The Heartbreaker of Echo Pass by Maisey Yates

CHAPTER TWO

JORDANWOKEUPcompletely disoriented. She was not in San Francisco. That much she knew. She was on a bed buried beneath a flannel comforter, breathing slowly. She moved the blankets down and looked around the room.

Laz’s room. She was at Laz’s house.

Well, this was a predicament.

She sat up, and realized she was still only wearing a T-shirt. But she could also smell bacon, and she was pretty sure her desire for the bacon was going to outdo her need for modesty.

It was Laz, after all.

She tried not to think about the first time she’d met him. She had stumbled into his bar thinking that it was open, when in fact it had been past last call. And she’d seen him. Standing behind the bar. He was tall, broad shouldered, with black hair and dark skin, a chiseled jaw. His mouth was... Well, it was just immediately sensual, and she couldn’t quite figure out why. Because she saw men every day and managed to not think about their mouths.

And all of that stuff entered into her system as an instantaneous thunderclap. Not a series of individual thoughts, but a hot jolt of realization. And along with it the sense that he was somehow meant to be standing there, and so was she. She didn’t typically go into the bar because she had a job at the coffee shop, and it required she get up early. But her insomnia—which she’d been struggling with for six months or so—was starting to bore her to tears, and so she had taken to walking around. She had looked in the bar on a few different occasions, and tonight had decided to go in.

And something had whispered through her soul that sounded a lot like fate and it had terrified her. But instead of running, she had gone to sit at that bar.

She had told herself multiple times over the past ten years that the kind of fate Laz was had been to be her very best friend. And he had been. He had been a pillar to her these last few years. Helping her sort through all manner of different traumas from her past, and God knew she had many.

She had done her very best to shove her attraction down very deep. Because Dylan’s family had always been there for her. Because Dylan was supposed to be the one. He always had been. But when she met him she hadn’t felt a thunderclap. And to be quite honest she never felt one in all the years since.

But she now had a solid seventeen years of being Dylan’s girlfriend, and she wasn’t really sure what came after that. So she had simply stayed. And Laz’s words about habits had echoed in her head, growing increasingly louder. And she just ignored them. Until yesterday.

She groaned, she climbed out of the bed, and was greeted by air that was far too cold for her liking. Plus the shirt rode all the way up her thighs, and she was pretty sure that given the cold, her nipples were absolutely visible, like little Tic Tacs through the top. She grimaced and grabbed the flannel blanket from his bed, wrapped it around her body. And she decided that she was going to take her chances on humiliation and brave her friend this morning.

She walked down the hall, taking in the details of the place. There were framed photos in that hallway, but they were so old she couldn’t imagine that he’d put them up. A little boy that must’ve been him, posed in a portrait studio holding a red ball, wearing overalls to match. And a series of such pictures, all of them likely taken at a school. There was a photograph of a wedding, one that looked to be the early eighties, with a couple that was a perfect blend of Laz’s features. And then one framed picture of an older woman in a floral dress holding a chubby baby with wild curly hair. Laz and his grandmother. Her heart clenched. That was the one time Laz had let her be there for him in any kind of emotional sense. When his grandma had died seven years ago. He’d gotten drunk. And he never did that. He was so smooth and easy and always in control. Always the one who knew what to do. But he hadn’t known what to do then. And she’d wanted to comfort him in a deep way. In a physical way that had scared her. She had reached across the bar that night and put her hands on his. And she had felt... She wanted to press herself against him. To give him all of her as a means of comfort, and it had scared her enough that she had backed way off.

Because she was with someone else and she had to be. She had to be.

It was that had to be that had echoed inside of her yesterday. Because why? Why had she built for herself a series of had tos? Why was she so hamstrung by rules that she had created for herself?

She touched that photo, briefly, Laz and Gladys, and then went down the hall.

“Good morning,” she mumbled.

She hated this feeling. When she did sleep, this was how it was. A brief few hours and in the wrong space of time.

“Oh good,” he said. “You’re up.”

“Is it early?”

“No,” he said. “Very late. But, this is about when I get up anyway, and this is when you should be getting up.”

“You have another bedroom?”

“No. The spare room is an office now.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“The couch. It’s a nice couch.”

“That’s not fair. You didn’t have to sleep on the couch.”

“Where was I going to sleep, Jordan?”

Those dark brown eyes met hers and she faltered. Because there was no real answer for that that didn’t make her skin feel like it was too tight.

“Well. I will take that bacon.”

“I have bacon. Because I always deliver on my promises.”

“I know you do,” she said.

It was one of the things about him. He was just always there for people. For everyone. She’d heard stories over the years... He had single-handedly solved more romance crises in the town of Gold Valley than she could have ever imagined one small community could have had. He was good. At listening, and consequently, sometimes good at hearing things that other people didn’t even realize they were saying. And yet... Well, and yet. Here she was. He hadn’t fixed her issues.

She felt a little bit salty about that.

“Have a seat.”

She did, careful to tuck the blanket underneath her legs so that not too much of her thigh made contact with the cold wood on the chair. The dining table was nice. Solid wood.

“This is...” She looked around. In fact, for all the place was small everything in it was solid. Well made. She could feel the history of the house, and the quality of everything inside. There was a heaviness to it. Not like the new, neighborhood tract house that she and Dylan shared.

“I made it,” he said.

“Get out. You made this?”

“Yeah. I have a wood shop. In my spare time I...”

“Your spare time?”

