Can't Let Go. Gena Showalter
he both adored and despised. He remembered the way Bailey’s nose had crinkled when she’d giggled. The way Hailey had twirled a strand of hair around her finger when she cried. The way Constance had blown him a kiss every time he’d walked out the door, whether he’d been headed for another mission or to the grocery store.
Memories would never keep him warm at night.
Only pitying yourself. He had friends who’d swooped in the moment he’d called. Gone...they’re just...gone.
Now he lacked a purpose. And family. He supposed he could do something about the purpose. Or maybe he already had?
Maybe he’d found one in the Scratching Post. At least temporarily. By saving Ryanne and the bar he despised with every fiber of his being, he would save Daniel and Brock from losing someone they loved.
Through the trials of war, they too had already walked hand-in-hand with enough pain and grief, sorrow and loneliness. Enough...or far too much. Overseas, they’d lost friends in a hundred different ways. They’d overcome great odds to save Jude on the bloodiest of battlefields; as gunfire rained around them, they’d risked their own lives to carry him away when he couldn’t even crawl.
As his breathing normalized, Jude wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt and fell back on his haunches. He loved his friends so deeply, he would willingly die for them, but he missed his family more than he missed his leg. Sometimes he experienced phantom pains, allowing him to pretend the leg was still there. At no time did he ever forget he was a family man without a family. A father without a child.
He was essentially alone.
He wished he could be more like Ryanne. She lived in the moment, enjoyed the highs, basking in her triumphs, and rolled with the lows. He thought she might even embrace those lows, choosing to learn from her mistakes rather than wallow.
Irritation pricked at him. Be like a bar owner? A person who served alcohol to potential motorists? Never.
He would go on as always, pretending to live, breaking down, then pretending to live again.
I’ll never give up.
MENTAL NOTE: NEVER tease Jude Laurent.
After Ryanne’s “I think I would have enjoyed soothing you” crack, he’d stormed away as if his feet were on fire, his expression a mix of horror and dismay.
Okay. Revise: sometimes tease Jude Laurent.
Despite her former ban on romance, flirting had always come easily for her. Bottom line, she’d inherited her mother’s gift, though not to the same degree. Selma could pop the top off a man’s biscuits with only a wink and a smile. Ryanne had to work at it, maybe because the guys knew they wouldn’t get anywhere with her. But, with a little time and a lot of banter, she could charm the uncharmable. A necessary skill in her line of work. People tended to treat bartenders like therapists, and Ryanne wanted everyone who left the Scratching Post to feel good, or at least better than when they’d entered.
Not my biggest fan? Get ready, precioso. You will be.
The guy clearly had a stick up his patootie and yet, for one too-brief moment, he’d looked at Ryanne as if he wanted to devour her. And she’d liked it. A lot.
She wanted him to look at her with hunger again and again.
Jude was the one, she decided. The man who would break her amorous fast. Despite his surly attitude, he was the only guy her body craved. The only male her mind trusted. He might dislike her—presently—but he was still determined to save the people and things she cared about.
How sexy was that?
In order to win him over, she suspected she would have to teach him how to relax and have fun. In order to teach him how to relax and have fun, however, she would have to learn more about him.
Quickest way to gain info: covertly question Daniel and Brock. The perfect plan—until they finished their drinks and took off without saying goodbye. Disappointment delivered a swift one-two punch to her determination. Then she rallied. Jude would return tomorrow morning, and she would get her info straight from the source.
Then she could begin his training—uh, teaching him to relax.
After the bar had emptied for the night, the staff cleaned up and Ryanne fed the homeless. That done, she locked the back door, then the front...and thought she spied Jude in the parking lot, sans his truck.
Had he returned? When she blinked, he was gone.
I’m exhausted, that’s all. She checked the windows, making sure they were locked as well, and trudged upstairs. How much would Jude charge for his services? How much of her precious savings would she lose? Enough to turn a first class trip into economy? She shuddered. To live her childhood aspirations properly, she required luxury.
She also required surviving Mr. Dushku, so, there was that.
What measures would Jude the Ice Man take against the mob boss? For that matter, what kind of trouble would her new neighbors attempt to cause?
Would Jude use legal means or push boundaries? He struck her as the boundary-pushing type.
With a dreamy sigh—I’m turned on by outlaws?—she stripped to her underwear, set her alarm and crawled into bed. To her dismay, sleep proved impossible, her mind continually flashing on images of the prostitute. The fear on the girl’s face when those van doors had swung open...
Fear of arrest or fear of her guards?
Either way, Ryanne pitied her. And sympathized. As a kid, she’d often found herself under the iron rule of whichever man Selma happened to “love” at the time. Some had been kind, others cruel...like Harold Scott, Lyndie’s dad. Mr. Hit-and-Blame.
The mental and physical abuse he inflicted on poor Lyndie had continued long after Selma divorced him. When Lyndie turned eighteen, she moved out, finally free. Only, she’d started dating Chief Carrington soon after.
He’d been a regular at the Scratching Post, and she’d heard Ryanne complain about the monster lurking beneath his good ole boy veneer more than once. Even still, Lyndie accepted his marriage proposal without hesitation, as if she felt she deserved to be slapped around.
A high-pitched buzz sounded from Ryanne’s phone, and she groaned. Her alarm. It was already time to get up?
Hey, why was she complaining? Soon she would have to—get to—face Jude.
Well, well. Her nerve endings awoke in a hurry, tingling with anticipation. She stretched and grinned, her heart leaping, her blood heating. For so long, her body had felt frozen, hormones nonexistent. Now the ice was gone, fire in its place, desire as much a part of her as her lungs. She breathed, and she wanted...burned. It was ecstasy, and it was agony.
Her grin faded as she felt the full weight of her inexperience. Oh, she’d made out with the boys she’d dated before her ban on romance, but in her brief attempt at being a femme fatale, she’d never, well, gone all the way.
Yep, good ole Ryanne Wade was still a virgin.
She wasn’t embarrassed about it, but she was nervous. Years had passed since her last date, and times had changed. Vanilla was no longer the norm; guys expected varying shades of gray.
What did Jude like? What kind of women did he prefer?
How could she break through his icy reserve?
On some level, he reminded her of Earl. Strong, competent and concerned about her well-being. And he was nothing like the playboys who frequented the bar. He never hit on women. Heck, he barely even seemed to notice them. Difference was, Jude had only ever insulted Ryanne while Earl had only ever supported her. But then, Earl had loved her unconditionally, valued her and built her up, never tearing her down. He’d taught her that family didn’t have to be flesh and blood, or