The Goose, the Gander, & the Three French Hens Read online

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  He hadn’t planned on seeing her, but now that he had, nothing would stop him from doing lunch. “I’d like to.”

  Karma waited a beat, and when Mary Claire didn’t follow her direction, she slid a business card across the bar to Jack and shot him a wink.

  “Thanks.” He snatched the card before Mary Claire could grab it, stuck it in his wallet, and finished his beer. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mary Claire.” He had to stop himself from leaning in and kissing her good-bye—old habits that he hadn’t known he had died hard. He rubbed the back of his neck, and then nodded to Karma and Trish before meeting Mary Claire’s stunned gaze. “Bye.”

  He didn’t wait for her to gather the courage to tell him she didn’t want to see him. He knew how to make a hasty retreat when warranted, and it was definitely warranted.

  Chapter 2

  “Is he there yet?” Karma’s voice blew through the phone with its usual exuberance.

  “No.” Claire looked around the shop and rubbed her stomach—it was tied up in so many knots, she figured it had taken up macramé. “I still can’t believe you told Jack to bring me lunch. If you hadn’t been on the other side of the bar, I’d have killed you.”

  “As if you could—you forget I was raised with three big brothers, four if you count Ben. You wouldn’t stand a chance. You fight like a girl. And come on, it’s not as if you weren’t wondering if whatever you two had is still there.”

  Claire sat on the stool behind the register and ran a hand through her hair. “It’s been seven years. It was a lifetime ago. We were kids.”

  “You’re not kids anymore, and last I checked, there’s no statute of limitations on love.”

  “There should be.”

  “Jack coming home now is a sign.”

  “It’s no such thing.”

  “It’s Christmastime. Everyone wants to come home for Christmas, and no matter how many moves he’s made over the years, that proves Jack thinks of Boise as home.”

  “The only reason he came back is because his dad died.”

  “His dad died months ago, yet he’s come home two weeks before Christmas instead of going to his mother’s.”

  The sleigh bells on the door jingled, announcing a customer or Jack. She gave the shop, decorated for Christmas to the nth degree, another once-over. She lived in the apartment upstairs, and last night when she couldn’t sleep, she came down and polished the place within an inch of its life. She cleaned when she was nervous. Thank God it didn’t happen often. The shop hadn’t been this spotless since they’d opened. “I have a customer. I have to go.”

  “Do you have a customer or do you have Jack?”

  “Bye, Karma.” She hadn’t had Jack for years, but the way he looked last time she’d seen him, she wasn’t dumb enough to rule it out. As a boy, he’d been gorgeous; as a man . . . well, he was bigger, harder, sexier—and damned if he didn’t look a little mysterious, too.

  “Call me when he leaves, and you might want to take notes. I expect a full report. Have fun.”

  Claire ended the call and looked up to find Jack standing on the other side of the counter, staring at her as if he could read her every thought. She wondered if he’d made sense of the muddled mess because, Lord knew, she wasn’t having much luck.

  Jack held up two bags and a cup carrier; the scent of fried food assailed her. “I went to the Westside Drive-In. I hope that’s all right.”

  “You didn’t.” She hadn’t eaten there in years, not since he’d left. There were just too many memories of him tied to the Westside.

  He shot her the crooked smile that took her back so many years. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I ordered your old favorites.”

  “You remembered?”

  “Mary Claire”—his voice had dropped a good octave, and his gaze fell to her lips—“I remember everything.”

  Claire needed space—he was too close, his gaze too knowing, too intimate, too X-rated. She stepped back, banged her elbow on the register, and then scurried around the sales counter toward the door. She needed to find some balance and hoped to God he couldn’t see the physical reaction he still had on her—one no one else seemed able to mimic. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried to find someone else. She’d tried hard through college and had failed miserably. She was obviously a goose, not a hen. Geese mated for life, and unfortunately, she didn’t know she was a goose until after her mate had given her an ultimatum and flown the coop. She turned the lock on the door and flipped the out to lunch sign. Bing Crosby crooned “White Christmas,” which reminded her that Christmas was a dangerous time for geese.