“I don’t have a family, Jordan. I don’t have anyone to answer to. My time is my own. I come home from the bar, I make sure that things on the ranch are running smoothly when I get up in the morning, handle the payroll for all the staff. For the bar and the ranch. I go to the shop and I wood work. Sometimes I go for a ride. One or the other.”

“How did I not know that about you?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t talk about it much.”

“Right. I guess people tend to not ask about you.”

He shrugged. “That’s not really my job.”

“Well, you know about everybody else. You know all about me and all about my issues.”

“You’ve seen some of my issues, Jordan,” he said, his eyes suddenly getting serious. And it made her feel warm.

“Yeah. I guess. But it’s still not the same. People drink, and they tell you everything.”

“You don’t drink. Not really.”

“Fine. I just tell you things because I like you.”

“Great,” he said.

There was a tension in his shoulders as he moved around the kitchen. He went over to the coffeepot and poured a generous mug. “Coffee?”

She laughed. “Well, technically I have a hard time drinking coffee that I don’t make. Because I make it so well.”

“You know, making drinks is kind of my thing too,” he said.

“But not coffee.”

He held the mug out toward her, and she took it, their fingertips brushing. It made her stomach go tight. “I drink coffee. And I don’t like drinking anything that doesn’t taste good.”

“All right, so you’re trying to make sure I know you’re not a disgusting bachelor?”

“Oh, I’m a disgusting bachelor. But also discerning. That’s just how I am. So.”

“Right. So discerning.”

Silence stretched between them. “Why didn’t you tell me not to marry him, Laz?”

She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Not at all. She hadn’t meant to... She felt stupid. Her face got hot.

His eyes went sharp. “You would have welcomed that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just that you... You give advice to everybody. I know you do. You tell them what they really want. You tell them what’s good for them. But you didn’t tell me not to marry Dylan.”

“Look, Jordan, did I know that you weren’t in love with him? Yes. But was there any way to say that? Come on. Be honest with me. If I had said that to you...”

“Fine. But I just wish...”

“Sorry, little girl. You gotta take responsibility for that all on your own. And I know that’s not fun. But the fact of the matter is, it’s nobody’s fault but yours that you let it get up to the wedding day and then let it dissolve.”

“Teller of hard truths,” she muttered.

“Right. So, how do you want to get your clothes?”

“I think Dylan is gone,” she said. “So it should be pretty easy for you to go back and get them. If you don’t mind. There’s a spare key to the house under the flowerpot by the front door.”

“Wow. Very secure. Why don’t you just not lock your doors?”

“That wouldn’t be safe,” she said, deadpan.

“At least give the burglars a scavenger hunt.”

“Well, I didn’t. But it should be pretty easy for you to get in. My... I have a packed suitcase.”

“Great. I’ll grab it.”

“I don’t know where I’m going to go. I’m going to have to get a place. But I don’t make enough money at Sugar Cup to just magically have a deposit for an apartment.”

She wasn’t just an employee at Sugar Cup, she was a part owner. She had bought a stake in it a few years ago, and she had never been more proud of herself. In hindsight, it was a telling thing, really, that Dylan had been worried about how much time it would take away from their relationship, and Laz had been extremely proud of her.

That should have been clarifying all on its own. Why should her friend be happier for her than her fiancé?

“I’ll tell you what. You were supposed to be on vacation the next couple weeks anyway. Why don’t you work for me instead. Hide up here and earn some money.”

“Laz... There’s no...”

“I can pay you whatever the hell I want.”

“I’m not taking charity from you.” She couldn’t do charity. Because she’d done it. Too many times. There were always fake grins and an expectation of gratitude. She’d often thought people were waiting for her to put on a Cockney accent and do a dance number with a chimney sweep when they’d given her canned food as a child. And then of course there was Dylan’s family.

“You’re my best friend,” he said. “If you don’t take charity from me, who are you going to take it from? Anyway. I will give you jobs to do. Don’t you worry about that.”

She wouldn’t point out that she had in fact taken charity many times. When she was a kid and it was that or go hungry.

“Why are you doing all this for me?” she asked.

“Jordan, I think that you have been under the delusion that the only people that were going to ever do anything for you were Dylan and his family. I get that your parents did a hell of a number on you. And I don’t blame you for being skeptical about the fact that there are more than just four good people in this world. I get that his mother and father and brother have been there for you. And I get that in some capacity he has been. But that’s not a good enough reason to marry somebody. And it doesn’t mean that nobody else wants to be there for you. I want to be there for you. So let me.”

There was really no other option. What he was giving her was the best chance at getting her life together that she could have ever thought of. He was giving her an opportunity to hide. To earn money.

“Well, where are you going to sleep?”

“You’re very concerned about me, as if I’m not a grown man who hasn’t spent a hell of a long time taking care of himself.”

“Well, then what do you want me to do?”

“I miss my grandmother’s cooking. I miss having the house a little bit tidier. If you could be my housekeeper for the next couple of weeks...”

“I’m not going to be able to cook like your grandma.”

She recalled Laz bringing in some of the things his grandmother had made to the bar. Gladys Jenkins’s cooking had Southern roots, and while Jordan was handy—especially when it came to baking—she didn’t know anything about food from Louisiana.

“That’s fine. I eat all kinds of food. Just know that I’ll appreciate it.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll do it. Thank you. Because I just don’t know what else I would’ve done.”

“That’s what I do. I take care of people.”

And she couldn’t deny that, but there was something about that assurance that rang hollow to her, and she didn’t know quite what to do with it.