete with when charm doesn’t come naturally for me. It makes me wonder how long it will take for him to sweep everyone off their feet entirely—until they like him better than me.

“Where’s Will today?” I ask to distract myself.

Usually Will loves to help Annie any chance he gets. It’s rare for her to ask me for anything instead of him these days.

Annie sets another bucket of flowers on the trailer and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. “He’s studying for a test tomorrow.”

“Ugh—I do not miss those days.”

Annie looks at me with a knowing smile. “Yes, you do.”

I laugh. “Fine. I do. Actually, does he need any help? I have excellent study techniques that are just going to waste.” Back in college, the only other person I found in the library as often as me was Jack. We were usually the ones closing down the place. I remember how sometimes, when it would get exceptionally late, the empty library would pulse around me. I would feel so alone and sometimes even nervous, until I’d look around and find Jackson several tables away, his nose in a textbook. He never left until I did, and sometimes I wonder if—

“He’s thriving actually,” says Annie, snapping my attention back into the garden. “I knew he was smart, but it’s been incredible to see just how intelligent he really is.”

Will has recently had a massive life change. Before he was Amelia’s bodyguard, he was in the Air Force. But what he’s really always wanted to be is a teacher. Apparently he’s always been academically gifted and was even accepted into MIT after high school but chose the military instead as a way to get out from under his toxic parents. But with Annie’s support, he decided to finally go for those dreams and enrolled in our nearest private college (my alma mater, I might add). I tried to talk him into working with me at the elementary school, but he’s pretty set on either junior high or high school.

Annie and I finish up our work and when all the flowers are snipped and buckets are loaded, she grabs two water bottles from the back of the four-wheeler and gives me one. We both take a minute to cool off—and in these still moments, I can’t help but feel nostalgic.

“It’s wild to think Mom started this, isn’t it?” I say, looking out over the rows and rows of budding flowers—a vast aquamarine sky with dabbles of puffy cotton-ball clouds above. Even this little corner of Rome feels like home. My parents not only worked on this farm but were best friends with the owners (James Huxley’s parents). Mom talked them into letting her have a little plot of it for a cheap price to use for her roadside flower business. She always intended to grow it into a brick-and-mortar flower shop in town, but she died before she ever got the chance. Which is why Annie did it for her.

“It is.” Annie stares out at it like she’s trying to see what I see. “Do you have any memories of them here?”

I have to clench my teeth to stave off the tears. “I do—but…” It’s hard to get out this next part. “They’re getting fuzzier and fuzzier with time.”

“Tell me one,” Annie says with a soft plea in her voice. She was really young when they died, and I know it hurts her not to have had the chance to know our parents like Noah and I did. Maddie remembers more than Annie, but not by much.

“I’ll tell you my favorite memory.” I clear my throat and point to the left corner of the flower patch. “Right over there, they had the biggest fight.”

Annie’s head swings to me—a concerned frown etched between her brows. “Not really the memory I was hoping to get.”

I laugh. “They bickered because Mom swore she told Dad they were spreading sunflower seeds on that row, and he swore she told him they were spreading dahlia seeds instead…which is why they both had planted two different types of flowers in the same row.” A small laugh bubbles out of me when I remember how angry my sweetheart mom was at my dad that day. “She was livid because apparently sunflowers and dahlias are incompatible flowers. Neither will grow well if they’re planted together because of something sunflowers do to the soil. Anyway, she felt like all their work for the day went to waste and she just dissolved into tears.” I remember Mom always being a big feeler. Like Madison. My gut tugs and it’s going to be a struggle to get it out. “But Dad pulled her into a hug and reminded her the two of them were incompatible too, but so far they had gotten along okay.” I remember her playfully tickling him after that, which led to a sweet kiss. And when she found me watching, she told me to find someone someday who will hug me when I’m sad and then help me look on the bright side of things when all I can see is the dark.

Grief grows fresh claws in my heart, and the pain of losing them is new all over again.

I screw on the cap to my water bottle and make a big show of looking at my watch like there’s somewhere incredibly important I’ve got to get to. I give Annie a quick hug and avoid her gaze as I walk by her so she can’t see my heart bleeding out, but she stops me before I get too far away.