  By the time she returned, Jack had set their food on the counter and was bent over a toy chest. His hand ran across the scene painted with bunnies edged in yellow gingham, surrounded by watermelon slices and bordered in daisies on a lime-green background. “You painted this?”

  Avoiding his eyes, she scanned the crowded store. “I did all the painted pieces here. It’s what I do.”

  “They’re incredible.” His gaze zeroed in on every stick of furniture.

  “It’s a far cry from my childhood dreams, but I like it.”

  “It’s better. It’s more you.”

  Since it would be rude to say he didn’t know her, not anymore, all she could do was shrug. She took the drinks and stepped away. “Let’s take the food upstairs. I don’t like eating in the store.”

  “Sure.” He grabbed the bags and followed her to the door leading to her apartment, then hesitated before the first step. “I don’t feel like I should walk on these.”

  She looked at the painted stairs. The risers resembled the spines of her favorite books, and the treads looked like the covers: Charlotte’s Web, Pride and Prejudice, Lady Chatterley’s Lover. Her face flushed. “Don’t be silly—they’re stairs.”

  “They’re works of art.”

  “It’s fine. They’re finished to take the wear and tear.” She went ahead of him and wondered if she should have broken her no-eating-in-the-shop rule. She’d never realized how intensely personal her home was—not to mention her stairs. She’d chosen and customized or created every piece of furniture and art. Too late to change her mind now, she set their drinks on the hand-painted tile table in the dining area. It wasn’t a large apartment, and with Jack there—all six feet three or four of him—it seemed to shrink. She busied herself getting plates and utensils.

  “You don’t have to go through the trouble on my account. I’m fine eating on the wrappers.”

  No, it would be too much like all the meals they shared at the cabin. “It’s no trouble.”

  He reached into one of the bags. “Double bacon cheeseburger with ketchup, mustard, lettuce, and pickles for you. Fries with extra fry sauce for you, and the rest is mine.” He filled the table with enough food to feed at least three more people.

  “You bought two burgers, fries, and finger steaks?”

  “I’m a growing boy.”

  That’s what he’d always said, but he wasn’t a boy, not anymore. When he was, he never wore expensive cologne. He did now, and damned if it didn’t make her want to bury her nose in his neck to get a better sniff. And to be fair, it didn’t look as if there was an ounce of fat on him, which was amazing . . . considering what he was eating.

  “I ordered an extra-large huckleberry shake for you, too.”

  Of course he did—the shake was probably a thousand calories. She tried to hide her grimace. She had a real problem wasting food, even if it was über-fattening food she no longer allowed herself to eat.

  “It was always your favorite.” From his slight frown she could tell her acting skills hadn’t improved—either that or he could still read her like a technical manual. Even when they were kids, he read the damn things from cover to cover and found them fascinating.

  “I don’t know what’s more surprising, that you remember my order or that you actually think I can still eat like this without being the size of a hou
se.”

  He looked her up and down, his gaze alone shot heat from her breasts to her toes and everywhere in between. “You look amazing; you always did.” Damn, his voice went all low and gravelly again and he took a step closer, either to hand her the drink or discombobulate her. “I told you, I remember everything.”

  She smashed the straw through the top of the shake and took a long draw. Unfortunately, it didn’t help cool her reaction to him—it only gave her brain freeze.

  Walking into Mary Claire’s home was like walking into a hug. The walls were painted a rich cream and looked like a backdrop highlighting the art, painted mirrors, and shelves displaying the treasures she’d collected. The space was all about comfort and warmth and love. Damn, Jack scrubbed his face with his hands and then stared at the Christmas tree she had decorated by the big bay window. It looked like something in one of his mother’s fancy magazines, without being fussy or snobby.

