Recompense For Love: Book Three of the Against All Odds Series Page 3

  As if unconsciously mimicking my actions, he brings his hand up, pushing it through his unruly russet locks to do the same. I can’t help but stare helplessly, cataloging as many details to memory as I possibly can. Like how the rich bronzed hue of his hair hasn’t changed a bit, that it still makes me wonder if he secretly colors it, because seriously, a color that vivid can’t possibly be natural. Or how the sharp edges of his jaw are now dusted with scruff that’s just beginning to make an appearance after a recent shave—something new.

  I’m not at all surprised to find his boyish good looks have developed into the most tantalizing of man-boys. He’s still got that charming air, the All-American boy this town has always swooned over, just with a rugged edge.

  My mouth might have just dropped open, and I may even sigh, but it’s hard to tell. My body is humming with electricity, going crazy with physiological reactions that make it impossible to focus on any one part.

  Am I dying?

  Have a suffered a mass heart-attack and am completely unaware of the fact?

  It’s sad that having my body respond so acutely has me questioning my mortality. Mark this as another reason Nash Hudson is hazardous to my health; every time he’s around, I almost forget where I’m at and what the Hell I’m doing.

  Nice to see the crazy effect he’s always had on me hasn’t been diminished. Not even a little.

  “So, what’s going on here?” He arches an inquisitive eyebrow, his eyes flicking over to where little—Ari?—is still clinging to my hand.

  Speak, Lyra, speak!

  I clear my throat, attempting to follow the urgent command my head seems to be screaming at me.

  “Well, I found…”

  “I helped!” Willow pipes up, causing me to change my tune.

  “My niece happened to see this little guy,”—I pat my new companion on the shoulder—“standing over there.” I point at the end of the food truck across from us. “He was lost, and naturally, scared. But he didn’t want to talk to strangers…”

  “So, you figured you’d get him something sweet? Kind of like when a predator gives a kid sweets so the kid trusts them?” The snobby girl accuses, her eyebrow and the corner of her mouth lifting at the same time to form a catty expression.

  Nash shoots her a scowl, but doesn’t comment.

  Irritated by the disapproving look she argues, she throws her hands in the air.

  “What? He shouldn’t eat sweets anyway.”

  “Jenna,” his tone seems to warn before he turns back to me, apparently awaiting my response to her question, or for me to finish with where I was going before I was rudely interrupted.

  I’m so used to dealing with people like her, and while I used to be a wallflower attempting to remain forever invisible, I’m not anymore. Two can play this game. I’ve transformed from the flounder who hides in the sand to an electric eel who doesn’t give two fucks, shocking the hell out of anyone who crosses me. I narrow my eyes, cocking my head slightly toward her.

  “You pretty much hit the nail on the head. I noticed he was eyeing Willow’s apple here, and I got that exact idea—give him sweets, get him to trust me. You just happened to show up before we got to the whole let’s take a walk scenario.” I shrug my shoulder, dishing out a bitchy two-second smile before allowing my face to drop back into what I hope is an otherwise expressionless mask. She gasps at my appalling claim, apparently being one of those idiots who doesn’t understand sarcasm.

  Nash, on the other hand, smirks. He knows my language. Probably because he used to speak it fluently.

  “Thank you for helping Ari.” His emerald eyes—the exact same hue, I note, as the little boy holding my hand—burn into mine with sincerity, but while his words are cordial, I know the truth of the matter.

  This entire interaction is a charade. It neither hints at our familiarity, nor at the bad blood between our families. It’s a casual conversation between two perfect strangers.

  Does he even recognize me?

  There’s an acute possibility that he doesn’t considering I’ve changed my image considerably since the last time we saw each other. That was about five years ago.

  “You’re welcome.” My voice comes out a little breathless, and I’m not even sure what exactly it is I’m accepting thanks for. Like, what’s it to him if I’ve helped this random child on the street?

  Crouching down to get at eye-level with Ari, his gentle tone comes out smooth and reassuring. “It’s okay, Son. I’ve got you now.” My eyes flare when he holds out his hand to the kid, who instantly releases mine to take it.