“Wait, Em!” I pause and look back at her. “Did the flowers actually grow or was the crop a bust?”

Whoever said time heals all wounds was a damn liar, because sometimes my heart hurts the worst from the memories that time has erased.

—

Driving has always made me feel better. Not just driving in general, though, but driving on my hometown’s back roads in my truck.

I enjoy splurging every now and then and buying something nice. Top-of-the-line bed linens. Quality makeup. Luxurious PJs. But when it comes to my truck, I like it old and rusty. There’s just something about driving with my arm out the window on a long stretch of country road when the air is warm and the radio is blasting “Take It Easy” by the Eagles. It’s a unique kind of drug.

And that’s what I’m doing now, savoring the feel of the sun singeing my forearm and the wind tearing through my hair when I see a person on a sleek black motorcycle—a sports bike—come speeding up the road behind me. The loud engine competes with mine and I expect the person to pass me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he hangs back a bit. I check my rearview mirror a few times trying to figure out who it is. I know everyone around here, but I do not know this man. And I’m convinced it is a man judging by his body type. No one drives one of these bikes in Rome either. The kind where you have to lean forward and hug the body of the bike with your thighs.

I glance in the mirror one more time and study the rider. He’s wearing black leather gear (not the Harley-Davidson riding kind, but the nimble racer–type material), and it would appear black is his favorite color since his outfit matches his bike. Black as ink. The visor of his helmet is pulled down and it’s so tinted I can’t see through it. Maybe I’m experiencing what’s universally known as the Helmet Effect, but a pleasant chill runs down my spine at the sight of him. He could be a troll under that helmet and as long as the visor is shut, he would be the sexiest man alive to me.

He must have noticed me looking at him because next time I peek, he raises his black glove in a relaxed, amused wave, and somehow I just know that he’s smiling under that helmet.

Maybe it’s because I need to fully escape the lingering pain that visiting the flower patch brought on, but I find myself deciding to play a little. I raise my hand outside the window in my own casual wave. Just a friendly hello.

Next thing I know, his engine is revving and he’s curving around me to ride right up beside the window of my truck. I squeal and dart my gaze back and forth between him and the long open road ahead of us.

“Stop!” I yell, but I can’t keep a laugh from bubbling through my voice. “That’s not safe!”

His helmet looks in my direction and he does a very theatric me? gesture, pointing his index finger at his chest.

“Yes, you! Don’t be so reckless!”

This time he puts his hand to his helmet, pretending like he’s cupping his ear. He then shrugs and opens his engine up, tearing off ahead of me in the oncoming lane and popping a wheelie.

I scream and pray to anyone listening that this man doesn’t tip over backward and crash while trying to be a show-off for me. But a few seconds later, he sets the front end back down like it was nothing. An oncoming car is approaching a ways up the road now, so he holds out his right arm, gesturing that he’s going to enter my lane. Suddenly so responsible. A moment later, he leans to the right and cruises in front of me. I don’t want to, but I have to admit, I’m more than enjoying this interaction.

After the car passes by and he sees the road is wide open once again, he drops in beside me. Apparently he’s enjoying this as much as I am because the fool points at me and then balances the bike with no hands so he can hold up a heart to his chest before once again pointing his index finger, but this time to himself. I’m laughing so hard I nearly have tears in my eyes. But still, I shake my head and wave him off, so he’ll leave before he gets himself hurt.

He’s sitting upright on the bike now, left arm holding the handlebar and the rest of his body angled casually in my direction. He cocks his head like he’s waiting for me to play again, so I yell, “ I’ve seen better. ” Even though I absolutely haven’t. Maybe it’s just the pads in his leather gear, but I can’t help but notice how good his body looks. I’ll never know for sure, and maybe that’s a good thing.

He presses the back of his hand to his head. A comedian. I have no idea who this guy is but I’m starting to wish I did. There’s no way he’s from around here, though. Must be passing through.

Just up ahead is my turn and I feel a tug of disappointment knowing I’ll have to say goodbye to this random sexy speed racer. I motion to the approaching turn and wave my goodbye to him. At least I’ll always have this memory of the man on the bike flirting with me.

He mimes a tear running down the front of his helmet and then gives me one final wave, dropping back behind my truck once again. My heart sinks as I turn onto my road, and I realize the fun is over.