  Mary Claire’s home had the same feel he’d envisioned when they’d dreamed of their future and the home they would share. She’d achieved all that and more. She’d achieved their dreams all on her own. Without him.

  Seeing Mary Claire’s home did nothing but highlight the fact that his place was devoid of everything he’d always wanted. Everything she’d brought into his life once upon a time. Everything he missed—though he hadn’t realized he missed it until now, or maybe until he’d returned to the cabin and remembered what he’d lost when he left Mary Claire.

  The only good part of coming here, other than seeing her again, was that there were no obvious signs of anyone else in her life—at least not a man. Not that he was interested in going there. Okay, maybe he did want to go there, but only in a temporary way. His work was in Germany, and if there was one thing he knew about Mary Claire, it was that she was an Idaho girl, right down to her pink cowgirl boots, and it would take an act of God for her to leave Boise. He couldn’t see her living in Germany. Not for a second. Sure, he could probably talk her into visiting, but making a life there? No way.

  “Earth to Jack. Where’d you go?”

  He turned and shook his head. “Nowhere. I was just looking at your tree. Your place is beautiful.” She’d set the table with cloth napkins and everything. God, she was a freakin’ Martha Stewart.

  “Thanks, I like it. So tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  He took a seat at the table, but the food staring at him—all the food he’d craved for years—no longer looked appetizing. He forced himself to take a bite of his burger and tried to figure out what to say. “I work with the design team.”

  “Yeah, I know that. What else?”

  There wasn’t anything else. Sure, he hung out after work with some of the single guys; sometimes they hit clubs or the biergarten. Sometimes he went home alone and sometimes with a hot fräulein, but lately, mostly alone. “Not much. I work a lot, I have some friends through work, and sometimes I’ll jump on a train and head over to Paris or Barcelona for a long weekend. That kind of thing.”

  “That must be nice. I went for a two-week trip through Europe. I never made it to Germany, though. I did France, Spain, and Italy.”

  “I wish I’d known. I would have met you somewhere. Or you could have come and stayed with me.”

  She let out a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “You didn’t want to keep in touch, remember? You were the one who issued the ultimatum.”

  He did his best to keep from squeezing his eyes shut on the memory. “I was wrong. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve regretted it ever since.”

  “It doesn’t. But that’s ancient history. Still, it’s going to be a really boring lunch if we don’t have anything else to talk about.”

  “What about you? How’s your father?”

  Mary Claire’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away and swallowed hard. “He died four years ago. He hadn’t been well since my mom died. I guess he just didn’t know how to live without her. I think he stuck around as long as he did because he didn’t want to leave me.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t know.”

  She pulled away as if he’d burned her. “How could you know? I didn’t think you kept in touch with anyone here. Did you?”

  “No.” That was another mistake. If he’d known, he would have . . . What—come to rescue her? She didn’t look as if she needed him or anyone.

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Still, I’m glad I was with him till the end. He was all I had, and I was all he had.”

  Yeah, that made him feel like the heel he was beginning to realize he was.

  “I sold the house. I didn’t need a place that big. After all, it was just me. Then we started Three French Hens, so I was able to invest some of the money in the shop and remodel this place. I like living in the North End.” She summoned a smile—a fake one. “And you can’t beat my commute. Trish has a little cottage on Irving, and Karma lives over her brother Trapper’s carriage house on Warm Springs.”

  “Trapper’s back in town? He was in law school when I left.”

  “Yes, he’s a judge here in Boise.”

  “Wow, he’s what, thirty-five? Isn’t that young to be a judge?”

  She painted a fry with fry sauce. “Maybe, but you know the Kincaids. None of them do anything by half measures.” She stuck the fry in her mouth; some of the sauce was caught on her lip, and she swiped it away with her tongue. He ignored the urge to taste the sauce.

  “I was thinking of looking him up; I have some legal issues to go over. I thought he’d have hung out a shingle by now. I guess he could still give me a referral for a good lawyer.”

