Page 3 of Jack of Hearts

That’s what I’d always wanted. I thought I’d found a hometown girl once. Of course I hadn’t looked very far. Angie and I had met in the third grade and had pretty much been inseparable until I went off to basics. She was supposed to wait for me. But I guess I wasn’t worth waiting for.

chapter

two

Lucy

I licked it so it’s mine.

That was my first thought when I saw Jack. Jack with his sun-soaked freckled skin and his dark ginger hair. Those pure blue eyes and a mouth so perfect I’d instantly wanted to kiss him.

Let me set the record straight that I have never kissed someone I just met. Now that I think about it, I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to someone. There was something so sweet and vulnerable in his eyes. It’s been a while since I’ve met someone new.

Aside from a recent influx of famous people moving to my small town, we don’t get a whole lot of new anything here. Still it’s home and I love it. Even if I’ve never quite fit in.

Honestly, I’m a bit much for most of the people in town. Too big, too loud, too arty. Too many tattoos. Too many crazy hair colors. Too many piercings.

But in a town like Saddle Creek, we take care of our own, even when our own are weird. I belong here, even if I’m not everyone’s picture of what a small town girl should look like. I made peace long ago that living in Saddle Creek meant my romantic pickings were slim. I never would have thought someone like Jack would slide onto the stool next to me at Ruthie’s.

Jack is intriguing and sexy in a solemn kind of way. Almost shy, something I’ve never really understood.

I’m the opposite. Big, bold and colorful as my Nana used to say. She also used to say that as soon as I could talk I was bossing people around. What can I say? I know what people should be doing.

I’m in my studio welding a particular piece of my current work and it’s frankly not cooperating. So I swear and flip up my welding mask. And there, as if my own dirty thoughts summoned him, is Jack.

“Oh hey, sorry, if I was ignoring you, it’s hard to hear over this thing.” I pull off my mask and my leather gloves and toss them on my work table, then walk over to him. When I’m working, no matter how frigid it is outside, I leave at least one of the doors to the garage studio open. Even though my ventilation system is top notch, if the studio is closed, I feel a bit … trapped.

One of the many ways my anxiety manifests itself in my life. But I learn tricks around my triggers and deal with them that way.

He steps towards me and nods to my current work in progress. “Did you do all of that?”

I look back and try to see what he sees. It’s the torso of a woman made from scrap metals in varying colors. I’ll decide later if I want to paint the rest or patina it. But for now she’s coming together.

“Yeah. I’m a sculptor. I work in metals. Scrap metals and I mostly do women.” Then I frown. “For my art, not recreationally.”

He laughs, it’s not a boisterous laugh, instead it’s a quiet, reserved chuckle and I’m thrilled. Partly because it feels like a gift he doesn’t easily offer, but also because not everyone gets my sense of humor.

I finish making my way to stand in front of him and it’s then that I notice he’s about a foot taller than me, even with me wearing my work boots. Wow, does he know how to wear a pair of blue jeans. These are clearly well worn and I kind of want to ask him to turn around so I can see how well they mold to his butt. I doubt this is a booty call though.

HA! See what I did there?

“I’m hoping the fact you’re here means you’ve considered my offer,” I say.

He nods.

Fuck, he’s hot. Just all broody, scowly sexiness. Like Heathcliffe, only better. Frankly, the whole Heathcliffe/Catherine relationship always had an icky, incestuous vibe to me. Okay, that’s a bad example, how about like the way Matthew McFayden played Mr. Darcy. Instead of Firth’s hoity-toity version, McFayden’s was sad and kinda broken. That’s who Jack reminds me of.

And now I’m just staring at Jack—and possibly drooling—while I picture him in a great coat, crossing a mist-covered field.

Way to be cool, Lucy.

“We’re having unusually cold weather, and when I’m not welding, I feel it more. So let’s go inside. I’ll make some coffee or tea or whatever. And you can take a look. See if you’re up to the challenge.” Then I spin on him and point a finger. “But listen, I’m a messy mess, so no judgment.”

His lips quirk in a hint of a smile and he nods. “No judgement,” he repeats. There’s a hint of an accent in his voice.

“So where are you from originally?” I ask as I lead him through the yard where I have pieces of scrap metal that people drive by and toss knowing I’ll probably repurpose it.

The old porch stairs creak as we climb up them.