But then that feeling is replaced with an entirely different one when I notice that he turns with me.

Ohmygod.

Is he following me?

Maybe I shouldn’t have flirted so hard with a stranger like that. Oh lord, what if he’s a murderer? What’s the protocol here? Do I keep driving so he doesn’t know my location? But…I don’t get the feeling he’s a creep. Then again maybe I’m once again experiencing the Helmet Effect.

I’m trying to decide what to do as I approach my driveway, but he makes up my mind for me when he suddenly slows way down, dropping back. But then he turns the bike sharply. Right into…Jack’s driveway.

Oh my god, please no. This can’t be what I think it is. Please please please tell me that Jackson is not the man beneath that helmet! Why can’t he just be a serial killer? I’d like to go back to that option, please!

I’m still holding out hope that maybe this is simply someone coming to visit Jack as I steer into my driveway too and we ride parallel to each other up the gravel until we’re both parked. He turns his head, black visor pointed in my direction, and I watch with a sinking feeling as he lifts that damn visor and reveals Jackson’s face.

Son of a bitch.

I’m out of my truck in two seconds flat without even shutting the door. He sees the fury in my eyes and pulls his helmet off while putting down the kickstand and jumping off the bike. I’m around my truck in record time aiming for my house.

“Emily, wait!”

“No!” I yell without looking back at him. I hear him toss his helmet to the ground and rip off his gloves, and then the crunch of gravel as he runs to me. I walk even faster, trying to make it into the house before he can reach me, but I’m out of luck. His long legs eat up the ground, and he’s racing behind me on the stairs.

“Go away, you asshole!”

“Emily, please. Let me—”

“No!” I shove my key into the front door lock and frantically jiggle it, willing it to open on the first try for once. I don’t like change and this sticky lock has always been like a little decadent morsel of familiarity. This is the first time I’ve wished it was a properly functioning lock. “You catfished me! I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”

Embarrassment is clawing at me from under the surface of my anger. Jack has done some annoying things, but this is maybe the lowest.

“Yes, I did.” His voice is firm behind me. I feel him at my back. I see his shadow at my feet, and I want to stomp it.

And the key won’t turn in the damn lock! I should have replaced it ages ago. All I want is to get inside my house where I can shut the door in his face. I feel so tricked. So vulnerable.

“Will you turn around, please?” he asks with urgency.

“No. You purposely misled me so you could humiliate me! Congratulations—you accomplished what you wanted.” The lock finally gives way and I sigh with relief as I wrench the door open.

I fly inside and try to immediately shut the door, but his hand catches it before I can, holding it open a few inches. “I did not set out to humiliate you. I’m sorry if that was the result.”

“What a half-assed apology.”

His eyes burn. “It was half-assed. Because that’s the only part I’m sorry for.”

I laugh once and without humor. “That’s low, Jack, even for you.”

“And I would do it all over again.”

“Thanks. I’ve heard enough.” I try to force the door closed, but he holds it firm, his face leaning closer to catch my gaze through the opening.

“I’m not sorry you thought I was someone else because for once I got a taste of what it’s like to be a person you don’t hate, and I…” He stops, his chest heaving. He seems to think better of whatever he was going to say, but I’ve played enough Jeopardy! to solve the puzzle. He liked it. “I can’t bring myself to regret that.”

He’s breathing heavily but I don’t think I’m breathing at all.

“Please don’t feel embarrassed.” His voice is softening. “There was nothing to be embarrassed about. You were having fun, and…” A sad sort of smile tugs at his mouth. “I had fun too. I’m sorry, Emily. I’m so sorry I humiliated you— that was never what I meant to happen.”

“Then what was your intention?”

“When I pulled up behind you, I forgot you didn’t know I owned a bike. And then when you smiled at me so openly, I realized you didn’t know who I was. And I just wanted to see if…” Again he stops, but I’m not sure of how he was going to finish it this time.

But I have a hunch.

My grip loosens on the door. I’m not quite sure where to go from here or what to do with what he just said, but I do know two things for certain:

I did have fun with him out there.

Jack Bennett just apologized to me.

“Why did you do that?” I ask, looking him right in the eye so he can see that even though I’m humiliated, I’m not a coward.

