out of trouble. As a much younger man, he’d narrowly missed spending time in jail. He’d been married and divorced, a celebrated playboy, and now . . . he planted flowers.
Jenna sighed softly. She had no doubt Stan could retire comfortably, but his extreme energy level forced him to always do something, to be active, in the sun, sweating, working his muscles . . .
Oh, she knew what he could do with her—if only he were interested. How he’d use that energy in bed teased at her senses every time he got near. To call Stan handsome would be very misleading. He was far too raw, too rough, to be termed anything so pretty. He could appear cruel—wow. Like he did now, glancing at her with those fierce eyes as if he knew her thoughts and didn’t like them one bit.
Hands shaking, Jenna pretended to straighten the paperwork behind her counter. In truth, she couldn’t seem to keep him off her mind. Maybe the idea of turning forty next month had caused her hormones to go on a rampage. Or maybe three years of celibacy was three years too long. Whatever the cause, she wanted sex. Hot, gritty, sweaty sex.
With Stan.
She craved it, aching with the need at night in her lonely bed, unable to sleep. Whenever she daydreamed, which lately seemed to be all the time, it was Stan Tucker she saw. In his prime, he had thick but natural muscles and undeniable strength. His light brown eyes looked almost golden at times. Working in the harsh sunshine had streaked his brown hair that was usually unkempt and so sexy she wanted to touch it.
She wanted to touch him.
All over. Both of them buck naked . . .
With a clatter, Stan suddenly shoved back his chair. Pulled out of her current fantasy, Jenna jumped.
Stan stared at her, all that severe attention startling her while the reporter simply waited in stunned silence.
Stalking toward her, Stan leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath and smell the rich musky sweat of his skin. God, he was so male . . .
Voice rough edged, almost desperate, he whispered, “Jenna, honey, do you think you could find something to do in the back? Or better yet, go take your lunch break.”
He wanted rid of her?
Cursing low, Stan ran a big, darkly tanned hand over the back of his neck. His eyes lifted, his gaze boring into her. “I’m going to sound dumb as shit, but you’re making me nervous.”
“Why?”
“You’re listening in.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips, trying to understand—and got distracted by the way he stared at her mouth. “I . . . I always listen.”
“This time it’s bothering me.” His gaze caught hers again. His voice lowered to a ferocious growl. His eyes narrowed. “I keep thinking of you instead of what I’m saying.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.” He glanced over her from head to toe. “You look great in that dress.”
The reporter cleared his throat. “Is everything okay?”
He likes my dress? Flustered, Jenna pushed off her stool and tried an uncertain smile. “I understand. It’s all right. I was getting hungry anyway.” She glanced at her watch. “Half an hour okay?”
Stan hesitated, appearing angry, then annoyed. Taking her totally off guard, he caught her around the neck and pulled her forward over the counter while he leaned in. Then, as if he had the right, as if he’d done it a million times, he put his mouth to hers, firm and warm, lingering, one heartbeat, two . . . and he lifted away. “Thanks.” No smile, no softness.
Jenna touched her lips, tingling from her mouth to her breasts and down into her womb. “Oh, uh . . .”
Face hard, expression harder, Stan went back to the reporter. “Now, where were we?”
The reporter said, “You were telling me about . . .”
In Jenna’s mind, the words trailed off. Who cared what they said? Stan had just kissed her. A brief, almost nonsexual kiss, except that she wanted to melt on the spot.
Knowing she needed a breath of fresh air and a few minutes to figure out what had just happened, she grabbed her purse and made a hasty retreat, pausing only long enough to put her CLOSED sign in the door so Stan and the reporter wouldn’t be interrupted.
At a fast clip, she went down the walkway to the Mom and Pop diner next door, on the corner of Jonathan Ave. and Winesap Lane. She darted inside. There were a few customers present, the normal lunch crowd, but no one paid her any attention. And thank God, because she just knew she breathed too fast and looked the fool.
Hand pressed to her heart, Jenna glanced around and located an empty booth in the very back, away from windows and other patrons. Normally reserved for the few smokers who came into the diner, it stayed almost abandoned, and so that’s where Jenna headed. She needed the privacy, and the lack of prying eyes would help her get collected.
Legs shaking, she hurried over to the plastic seat and slid in. Her mind in a riot of mayhem, she covered her mouth.
Just what had happened? One minute, Stan was merely a friend, then in the next, he’d kissed her. Or had he meant it as a friendly gesture and she, being a widow with desperate clichéd lust, read more into it than she should have? Whatever it meant, wow, what a hot smooch. She’d always known it’d be that way, that with Stan, every sense would be magnified and a simple kiss could never be simple. No two ways about it, the man turned her on, always had.
But being a mother took priority over everything else, making an affair taboo. No matter what she felt for Stan, all she could indulge were fantasies. Now, if Stan was the type who wanted to settle down and enjoy domestic bliss . . . but he wasn’t. She might be half in love already, but Stan Tucker didn’t feel the same way.
She’d do well to remember that one small fact.
Ten minutes later, the waitress noticed Jenna buried in the corner and, full of good spirit and sunshine, hustled over to take her order. Jenna finally shook off her daze. She didn’t want anyone else to read the carnal hunger on her face. For crying out loud, at her age, with her family responsibilities, she had to be very discreet about her shameful hankering for one very hot landscape and gardening expert.
“Hey, Jenna.” Marylou Jasper, an eighteen-year-old working toward college funds, pulled out her white pad and a pen. Because the owner of the diner liked to experiment with new things, they didn’t offer a regular menu. On any given day, it was anyone’s guess what would be served.
Trying to appear normal, rather than ravaged with lust, Jenna smiled and said, “What do we have today, Marylou?”
“I just made a pot of coffee, the peach pie is still hot, croissants are fresh from the oven, and we have some really awesome chicken salad to go with them. There’s also chili, hamburgers, and lunchmeat sandwiches. So what can I getcha today?”
Maybe food would help settle the churning in her stomach. Jenna smiled. “The chicken salad on a croissant, a pickle slice or two, please, and a diet cola.”
Marylou rolled her eyes. “Why you always wanna drink that nasty diet stuff, I’ll