  “Son?” I hear myself verify, the words lacking the proper filter between brain to mouth. Pain lances through my chest at the word, and I have to claw my way back into the present before I’m too far gone. In some ways, it’s true what they say about time healing wounds. It gets a little easier the more of it that passes, but mostly, it’s about getting good at pushing your thoughts elsewhere.

  Nash nods his head, a proud smile tugging at his lips. “This is my son, Ari,” he finally makes a proper introduction, turning to his son to order, “Now, tell Miss Lyra thank you for the apple.” From the acknowledgment of my name alone, the beat of my heart seems to ping-pong, the strange and erratic rhythm playing in my ears.

  Putting one hand at each side of Ari’s waist, Nash hoists the little boy up and onto his shoulders. After a fit of happy giggling, Ari squeals, “Thank you, Lyrawr.” He scrunches up his free hand in a mock claw and growls out the last part of my name, making Nash and I burst with laughter.

  “You’re most welcome.” I beam up at the adorable little boy, tilting my head back. “Enjoy.”

  “Oh,” Nash holds up a finger, “almost forgot.” He reaches behind him, digging in his back pocket to produce his wallet. “How much was that whopper of an apple anyway?”

  I wave my hand away. “No. Don’t worry about it. My treat.”

  He pulls out a fifty anyway and shoves his hand toward me.

  “No way.” I shake my head frantically.

  “It’s the least I can do. You helped my little boy, settled him down when he was scared, and fed him.” He chuckles.

  “I didn’t do any of that expecting something in return. I’m not taking it. You don’t offer rewards just because someone decides to be a decent person,” I argue, refusing to take the money.

  Nash’s eyes narrow slightly at my words and he sighs in defeat. “Fine…but I still owe you.”

  “Consider it repayment for the last time you helped me…” I hint to the night he provided me with a safe haven from danger.

  His adam’s apple bobs up and down as he shoots me a knowing look. For a moment, we just stare at each other without uttering a word, both of us acknowledging that terrifying, and ultimately, humiliating night. “Glad to see you’re doing okay, Lyra.”

  Green eyes trail up and down my body in a look I almost think is appreciation, but I know better. There’s no way that’s what that look meant. Not when I threw myself at him, ironically on that exact same night long ago, and he turned me down cold. He’s not attracted to me, and his next words only highlight this knowledge.

  “You’re looking…”—the blonde to his left clears her throat, almost as if to reinsert her presence into our exchange—“colorful nowadays,” he finishes off.

  Colorful? I glance down at my arms covered with artwork, at my vibrant hair—a hue nestled somewhere between plum and raspberry—trailing down my abdomen and curling lightly at the ends.

  It’s an accurate description, I’ll give him that; not exactly a compliment, but not quite an insult. Just an everyday observation much like a Kindergartener would make. Hell, Willow has even called me that one before.

  Nothing will make a gal feel prettier than being referred to as one of the same verbs used to describe a box of Crayola.

  Seemingly reminded of his manners, or lack thereof, he cocks his head at the blonde, motioning her over to us.

  “This is Jenna,” he introduces wi
th a slight, almost apologetic, smile.

  “I’m the fiancée,” she simpers and—mayday, mayday—my mood immediately plummets. Being that I was raised by my mama and Nana Rose to be polite, I present my hand to shake anyway. Jenna eyes it like I’m offering up a cockroach before hesitantly taking it to form a loose clasp.

  “Nice to meet you,” I make a go at politely lying.

  She drops my hand immediately.

  “We should get going,” Nash suggests, shifting from one foot to the other to keep Ari from growing antsy due to lack of movement.

  “I don’t want to go,” Ari pipes up.

  “I don’t want to go either,” Willow agrees. “We didn’t even get to play yet. We’ve only just begun to eat.” She’s such a drama-queen thanks to her maternal grandmother, which is fine any other time, just not at this particular moment. How do you explain to a four year-old she can’t be friends with someone, because their family hates yours? It’s impossible.

  From the sad smile Nash gives, he’s thinking the same thing.

