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AFTER WORK, Jessica always jogged on the path that ran along the lake. Two miles on a normal day and three miles when her thighs got extra dimply, which was usually after having dinner with Cassandra, who liked her desserts.
Today was a good Wednesday. No crisis at the office, the weather was a perfect sixty-five degrees, and the runner in front of her had the most motivating physique she had ever had the sheer pleasure of running after.
Somewhere between mile marker number two and mile marker number three she realized the identity of that motivating physique.
He was right ahead of her. He was going to win. She picked up her pace. Not many people could beat her on a quarter-mile sprint, and she prayed Mr. Adam Taylor wasn’t one of them.
Time for round two.
Her feet pounded against the caliche track as she found her rhythm. She began to gain on him, noticing the efficient way he moved. Very smooth.
The powerful muscles worked in his legs, and his back flexed as he ran, making it look easy. His torso was bare, the better to be ogled, my dear.
Jessica stumbled, more caught up in leering than concentrating on the track in front of her. That just made her mad, so she kicked up to the next gear.
“Afternoon, Adam.”
He glanced over at her, his eyes taking in her sports bra and shorts. “Afternoon.”
“You’re pretty good.”
“Ditto.”
He matched her pace and they ran on in silence, bounded by the skyscrapers of the city and the still waters of Lake Michigan. She concentrated on keeping her breath even and slow.
“How far do you usually go?” he asked, not even winded.
“Five,” she answered, sneaking an extra gasp. “You?”
“Five.”
“What’s your time?” she asked, trying for a casual tone.
His gaze flicked in her direction. “Fifty-five is the usual. I can shave off eight minutes when I’m concentrating. You?”
He had stepped right into her trap. “I can beat that.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a report that I need to turn in before morning.”
“Chicken?” She pulled ahead.
“Now you’re just talking trash.”
She didn’t reply except with vaguely unprofessional, yet extremely satisfying, clucking noises.
He pulled alongside her. “That is such a pretty ass. Seems a shame to watch you lose it.”
“You think so, farm boy?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Care to bet on that?”
He laughed. “What are we playing for now? I would love to see you in a little, black—”
“No.”
“Spoilsport,” he said with a heated look that indicated he was still off in fantasyland.
Jessica almost lost her stride. “It’s got to be something more meaningful.”
“Sex can be meaningful. Great sex can be life-altering.”
She snorted in a completely unfeminine manner. “You are such a man. Loser buys dinner.”
“Cooks, not buys.”
“And a chauvinist, too. I bet you can’t cook.”
“You can’t even begin to imagine.”
“You’re just trying to get me alone.”
He clutched a hand to his extremely well-formed, sweat-glistened chest. “Gee, she sees right through me.”
“Buys dinner. Public place. Ready?” She shot forward before he could reply. “See you at the finish line.”
They kept even for three miles, but the fast pace started to get to Jessica. He didn’t look winded at all, chest pumping in even rhythm. Was he slowing his pace just to let her win?
That demeaning thought got her through another one and a half miles. By the time they reached the last half-mile marker, Jessica thought her heart was going to explode. Still she ran, concentrating on putting one foot forward. Finding the zone.
Adam started to pull ahead. Two lengths, then three.
No way.
She blocked out everything. This was the man who thought he could beat her. Had already beaten her once. Not again in this lifetime. She focused on nothing but his black silk running shorts covering his mighty fine—
Stop it, Jessica. Her pace picked up.
The final marker loomed ahead, the shadowy clump of trees and the water fountain that sparkled like a desert oasis. Almost there.
She fell in beside him.
He pulled ahead.
No.
Not just no, but hell no.
Adam took the lead.
He smiled at her, slow and sure. A victory smile.
Calling on every ounce of her reserves, she shot forward, leaving him behind.
He almost caught her, but she was determined.
There it was.
One more length.
She felt his breath hot on her back. Still she ran.
There.
There.
She zoomed past the marker, two strides ahead of Mr. Hotshot. “There.”
He came to a stop next to her, and she was grateful to see his bare chest pumping wildly, the sweat dribbling down between sharply-defined pecs. “You are good,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Jessica forced herself to look away.
“In all things, Taylor.” She leaned against the tree, sucking much-needed air into her starving lungs. The world spun four times before it righted itself once more. She swept a hand through her hair, wiping the sweat off her forehead.
His thumb brushed against her lower lip. “You missed a spot.”
Her lashes drifted down, and she fought the urge to taste him. A frightening thought. Instantly the warm touch was gone and she stepped back into reality. “You owe me dinner.”
“You beat me, Barnes. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at eight.”
For a second he sounded pleased, as if he had planned the whole thing. Suspicion tainted the moment. She stood, hands on hips, and studied his face. He looked exhausted and tousled, in a “hey baby, come jump me” kind of way. Once again, she felt the taste of victory. And it was sweet. The suspicion was gone. “717 West Patterson, apartment 2285. Think you can remember that, Taylor?”
“Don’t underestimate me, Barnes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
JESSICA PUT her key in the lock to 87 Spruce Avenue, turned the latch and pushed inside. Home. Her mom shouted a greeting from the kitchen, followed by the familiar rapid-fire barrage of requests. Set the table, chase the cat from the back bedroom and bring the clean laundry up from the basement. Jessica breathed in the ever-present aroma of fabric softener and cinnamon. Yup. Definitely home.
