anticlimactic nature of this fucking long-awaited reunion, thank you, but was surprised to find that she needed to throw her whole body weight into it to swing the door shut. It finally closed with an annoyingly soft click.
Heat blasted her like she’d stepped into a sauna. Sweat sprang out on the back of her neck and along her hairline almost instantly. She was not sweating through her Armani. No way.
She looked for somewhere to hang her coat. Someone had clearly begun converting a warehouse here. She saw more unidentifiable mechanical equipment lying around than she did furniture. But having started this project, it looked like the money had run out before getting a tenth of the way through. The pile of aluminum tubes against one wall explained the clattering crash from before, but it didn’t look promising as a coat rack. She draped her coat over her arm instead and headed into the cavern of a room, sweating in her pewter-gray suit.
She had always thought J.D. had done well with his photography. That he had more sense than the flighty artists she knew. Apparently not. Or maybe it was just his congenital inability to stop in one place for longer than six months. She could see it now. He’d have decided that moving back to his hometown sounded great, but now that he was here, the urge to hit the road again, just like he’d done fifteen years ago, would leave this long-term project abandoned for someone else to clean up.
The left half of the open room was obviously where civilization had attempted to regain a toehold. A kitchen area that looked as if it had been hammered out of galvanized steel stretched along one wall and a fireplace hearth big enough to roast an ox claimed the back, complete with a roaring fire. An enormous wood-plank table with benches and an oversized leather couch, all of the furniture equally worn and battle-scarred, anchored the room, running parallel to the walls. The rest of the walls were exposed brick and steel beams that radiated industrial cool. Also, actual coldness, she bet. She couldn’t even fathom what it cost him to keep a space this big warmer than an equatorial jungle in Chicago’s deep freeze.
Since teetering towers of boxes covered most of the table and bench setup, she dropped her stuff on the wide arm of the couch and flapped a hand at her face as she watched her long-lost love hunt through the kitchen cabinets for god knows what.
In the brighter light provided by metal-shaded lamps suspended from the ceiling on thick chains, not to mention the fierce glow of the fireplace, she could see him better. His thick, straight black hair looked almost reddish in the firelight, but she was sure that it would show blue-black in daylight.
He squatted down to peer into a cabinet under the sink, crutches leaning against the counter, his injured leg sticking out to one side as he bounced comfortably on the other heel. With his hands at the ready in front of him, J.D. looked like a baseball catcher, preparing to glove a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball.
Two minutes in his company and she was already remembering that half the time when she was around J.D. she’d have been tempted to wing a baseball at his fat head if one were to hand.
“So, where’ve you been hiding out these days? Still spending all your free time at the library? Sorry about the heat, by the way. The cat’s under the couch, if you wanna get on your hands and knees and take a look.”
Her head was spinning. No way was she going to mention that she actually did still volunteer for a shift or two a week, shelving books at her local branch, although she couldn’t be sure what would come out of her mouth if she opened it, since her brain was still caught on freeze-frame with images inspired by the “get on your hands and knees” thing.
Her dirty mind was as active as ever around J.D. Fifteen years hadn’t changed that at all. Good to know.
“Just working a lot.” And licking her wounds. She’d been ducking her family a little bit lately. Okay, a lot. But there were only so many times you could go back to that well and admit that you’d just figured out you’d been suckered by yet another guy who was some kind of compulsive liar who was going to end up on one of those daytime talk shows, throwing a folding chair at a psychotic ex.
“Well, thanks for the house call. No rush, but if you take it with you when you go, that’d be great.” Something rattled as he ducked his head into the cabinet. “Bet you still spend all your time rescuing scabby alley cats, don’t you? Nothing ever changes around here.”
He hadn’t even looked over his shoulder as he spoke to her.
She jerked back as if she’d been smacked. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did he think she was some kind of loser who hadn’t changed since high school?
So much for fifteen years of fantasizing. “If you think I cancelled my plans and came all the way out here to relieve you of your sick cat…”
He stood, a pair of wine glasses precariously balanced in one hand.
“Got a hot date?” His voice rang with skepticism.
She clenched her teeth together. The last thing she wanted him to know was that she’d been on her way to an evening of relentlessly awkward conversations that would undoubtedly have left her feeling like a used-car salesman.
Deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Don’t strangle the injured man.
“You know, you can always bring the cat by the clinic in the morning, Damico,” she said. “I don’t normally run a pickup and delivery service.” This wasn’t the kind of desperate to see her she’d hoped for.
“Hey, I’ll pay you to get that cat out of here,” he said, closing the cabinet. “No kidding.”
Pay her?
Pay her?
First embarrassed, now insulted. She cocked her hip and planted a hand on it.
“Don’t be an asshole. You’re practically family. I’m not going to charge you. Did hanging out with celebrities and bazillionaires in Hollywood rot your brain?”
“Easy, girl.”
“Don’t ‘easy’ me, Joey Damico. I expected more manners from the guy who rescued my bikini top when it came off after I did a high dive into the deep end of the pool.”
Great. Now she was thinking about him seeing her topless. She wondered if her face had actually turned purple yet. All of her reactions felt slightly off, as if she were both over- and underreacting at the same time. She wondered if she looked as strange as she felt, like her skin was made of broken mirror shards, reflecting a hundred different emotions at once.
J.D. wobbled on his crutches and for a second she thought he was going to topple. She sprinted to his side and braced him with a hand on his elbow.
“Whoa, watch the wine glasses,” J.D. said. “I was lucky to find these two.” Stepping back, she rescued the crossed stems of the glasses from his one-handed grip and caught the wine bottle that he’d clamped to his side with one elbow. “Ah, c’mon, Sarah. Share a glass with me.” She ducked her head as he reached up to tousle her hair in that infuriating, older-brother way he’d always had. In an instant, the vibe between them mellowed. Her shoulders relaxed and some of the stiffness left her spine. “And you know I could never stand that name. Just J.D., okay? Whenever someone calls me Joey, all I can hear is my mom shrieking my name out for the whole block to hear.”
She wrinkled her nose. Growing up, every neighborhood had them: the parents who embarrassed their kids because they were crazy or drunk or oblivious to social norms