  “It’s not up to you, Ari. You’ve already screwed with our schedule by getting yourself lost. We were supposed to spend an hour looking around at the tents and socializing with the townspeople, then twenty minutes for lunch, ending with an hour-long appearance in the Mayor’s tent to show our support. Now we have no time to shop, or eat,” Jenna scolds, and I can’t even control my eyeroll. She’s inconceivable. This is who Nash is marrying? Ick. If she’s this bad over a freaking fall festival, then she’s probably the worst Bridezilla in the history of the planet.

  He doesn’t even acknowledge the ridiculous comment, ignoring her as if she’s just a child throwing a temper tantrum.

  “Maybe some other time?” I find myself asking Nash, partially hoping they’ll forget about the promised playdate in the future at the same time I’m kind of hoping they don’t.

  He arches an eyebrow as if questioning my sanity, but agrees, “Yeah, guys. Another time.”

  “Promise?” Ari’s garbled voice asks, seeking more assurance for the verbal agreement as he chews on a mouthful of caramel and chocolate. Nash seems fixated on my lips for a moment, apparently lost in thought, and making me worry I’m past-due for a good lip-wax service at the salon.

  I breathe a sudden sigh of relief when his eyes flash to mine as if slightly determined. “Yes. Definitely.” Then, the cheeky bastard winks at me. “See ya round, Stars.”

  His choosing to randomly drop the childhood name into random adult conversation leaves me gawking, plum up until the point I realize he’s retreating down the side-walk, newfound family in tow—precious son on his shoulders, blonde trophy-wife-in-training with a bangin’ body at his side. I’m old enough to know better, yet here I am still hopelessly longing for the guy that’s expressly forbidden to me.

  Because, not only am I clearly the opposite of being his type, and not only does he have a fiancée now, there’s something even bigger standing in the way…

  Bad blood doesn’t mix.

  Especially in small southern towns.

  Chapter Three

  Nash

  “She’s not exactly the type of person you want finding your lost kid,” Jenna snipes before we’re even out of earshot, her voice riddled with disgust. Her eyes are narrowed, lower lip jutting out all pouty-like. I used to think it was cute when she pouted like this, putting on a childish act.

  But we’re adults now and circumstances of changed.

  There’s a legit child in the picture, not just an adult masquerading as one, and jealousy isn’t a pretty look for her.

  Does she not realize she’s the reason my son got lost in the first place, not Lyra, yet she’s more concerned with who found him?

  Sure, Lyra’s changed a lot since the last time I saw her. Her hair color resembles more of something you’d eat, but crazy as it might be, it suits her. It reminds me of spun-sugar—silky spun-sugar—and just like the candied treat, that’s exactly how I’d describe her personality. So fuckin’ sweet she nearly gives you a toothache; I’d be surprised if that girl harmed a fly. Which is why the entire act she put on back there—strictly for Jenna’s benefit—alluding to taking off with my son, is extremely laughable.

  When we were little, we used to go fishing together on the banks of the little creek that cuts through our family’s properties. She could barely stomach puncturing the worm with the hook, much less keeping the fish we caught. It was always catch and release.

  “And those tattoos.” Jenna makes a disgusted face. “Does she actually think that looks cute?” She continues to obsessively ramble on about all the ways she found Lyra lacking in the few minutes she was around her, but I drown out her brainless grumbling to obsess in my own way. Last time I saw Stars, she was still her meek, blend-in with the crowd, brunette and ink-free self. Not one tattoo in sight.

  Now, her arms are covered in sleeves of black lace riddled with various objects—vividly hued flowers being one of the main things. I couldn’t get a good look without seeming like a total creep.

  I used to think—and by used to, I mean earlier today—that tattoos on a woman screamed trashiness. A chick might as well sport a t-shirt labeled I’m Easy. Maybe my Aunt Marlowe is partially to blame for that opinion, her apparent disgust with women and tattoos transferring onto me in some roundabout way. I never thought they were disgusting. I did, however, find them to be easy for the most part. Particularly in my college days.

