That Thing Called Love. Susan Andersen

fixtures and the lamp on her desk detailed the creamy curve of high cheekbones and picked out the sheen of her dark hair on either side of her center part. She’d tucked the long layers behind her ears, and they tumbled over the girly, not-quite-but-damn-near sheer fabric of her little black blouse, their blunt ends curving slightly in alternating lengths against the petite thrust of her breasts. He could almost distinguish the outline of a black bra beneath the top.

      If he didn’t mind giving himself eyestrain.

      “Five o’clock is perfect,” she said. “I’ll see you then.” Hanging up the phone, she leaned forward, made a notation in the planner, then turned her attention to the worksheet.

      He could have sworn he didn’t make a sound, but her head suddenly jerked up and she looked straight at him, eyes startled and slender fingers spread like starfish on the oversize spreadsheet. And for just an instant their gazes melded with a spark that wasn’t solely on his side.

      His whole body perked up.

      He didn’t get it. He’d come away from his relationship with Kari with a carved-in-stone belief that there was no such thing as true commitment and a determination to never again put himself in the position of testing that belief. From the age of eighteen, he’d chosen women who knew the score. They understood they’d have a good time but that any relationship with him had a finite shelf date.

      Jenny was so not the cool, casual-sex kind he usually went for. Yet she still had a way of making his hormones come to attention and lock on her like heat-seeking missiles.

      Eye on the prize, Bradshaw! Shoving the attraction down where it belonged—in the subterranean depths of his mind—he stepped inside and for a second wasn’t sure where to start.

      Her brow furrowed. “Are you okay? Can I do something for you?”

      He walked over to her desk, spread his hands against its messy surface and leaned into them. His head drooped for a nanosecond before pride put some bone back in his spine. “He wouldn’t even talk to me.”

      “Who wouldn—?” Jenny blinked. “Austin?” The breath she exhaled wasn’t one of those exasperated, big sighs that females excelled at, but it wasn’t exactly a “poor baby,” either. “And you think this is my problem why?” she asked drily. “I gave you an opportunity. What you did with it was up to you.”

      “I know.” Noticing a luscious, amazing whisper of scent rising off her—a female aroma he could’ve happily gone all day without detecting—he straightened and took a step back. “I do know that. Damn.” Using one hand to massage the knot of tension from the back of his neck, he tried to explain. “It’s just—they got in the backseat.” He could see she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. “Austin and Nolan, they got into the backseat like I was the damn chauffeur!”

      The delighted laugh that rolled out of her lit her up like a little girl presented with a princess dress. But even as he was drawn to her unfettered enjoyment, even as he felt a spark of warmth take root low in his gut and high in his chest from the sound of her mirth, he found himself snapping, “It’s not funny!”

      Amused appreciation for the boy’s tactics dropping from her face, Jenny’s laughter died even as her warm brown eyes sobered. “Yes,” she said quietly, “it actually is. It’s rebellious, yet polite, which has a certain creative charm. What isn’t funny is the fact that you ignored your son for thirteen years but expect him to get with your damn program in one week. Well, guess what, Bradshaw?”

      She got up from her desk and circled it to the door. “It’s not all about you. So here’s an idea—quit expecting me to do your legwork for you, and try figuring out a few things for yourself.” She tapped the toe of one sexy high-heeled shoe against the carpet, her arms crossed beneath those cupcake breasts.

      It couldn’t be any clearer she wanted him to leave, and his first impulse was to apologize for intruding and saunter past her as if her words hadn’t drawn blood.

      Only...

      She wasn’t wrong, dammit.

      He hated to admit it, but avoiding the truth wouldn’t change the facts.

      “Look, I don’t disagree,” he offered, stopping less than half a foot from her. “I’ve been expecting too much too soon, and relying on your efforts without putting enough of my own into the things I need to do to transition Austin from hating my guts to at least tolerating me. But it must be as painfully clear to you as it is to me that I’m crashing and burning here. So, if I promise to head back to my room—” even though the thought made him feel itchy and confined “—to put some serious thought into the matter, could you see your way clear to steering me in the right direction? Like...” What, genius? Then it came to him. Duh. “He played great in practice today, for instance, and I’d love to see him in action during his actual games. But I don’t know when they are.”

      “I’ll make you a schedule,” she said, then hesitated. “And I suppoooose—” the word was drawn out with palpable reluctance “—it would be okay if you wanted to sit with Tasha and me at the next game.”

      He grinned. “That would be great! Thank you.”

      She gave him a little smile in return, free from the lack of enthusiasm she’d just displayed. For a moment he thought they might have an honest-to-God rapport.

      Then Jenny stiffened. “Well. I need to get back to work. I’ll get you that schedule when I get a minute. Meanwhile—” she shot him an I-mean-business look “—get busy on more ideas. One-trick ponies only get you so far down the road.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m heading to my room to do that right this minute.” He supposed kissing her, even if only in gratitude for her help, probably wasn’t appropriate. He stepped back instead. “Thanks again.”

      Her shoulders twitched. “Sure.”

      Jake left her office, but only got as far as the hallway outside before he halted. He could not face going back to his room.

      So, big deal, head outdoors. Or...

      He snapped upright as two thoughts occurred to him. Not one, but two actual productive ideas. That made a total of three in the past few minutes.

      He’d been concentrating too hard on the end goal instead of on the smaller steps that might get him there. Yes, he’d have to accomplish his first idea before he could think about implementing the second, but a faint, relieved smile quirked his mouth.

      Because as he headed back toward the inn’s small lobby, he finally felt like his usual, competent self.