His head tilts. “Flirt with you?”

That is a question I didn’t even consider asking, and even though I desperately want that answer now, I continue with my first. “No—why did you apologize?” It goes against everything we’ve ever been to each other.

He drops his hand, and when I don’t immediately slam the door in his face, his shoulders relax. “Because I may be a lot of things, but I never want to be the kind of person who can’t apologize when I’m in the wrong. I grew up around someone who was a real dick and never said he was sorry…so, I don’t know, I just don’t want to repeat his pattern. And I was firmly in the wrong today. So again, I’m very sorry.”

Huh. Jack as a child—there’s a thought. Jack with a motorcycle. Jack with an entire life outside of school. Jack as a multifaceted human.

My gaze drops from his eyes to his neck where his sweat-dampened hair is clinging to his skin, all the way down his jacket to his hands, where his gloves were a few minutes ago. A memory of those gloved hands raising to me in an amused lazy wave flashes and I should have instinctively known it was him. Effortlessly sexy has always been his thing.

But outside of our first bad encounter on the way to class, he’s never used it on me. It was… interesting to be on this side of it without the usual bad blood flowing between us.

According to Jack, he saw an opportunity and took it. I don’t know…maybe it’s time I do the same.

“When did you get a motorcycle?”

His expression is hesitant of my abrupt change in subject, like he’s preconditioned to watch out for any unexpected grenades I might throw at him. “I’ve had it for a few years.”

“How come I’ve never seen it before?”

A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and he catches it with his forearm. “I only ride during the nice-weather months. And during the school year, my commute was too far, so I pretty much only rode on the weekends.”

I don’t like the thought of him riding that thing on the interstate. Can’t say I like the idea of him riding it at all actually. It was one thing when it was just a stranger I’d never care about but now—wait, no…I didn’t mean that I care about him. Take it back, brain!

“Have you ever ridden?” he asks, unlatching the top of the leather jacket and unzipping it before peeling it off, leaving him in only a sweaty white T-shirt and riding pants. And yep, I can confirm it was not just the pads making his body look so good—damn him.

I take a reflexive step away. “No, I have not.”

He smiles and runs his hand through his hair. “Do you want to? I have a spare helmet at my hou—”

“ Absolutely not. I value my life too much to put it in your hands like that.”

His head tilts. “My hands are very competent, Emily.”

I bypass Jack’s innuendo and the funny thing it does to my stomach, and instead, I advance on him. I go out the door, backing him up until he’s forced to go down a step. We’re eye level now and I’m only inches from his face. I’ve been working through something during our idle chat, and I just made up my mind.

He looks braced for a slap and can only blink in response when I say, “I forgive you.”

Understandably Jack is silent for a long moment. This is new terrain for both of us.

“You…forgive me?” he repeats, shifting on his feet and looking between my eyes. “Is this a trap? Are you trying to lure me into passivity so you can stab me in the back when I least expect it?”

What a twisted relationship we have.

“Maybe,” I say, smiling at him over my shoulder as I go back into my house—leaving the door wide open behind me. “Or maybe I’m already holding too many grudges where you’re concerned and don’t feel like adding any more to the pile. We’ll have to wait and see, I guess.”

I don’t know what I’m doing leaving that door open. Jack doesn’t either, judging by the look on his face as he cautiously steps inside. He watches me slip out of my boots and hang my purse on the hook.

His shoulders suddenly jump, and he looks down—startled by Ducky, who is now wrapping herself around his ankle.

“What is that?” he asks as if his eyes are betraying him.

“A cat.”

“You really do have a cat.”

“You thought I was lying?” I laugh, scoop her up, and nuzzle my face into her fur. Now he really looks like he’s seen a ghost as he watches me snuggle her. Apparently he thought I went home every night and plugged myself into the wall to recharge.

“I’ll admit,” he says, cautiously, “I’ve always pictured you as more likely to wear animals than snuggle them.”

“First, that’s horrendous and I never would. Second…” I lift a brow. “Just how often do you picture me, Jackson?” I guess a little of that flirtation from the road has lingered.

His smile is a feral thing. “More than either of us is comfortable with.”

Oh.