  Tats have never been a turn-on for me, but when I went out on the hunt for a good time back when I was a student at the good ol’ UNC, a girl sporting tats and piercings was almost always a for sure thing. Good for fucking, but not the girl you want to keep around.

  So why the fuck is Lyra Knightley suddenly more desirable than ever? This whole new make-over suits her, and I’m suddenly obsessing over all the other ways she may have changed in my absence.

  Looks aside, there was something about the entire situation that enraptured me more so than anything else.

  Ari had slipped his little hand in hers, holding to her tightly and not wanting to go with Jenna, despite the fact he’s known Jenna for going on two months now, but had only known Lyra for about ten minutes. She always has had this special way of making a person at ease.

  “…lucky he wasn’t kidnapped.” That statement is what finally causes me to snap out of my daydream.

  “Fuck yeah we are—and all because of Lyra,” I growl, glaring sideways at Jenna. “She’s a good person. Be happy she was the one who found him and not someone else. What the fuck happened anyway? And why didn’t you text me right away instead of waiting ten damn minutes after he was missing?” My voice vibrates as I grit out the demand, furious she’s yet to even issue an apology to Ari, or to me.

  And damn it, I keep forgetting I need to censor my words.

  “Hey,” Ari chirps up, patting the top of my head. “You owe me a dollar.”

  I sigh, attempting to rein in my irritation at Jenna. “You’re right, Bud. I’ll hand it over as soon as we get back from the Festival. Then, you can put it in your piggy-bank.”

  Clearly not catching on that I’m trying to diffuse the situation, Jenna ignores the exchange between me and my son, and keeps up the argument.

  “I told him to stay right there by the front entrance of the booth I was looking at. There’s a lot of hand-blown glass I was afraid of him breaking and I wanted to look at their jewelry,” she huffs out, like this is a perfectly good excuse to separate yourself from a four-year-old child. “You know how he refuses to let me hold his hand. It’s not my fault he didn’t listen.”

  I stop in my tracks, turning to glare at her. “Do you realize how stupid that is? He’s a child. You have to have more sense than to tell a kid to stand still and allow you to peruse and shop ‘til your heart’s content. Surely you know better than to think he’d still be glued to the spot you left him. If you want to look at something, fine. Wait until I come back and I’ll take over watching him.” My finger shakes at
her angrily. “I asked you for one simple thing, just long enough for me to grab us all a bite to eat so that you wouldn’t have to stand in a long line. Weren’t you the one complaining about it? Yet, you seem to lack even basic common sense when it comes to childcare.”

  She shrinks back, her eyes turning watery as they narrow. I know better than to think those are true tears of remorse. She’s an actress if I’ve ever met one. Too bad I’m just now beginning to figure it out.

  “Do I need to remind you, we both agreed before we even started planning this wedding, that we didn’t want children. At least not until our late thirties or so. I’m supposed to be working toward building a portfolio, not organizing playdates and cleaning up messes,” she snaps, her eyes growing round when she claps her hand over her mouth as soon as the last word leaves it.

  I take a steadying breath, so many words running through my head and a million questions, but I cram them back down and control myself. Ari is literally right in the middle of this disagreement, and he doesn’t deserve it.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” I growl, my eyes pointing upward toward my son, my head jerking back slightly as a subtle reminder. Her open mouth slams shut just as she’s on the verge of adding more of her input and her face glows red with irritation.

  With the exception of visiting my Aunt and Uncle in his “Central Valley Mayor’s tent”—because Heaven forbid we make a scene and start rumors—Jenna carries around her closed-off aura the rest of the day. She maintains a strict one-foot space between our bodies. I don’t think our arms even brush once. It’s a noticeable difference when it used to be she had a constant need to be touching me and holding hands at all times.

  I’ve tried not to dwell on it lately, telling myself we’ll eventually get back into our old groove once we’ve established a routine with Ari.

  Now I’m thinking I’ve just been deflecting.

  We’re no longer the couple that made our friends envious, so in tune with each other we could finish each other’s sentences. My buddy, Austin, has always sworn we’re so cute it’s disgusting, going so far as to claim we make him physically sick. Not anymore. We’ve lost that perfect harmony we once existed in.