horrible and twisted. “Is he going to hurt me?”
Beckwith waved his hand. “Jesus, no. Holy crap. I didn’t mean that kind of accident, sugar.” He frowned a little. “Damn it, I have to work on my technique or I’ll be sending people screaming out of my shop.”
No kidding. Jamie sagged in relief. “Well, then who is he?”
Beckwith smiled slyly. He loved moments like this, she knew. He rubbed his five-o’clock shadow and drew out the suspense. “He will touch your soul like no other has,” he declared.
Jamie sighed, a flush creeping out over her face in a warm rush. That sounded simply luscious. Touching her soul. In the past no man had ever even seen her soul, let alone had contact with it.
It had been nine months since Scratch had dumped her. Having an affair certainly sounded like a good plan to her. She’d never done that, had a hot and heavy short-term relationship. But passionate, steamy sex to warm up cold winter nights…now her skirt was as hot as her face. The man had definitely better show himself soon.
“Dang, I like the sound of that. When will I meet him? Where? What does he look like?”
“Soon. On something moving, some sort of minor accident. And he is tall, light brown hair, carrying…food. Or maybe liquid. Something edible, at any rate.”
“The market,” Mandy said in her clipped British accent. “Pushing the buggy.”
“Or he could be a pizza delivery man.”
Her three friends launched into a heated discussion about the meaning of Beckwith’s words, but Jamie didn’t participate, startled by the serious expression on his face.
Beckwith was watching her, his brown eyes probing. “Jamie, this man doesn’t need mothering. He doesn’t need fixing. He’s your destiny, your soul mate.”
“What? What do you mean?” Jamie wrapped a finger around one of her many unruly curls and tugged her hair in distraction. That almost sounded like an insult. Like she dated men to fulfill some kind of maternal need.
“You are one of the sweetest women I know, but you date for charity. You’re never going to find a man to marry if you don’t steer clear of these fucking fixer-uppers you keep going for.”
Allison cleared her throat.
Jamie felt a pain somewhere in her chest. She didn’t need a man in her life, not permanently anyway. Not to marry. That wasn’t in the cards for her, she was positive, no matter what Beckwith saw or said. She’d learned a long time ago that the kind of men who were attracted to her did not stick around to pick out china patterns.
It didn’t matter, because her mother had taught her to be self-reliant. Heck, her mother had taught her to live off of no money and nothing more than a plot of land and your own hands. At eighteen Jamie had left her home in rural Kentucky for New York and had been happily independent ever since.
And she got more fulfillment on the job than she had ever expected from helping others. That was her destiny, to continue in the career she loved, no matter what Beckwith or her granny back in Kentucky said about snagging a man.
Marriage wasn’t about snagging or trapping or coercing a man into spending his life with her. She didn’t want that, never had. “I don’t regret dating the men I have. And I’m not looking for a man to marry.”
Fanning herself a little, she shifted on the couch and met Beckwith’s knowing gaze. He had a disturbing, penetrating stare that seemed to reach inside her, scrape off the layers, and find the secrets of her heart.
Beckwith took her hand and squeezed. “He won’t leave you, baby doll. This one isn’t like your daddy.”
That shocked her spit dry. She swallowed hard, trying to work up some moisture so she didn’t choke. Not many people knew about her father. “My self-esteem is fine, Beckwith. I don’t have a daddy complex.”
He didn’t let go of her hand, but he just shrugged, as if it was unimportant. “This man will make you happy.”
“I already am happy.”
Beckwith grinned. “More happy. Giddy happy. The kind of happy that makes everyone around you gag.”
Allison said wryly, “It’s working already. I feel sick. I would love a crack at Mr. Right, and all I get is the nineteen-year-old intern at the radio station coming on to me.”
The disturbing, raw thoughts of her father dissipated, and Jamie laughed, grateful that Allison could turn anything into sarcastic humor. “Maybe I can pass my destiny on to you when he shows up, Allison.”
Beckwith gasped in horror. “Bite your tongue and break your nails! You can’t do that.”
Allison grinned. “So, Jamie, do you want to go to the grocery with me and see who’s squeezing the melons? Maybe you have a major falling-melon accident, suffer amnesia from a conk on the head, and fall in love with your doctor.”
There was an image. “Thanks, I’ll pass.” She didn’t want to meet the man of her dreams in the grocery store. In fact, she didn’t want to meet him at all. She was just a little bit worried that a soul mate was more than she could handle.
She knew what to do with men who mooched and made promises they couldn’t possibly keep. With them, she never made the mistake of falling in love. Mr. Right could be a whole other story, and she was sure it wouldn’t have a happy ending.
Mandy shook her head. “I don’t think you’re going to meet him at the grocery. I think you bump into him at Caro’s wedding reception in July, doing the funky chicken. See there? Moving food.”
Beckwith ignored the bantering. “Don’t turn your back on him, honey. Embrace it. It’s meant to be, even if a dishonest act will bring him to you.”
Now, that sounded promising. Not. If there was one thing Jamie didn’t understand or tolerate, it was lying.
“Sugar, there is no reason to be afraid if you meet him dancing at a wedding or otherwise.”
Easy for Beckwith to say. He wasn’t the one who had his future staring him straight in the face, making him question what he wanted, and wondering why he had ever asked.
So Jamie merely tilted her head, smiled with a confidence she didn’t feel, and said in imitation of the chicken she was, “Baawk, baawk.”
Chapter 1
Jack Davidson had become a stalker. Retired from Wall Street at age twenty-nine, stalker at age thirty. That was attractive. He followed Jamie Peters down into the subway, keeping an eye on her ginger hair as she paused in the crowd. She dug in her purse, cell phone to her ear, lips moving rapidly.
He felt like a complete and total idiot following her, the music to Mission Impossible tripping across his brain. Spying wasn’t exactly his area of expertise, given that he was an ex-stockbroker and day trader. Numbers he could follow, but people were a whole different skill set, and he was pretty sure he looked ridiculous and obvious. Not to mention he didn’t normally even breathe without planning it in a spreadsheet first.
But staying out of
