Page 20 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

She was so jaded she hadn’t been able to thank Francesca for her work and see that goodness for what it truly was. She’d even forgotten her one nice foster home, where she’d met Annie Ward. Annie had been a lost girl like her. Chattiest thing, always going on about Batman comics and scrapbooking, quick with a smile.

When tested, Clementine had forgotten the good and clung to the bad. Her growing unhappiness had led to delaying this job with her scenic drive. It could be why she felt her guard slipping around Jack now. A good man. A kind man. A man who rehabilitated reptiles others had harmed and waited patiently while she digested his too-observant statement: You’ve had to work hard for what you have.

“Yes,” she said, unable to resist. “My life hasn’t been easy.”

“Your childhood?”

“All of it.”

“But you must be close with your father. Doing this photo for him is more than a compulsory card.”

“He died when I was young.” Her breathing accelerated like someone had cranked her horsepower. She never spoke about her past. Ever. Yet she’d blurted it to her neighbor’s friends recently, was doing the same again, her overstuffed secrets too crammed to stay contained.

Jack squinted like the answer to her deception was written in fuzzy fine print. “I don’t understand.”

“Ignore me. The swampy fumes are getting to my head.”

He waited on her, didn’t speak.

“Your astounding sanctuary momentarily confused me. I said something nonsensical.”

He smirked, crossed his arms, still silent.

“You’re annoying when you don’t talk.”

“I could say the same about you. Annoying and secretive.”

“Remember when I was fixing your car and said I didn’t mind you being an idiot?” She pointed a finger at her unamused face. “This is me minding.”

He pointed at his bland expression. “This is me not caring.”

She laughed. She should backtrack, make another joke. Veer far from this topic. She found herself doing the opposite. “I still give my father yearly birthday gifts through his email, and I send random messages to his account all year. As a diary of sorts.”

The odd ritual had begun at her first foster home. Impossibly lonely and scared, she’d written Clinton Abernathy. One message had become two. Two had rolled into thirty. Now she was a twenty-eight-year-old woman who emailed her dead dad.

“That’s beautiful,” he said, his tone more fascinated than pitying.

“Or just plain weird.” When she’d confessed the ritual to Lucien, he’d said it was wonderfully therapeutic and had encouraged her to keep at it. The habit made her feel odd.

Jack stepped closer, his voice dropping lower. “Beautiful.”

One word, spoken with ardent compassion. The heavy air continued unfurling around them, drawing them closer. Or maybe it was her need to lean toward him and touch him. Mess up his slim tie and gold jacket and run her fingers through his thick hair. Kiss his full lips.

She fought each urge. Making out with Jack wasn’t part of her plan. It wouldn’t hurt her strategy, per se. Getting closer to him meant getting closer to that painting. This was different, though. This kind of closeness was like driving along the edge of a cliff.

She leaned away. “Do you come here often?”

Now she was spewing moronic pick-up lines. Of course he came here often. His sanctuary was attached to his freaking house.

He either didn’t notice her idiocy or kindly let it slide. “Every night.”

“To feed the reptiles?”

“No. Marvin tends our family properties and comes here during the day, spends a couple of hours cleaning and feeding. Makes sure the environments are ideal.”

“So you just…what? Sit and read? Talk to them? Play solitaire?”

The corner of his lips tipped up. “I sing.”