In that sweet, sparkling pocket of time, she wasn’t a woman who could hold anyone back. Wasn’t a woman who could cause anyone regret.
And she had some serious thinking to do.
Chapter Fourteen
Sarge pulled open the double doors of his rented van, surveying the hundreds of packages that required unloading. To anyone else, carrying Christmas presents into the church event hall without help might resemble work. To him, it was pure saving grace. Distraction. One that would simultaneously prevent him from going to Jasmine’s apartment and camping outside until she spoke to him, while doubling as a happy surprise for the kids of Hook. Hopefully. Buying a vanload of musical instruments had seemed like a great idea at the time, but now he kind of wondered if he should have gone with a sports theme.
Distracting thoughts were good.
They were also running short. Okay, they’d been running short for almost two days, since he’d left Jasmine at the Third Shift. He’d watched from across the street until she pulled away in her car, before taking a cab to Manhattan. An expensive drive, but a necessary one. Jasmine needed time to process the love-bomb he’d detonated. If he waited around in Hook, nothing short of imprisonment would have kept him from trying to dig out the shrapnel he’d sent flying. So he’d spent two days on the phone with a Realtor, looking for a place to buy in Hook. Then he’d gone shopping for child-friendly instruments. And drinking. He’d done some drinking. The way a man did when his happiness hung in the balance.
Already his back muscles were tense, his palms damp, just knowing he would see Jasmine soon. Not kissing the crap out of her on sight was going to be some serious bullshit. It might actually kill him resisting that mouth now. Now was not like before. Before, he’d had fantasies. Now he had truth. And the truth was, her mouth spoke words he needed to hear. Gave pleasure he needed to receive. Could deny or approve the future he craved with his goddamn soul.
“So let’s unload some fucking ukuleles, huh?” Sarge muttered, planting a fist against the van’s metal door with a loud whap.
“Sounds like a party,” came a familiar female voice behind him.
Sarge turned to find Lita perched on the hood of James’s Mustang, threading neon-green shoelaces through the holes of a boot, leaving one of her feet bare. Already knowing he’d find his manager in the driver’s seat—where Lita went, so followed James—Sarge sent him a wave without looking. “What are you doing here?”
“Heard you lined up a gig tonight.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“TMZ.”
“Jesus.” Sarge dragged a hand down his face. “I’m just playing a couple Christmas songs. Doesn’t really qualify as a gig.”
Lita shoved her foot into the freshly laced boot. “We’re a band, Sergeant. It’s kind of a package deal.”
Too exhausted to give the drummer a hard time about the nickname, Sarge unloaded a crate of maracas. “If we’re a package deal, where’s our bass player?”
“Asleep in the backseat.”
“Right.” He stacked two more crates of jingling instruments on top of the maracas and strode toward the church hall, where a group of administrators waited to direct him. Halfway there, Sarge stopped and turned with a curse. Being a prick to his band wasn’t going to solve his immediate problem. Convenient or not, they’d come to support him. They weren’t responsible for the heartbeat pumping out of tune inside his chest. Sarge caught Lita’s eye, tipping his head toward the administrators. “Just tell them you’re with the band.”
Lita’s expression went from wary to relieved. “I bet they weren’t expecting a Spice Girls reunion.” She rapped on the windshield. “Look alive, James. We’ve got a gig in a motherfucking church.”
Sarge carried the crates into the hall, shaking his head as he went. When Lita, James, and their groggy bass player helped with the unloading, he was surprised at first, until he noticed the concerned glances in his direction. On a trip to the van, Sarge caught up with James. “You told them I was staying with Jasmine, didn’t you?”
James adjusted his sunglasses. “I don’t participate in gossip.”
Okay. That was accurate. None of them did. Still… “Lita just gave me the awkward shoulder pat of the century. Something’s up.”
As if the sky would fall down if he were forced to converse, James dropped his head forward on a sigh. “There’s a video of you and Jasmine in a toy store…it’s circulating.”
A throb pushed at his jugular. “When you say circulating…”
“A few million hits.”
“Oh. Great.” He ripped a hand through his hair. “That might account for why I haven’t heard from her.”
“I sent you the video days ago. You should check your email.”
“Email,” Sarge repeated for no reason, his voice dull.
Lita pushed between the two men on her way to the van. “Hey, what if I played an entire set on one of these mini drum sets? We could all pretend like it was completely normal and everyone would trip balls.”
James’s lips twitched.
Sarge started to question them both about their motives for coming to New Jersey, when Lita slammed the van door and crossed her arms, staring at something past Sarge’s shoulder. “Don’t look now, but Yoko just showed up.”
“Yoko?” Sarge turned—and almost staggered back with the impact of seeing Jasmine when he hadn’t been expecting it. Or had time to brace himself. She was dressed up for Christmas Eve, dark hair piled on top of her head, lips painted the color of cranberries. Her legs looked an extra mile long, thanks to a pair of black high heels that Sarge instantly wanted to hear hit the floor. She stopped short upon seeing them, pulling her winter coat tighter around her body.
Dammit, I should be the one warming her up.
The fact that she remained between the rows of cars, as if someone had hit a pause button, made him want to rage at the darkening sky. She should have walked faster or beckoned him closer. Not stopped. Never stopped. Did that mean she was sticking to her decision? Fuck. That.
“Can you two head inside?”
James indicated the church in a “ladies first” gesture for Lita, but the drummer took her time sauntering past, giving Jasmine a lazy once-over. “I saw the video. You’ve got pipes, I’ll give you that.”
“Lita…” Sarge warned.
“I’m just saying.” The drummer held up both hands. “If she wants to sing with the band, she should come around for a legit tryout. This is a democracy.”
Gratefulness flooded Sarge, so much that he was actually able to nod at Lita in the face of Jasmine rejecting him. Not an easy feat. A minute later, James had shuffled Sarge’s bandmate off to the church, leaving him standing alone with Jasmine. Not really alone, though, since the parking lot was filling around them. Parents wrapped scarves around their children and guided them inside; Hook residents called “merry Christmas” to one another over the hum of car engines; the cold wind picked up around all of it, making the church parking lot feel like the inside of a snow globe. One that needed to be shaken until it put Jasmine in his arms.
“Merry Christmas, Jas.”
She adjusted the pink bakery box on her hip, making him notice it for the first time. “Merry Christmas, Sarge.”
He’d been right. This was indeed some serious bullshit. Conscious of the multitude of people with them in the parking lot, Sarge closed the distance between him and Jasmine, angling his body so no one would see his face. “What’s in the box?”
“Um.” She looked down, obviously thrown by the question. “Cheesecake.”
“Huh.” He tilted his head. “Fruit topping?”
She shifted in her heels. “Strawberries. Why are you asking me this?”
“Not sure. I think I’m kind of enjoying how impossible small talk is between us.” He took one more step closer, bringing them less than a foot apart. God, what he wouldn’t have given to knock the box out of her hand and shove her up against a parked car. It wouldn’t take much to get that dress up around her waist, would it? Somehow, though, he maintained the scant distance separating them. “Nice weather we’re having, right?”