  “Knowing Trapper, he’d just look over whatever you need. Being a judge doesn’t preclude giving legal advice. I’m sure he’d like to see you.” She jumped up, grabbed a notepad and pen, and scrolled through the contact list on her phone while she returned to the table. She jotted down a number and handed it to him. “Give Trapper a call. He drew up the partnership agreement for the shop. He’s been a good friend.”

  “Thanks, I will.” Jack pocketed the number and wasn’t prepared for the surge of jealousy that swamped him. Hell, he hadn’t felt jealous since . . . well, not since he and Mary Claire were together. He’d gotten used to guys coming on to her since their relationship had always been a secret by necessity. It hadn’t bothered him too much then, but damn, now was a totally different story, which was ridiculous. He wanted to ask just how good a friend Trapper had been to her, but he had no right. Still, it didn’t make the food he stuffed into his mouth go down any easier. “Go to dinner with me.”

  “What?” She looked as shocked as he was that he’d asked. But after rolling the idea around for a second, he decided it felt right. Almost too right. That alone scared the crap out of him.

  He took what was left of his food and tossed it in the bag. “You heard me. Go out with me. We were together for three years and I was never able to take you out on a real date. Let me make it up to you.”

  “Make it up to me? Why? Because you’re in town? I don’t need a pity date, Jack. I’m not that hard up.”

  “I never thought you were, and believe me, my asking you out has absolutely nothing to do with pity. Why would I pity you? You’ve accomplished everything you’ve set out to do. You’re painting; you have an incredible, warm home; you have what looks like a very successful business.” The only thing missing in the equation was him. And where that thought came from he didn’t know. All he knew was that he wanted to kiss her—and that was just the tip of the iceberg of things he wanted to do to and with her. “Are you involved with someone?”

  “Do you think that’s the only reason I wouldn’t go out with you?”

  He used to be able to get her all hot and bothered just with a look. He stared, using every weapon at his disposal, and sure enough, he watched the pulse in her neck kick up and her eyes darken. When she licked her lips, he knew he still had it but was way too close to losing it. “
I’m not trying to sound like an arrogant ass, but yeah, I think that’s the only reason you wouldn’t go out with me. We have unfinished business.”

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “Mine. We had something good together, Mary Claire. I made a mistake: I should never have given you an ultimatum.”

  “But you did. And you know as much as I loved you, I couldn’t leave my father. Not then.”

  Loved, as in past tense. “I’m sorry.” Sorrier than she’d ever know. “But put yourself in my shoes. I asked you to marry me and you said no. I was crushed.”

  “So you decided to crush me in return?”

  Not his best moment to be sure—one he’d regret, maybe forever. “Yeah, well, I never said I was mature about it. We were kids.”

  “We were too young to get married. It never would have lasted.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I guess we’ll never know. But we can see if we still have something between us.” He knew damn well there was something there; he felt it in every cell of his body. It was as obvious as the erection he sported whenever he was in the vicinity of Mary Claire Coleman.

  Claire paced her living room. “I don’t know what possessed me to agree to a date.”

  Trish lolled on the couch and whipped a pillow at Claire’s head. “Hormones? Claire, you’ve been without sex so long, it’s unnatural. When was the last time you went out on a date?”

  Claire had no problem dodging the pillow, but the question—not so much.

  Karma put her feet up on the coffee table and took a sip of her beer. “That formal our senior year in college, but it hardly counts since she went with my brother Fisher and he was well aware of the no-dating-one-of-his-sister’s-best-friends rule.”

  Claire did her best not to cringe remembering that night. Sure, Fisher Kincaid was over-the-top gorgeous, but there was absolutely no chemistry between them. She did enjoy all the shocked faces of every other female when they realized that Fisher was with her. She placed the pillow back on the couch and sat. “That was the last date you two knew about at least.” She didn’t want to tell them it was the last date she’d had, though she’d never thought of it as a real date. Pity dates didn’t count.