The family homestead in the southwest side of the city had been built proudly in 1937 by her grandfather, Elijah Barnes. An extra bathroom had been added on when Jessica was born, the attic had been finished when her brother Patrick turned seven, and four years ago her father had added a one-car garage to keep the snow off the 1987 Buick. For Jessica, it was the only home she’d ever known.
After carrying out her orders, Jessica made her way into the kitchen where her mother whisked from stove to sink to counter and back, faster than the eye could follow. There was never a wasted movement; she never stopped the way Jessica did, wondering what it was she intended to do.
Diane Barnes was a woman who kept a spotless house, was happiest when her children were nearby and had never met a casserole she didn’t like. From an early age, Jessica had known she was not her mother’s daughter. When Jessica had lived at home, they had fought almost every day. Her mom didn’t understand a career woman, and Jessica believed housework was one of the original eight plagues of Egypt, but because the Bible had been written by a man, it never got included.
Jessica watched her mother for a moment, then felt guilty and began putting things away, simply so she could look busy. “How you doing, Mom?”
Her mother lifted a lid from the pot on the stove, stirring idly. “Same as always, Jess.”
“You should take it easy some. You look tired,” Jessica said, noting the way her mother’s skin looked more fragile than usual.
Diane shook her head in a patient manner, her short brown hair rippling with movement. “I’ve got too many things to do, and the days are only getting shorter,” she answered, setting a stack of plates in Jessica’s hands.
Obediently, Jessica trotted out to the dining table and laid out the plates, moving from place to place until the spoons were lined up exactly parallel with the napkins and the forks gleamed in the bright lights from the wall sconces that were fixed around the room.
The dining table had already been set up for Wednesday dinner, five settings. It was family night at the Barnes household. Her father, Frank Barnes, had the chair at the head of the table, but until the food was actually on his plate, he sat in his recliner watching the news, thinking of new names for the local aldermen.
Jessica poked her head into the den. “Pop, supper is almost ready,” she yelled.
From behind the back of his brown easy chair came a grunt of acknowledgment. It usually took a good three tries to get Pop to leave the chair, which was incredibly inefficient, but you couldn’t skip one or he wouldn’t leave. Jessica sighed.
The front door slammed, rattling the bay window in a precarious manner. Patrick was home.
At the ripe old age of eighteen, Patrick had moved out of the house and set out on his own. For two years he’d skipped Wednesday dinners, but about the time he turned twenty, White Castle burgers had lost some of their appeal and he’d developed an appreciation for a home-cooked meal. He was now twenty-five and thought he knew everything. Jessica knew better.
He took off his jacket and threw it on top of the coat tree in the hall. “Hey, Jess. Can you get me something to drink?”
“You been taking drugs, Patrick? Do I look like Mom?”
“More and more every day,” he said, pausing before he walked into the den to pinch her cheek.
Jessica smacked her fist into her palm. “I’m your older sister, I’m the professional in the family.”
“Blah, blah, blah.”
The front door slammed again. Not quite as loudly as Patrick, which meant that Ian was now home from class. He was shorter than Jessica by a couple of inches, but what he lacked in height, he said he made up for in wisdom.
He flung his jacket on the coat tree and shook his head. “Sis, you always let him get to you. The only reason he does that is to get you mad.”
It was the ultimate humiliation to get behavioral lessons from her baby brother. At least he was the scholar as well, which soothed her ego somewhat. Ian had spent three years in the local community college, trying out different majors to see if they suited him. Eventually he’d wandered full circle back to Business Administration and had just been accepted to Notre Dame.
Ian threw his backpack onto the sideboard in the dining room, but then their mother scuttled into the room and moved it into the hall closet, with nary a word of complaint. Jessica couldn’t believe her brother’s inconsiderate nature. “Would it have been so much trouble to put it away yourself? Don’t you think Mom has enough to do without having to pick up after you?”
“Heavy stress at the job, Jess?”
She glared at Ian and then she sneezed. “You couldn’t imagine.”
“Yeah, I can.” He rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming with possibilities. “I can’t wait.”
He looked so excited, so full of enthusiasm, and Jessica didn’t have the heart to enlighten him about the real state of affairs in the business world. Maybe she was turning into a cynic. More likely she was just scared.
Her mother called from the kitchen. “Jessica, would you find out what everyone would like to drink, please?”
“Sure, Mom,” she said, collecting drink orders and pondering a career in the field of hotel and restaurant management. By the time she had returned to her mother with the information, she had decided that the hospitality industry might be a possibility. And of course, she’d forgotten what everyone wanted to drink.
Ten minutes later they were all seated at the table, and her father said grace, the same blessing he’d said for all twenty-nine years of Jessica’s life. Short, to the point and sincere. Not fancy, but it was the Barnes way.
Dinner was never a quiet affair, although Jessica wondered what it was like Thursday through Tuesday when it was just her mother and father. Did they talk about the day or get silly, or was it just like tonight with her father buried in the news and her mother buried in the kitchen?
The menu tonight was roast beef, gravy, Jessica’s favorite green-bean casserole and homemade rolls. It made Jessica weak just thinking of cooking all that stuff day after day, night after night. She watched her mother fuss over everyone with appreciation and more than a little concern.