He steps in a little farther and does a complete circle, seemingly taking in the scenery. It makes me nervous. I love my house and my décor, but I live on a teacher’s budget. Everything is pretty minimalist because I enjoy a tidy space. Big white couch. Cozy blankets. Pottery vases passed down from my grandma. Golden-toned, wooden breakfast table and chairs acquired from a yard sale. But there are a few choice pieces in my house that I saved and scraped and eventually splurged on, like my couch, my cushy area rug, and my mattress. Those things were nonnegotiable for me.

Having Mr. Top-of-the-Line-Everything in here is making me antsy. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Is that why there’s one coaster out of place?” he asks, pointing to the rogue one sitting on the arm of my couch instead of the coffee table.

I hurry across the room and return it to its pile, then realize it was a trap. Jack’s motorcycle boots creak on the floor as he moves around slowly to run his eyes over every corner of my space. I half expect him to be taking pictures of anything slightly incriminating. He’ll point and laugh at any mess he can find.

“You decorate your house like your classroom,” he says, eyeing an end table I picked up at Thrift N’ Stuff.

“Well, not all of us are willing to live outside of our means, and—”

He turns to me with a smile. “Let me stop you there. That wasn’t in any way a criticism.” His smile is so warm right now I could roast a marshmallow in front of it. “You have the best classroom at school. Every year I find myself just trying to keep up. And you thrift a lot of your stuff, right? I think I heard you tell Shirley that once. It’s amazing. Your classroom feels like walking into a home every year.”

Did Jack just compliment me? Like an outright, blatant compliment. And honestly, it was the greatest one he could have ever given me.

Since the classroom is where my students spend the majority of their days during the school year, I want it to feel like a second home for them. Or maybe a first home when I know they don’t get the love and attention they deserve from their parents.

Every year at least one of my students goes through something terribly difficult. It’s a fact of life. It was a fact of my life when my parents died mid-school year. And when it happened to me, I didn’t have a teacher who strove to make my days at school comforting and safe. That’s why I got my degree and teaching license and decided to become the second-grade teacher I needed back then.

And for me, the first step in creating that comfort is ambiance. I strive to make it look like a cozy living room with nice rugs, standing lamps, cushy chairs in various places, and a peace corner where kids can escape to when they need a minute to themselves full of things like fidgets and cute stuffies to snuggle. (All of which are fire marshal approved.) Most people think I spend a lot of money on my classroom décor, but in reality, like Jack said, almost everything is donated or acquired through yard sales and thrift shops. My siblings like to drop stuff off for me now and then too.

Every teacher in our school tries to make their classrooms special in some way, but Jack is the only other one who has ever gone as overboard as me with his decorating. Where my room is a cozy escape, Jack’s classroom is always a sensory explosion. Not in a bad way—but engaging. It’s colorful in all the right places. I would have hated him for how amazing his classroom is if I didn’t also know how much the children deserve it.

“Thank you,” I say, hesitantly. “I just want the kids to feel peaceful when they’re with me.”

He nods. “I need you to go shopping with me when it’s time to furnish my house. You have an eye for decorating that I don’t.” He pauses and grins. “Though I imagine you’d struggle with the amount of color I’d want. If you haven’t noticed I lean toward retro colors. Reds, warm brown. Green.”

As he says it, my beige living room automatically repaints itself in my mind. I’ve never considered it before, but…suddenly it seems even cozier.

And then, as if he hasn’t just completely blown my mind with apologies and compliments and statements about shopping for home goods together, he casually turns to my bookshelf/record collection and peruses my inventory. Natural as can be.

I’ve been openly collecting old records for a while, but my romance book collection has been tucked in a box beneath my bed until last year when I found out my sisters shared the same love of delicious bodice-ripping romances, and I moved them proudly to the bookshelf in my living room. Jack isn’t looking at the romances, though; his eyes are focused on the top shelf at my small collection of mystery novels. It consists of two series. Both were given to me by Noah because he wanted to be included in our book club but didn’t own any romance novels.

Jack’s body is unnaturally still. If not for the subtle rise and fall of his broad shoulders, I might have thought he stopped breathing.

“Jack?”

“I’ve gotta go,” he says quickly on the heels of his name. He pauses on his way out the door. “Thank you…for accepting my apology.”

And then he’s gone.