You Don't Know Jack. Erin McCarthy
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Jamie Peters was gorgeous.
Jamie shifted her large duffel bag that served as part purse, part file folder for her cases and waited for the train as she tried to decipher what Beckwith was saying. He had called her on her cell, sounding frantic, and in three minutes solid the only thing she’d managed to understand was that it wasn’t a life-threatening emergency.
“Why do I need to check my make-up, Beck?” It was the end of the workday in July. The little make-up she’d started the day with had probably slid off hours ago.
“Because it’s now! Or like really soon, anyway. I was at the handbag sale at Saks—got the cutest little Kate Spade—anyway, it just hit me, right there, at the counter. You’re going to meet him today.”
“Him?” Jamie repeated, this call finally starting to make sense. She had a pretty good idea of where Beckwith was going with this. The tarot card prediction. Intrigued—no, make that freaked out—she stopped trying to shove her subway swipe card in her bag.
“It’s been five months since your prediction, and so far, nothing.” Thank goodness. The problem with believing in Beckwith’s psychic ability was now that he had predicted something she’d really rather he hadn’t, she was stuck waiting for it to happen.
Why couldn’t she be a total skeptic like Allison?
At first Jamie had been seriously on the lookout for Mr. Right, the dishonest dream man. She had walked cautiously past the melons in the grocery store and had scrutinized the deliveryman carefully when she’d ordered a veggie pizza twice. She’d even taken to using the stairs at work instead of the elevator like she normally did since movement had been integral in Beckwith’s prediction.
Nothing. No scary accidents with men fated to make her happy. But Jamie was optimistic by nature. It served her well in social work. She had figured the man Beckwith had described would show up eventually, which did not thrill her in the least.
Not only was it a little unnerving to imagine accidents around every corner, but she was absolutely certain she had no clue how to handle a man whose personal assets added up to more than his T-shirt collection and a carton of Marlboro Reds. Since the thought of both breaking her leg and meeting a man who wore a suit or something crazy like that gave her cold sweats, she had pushed the prediction to a back corner of her mind.
It was going to happen sooner or later, she was convinced, but if that time was now, why couldn’t she be looking cuter? As it was, she probably resembled a Brillo pad with eyes.
“There’s no time frame on destiny,” Beckwith said with great dignity.
Nor was destiny something she sat around and thought about on a regular basis. It certainly hadn’t been in her thoughts that day at all. And at the moment she just wanted to get home and pull a pint of ice cream out of the freezer and inhale it. Then she could meet the man of her dreams. After she’d gained five pounds from the mint chocolate chip. Shoot, that would make a bad situation worse. If her fated soul mate saw her and ran screaming, she would be humiliated on top of everything else. Maybe she should skip the ice cream and have a salad with low-cal dressing.
“I’m on my way home, you know. And I wasn’t planning to do anything tonight but paint my toenails, so I don’t see how I could meet anyone. Maybe the handbags interfered with your radar. Maybe I see him tomorrow.” That would be better anyway.
Digging through her purse to put her swipe card away, she sensed movement and realized everyone around her was surging forward.
Dang it. The train was here, and she would be last one on. There was nothing worse than folding yourself into a full subway car and sharing your personal space with approximately thirty people of various age and odor.
“Gotta go, Beckwith! I’ll call you later, sweetie.”
Running as fast as wedge sandals would allow her, she launched herself through the doors as they began to close and grabbed for the nearest available surface to hold on to.
Not fast enough. The car moved again with a frantic lurch, and Jamie went stumbling forward, her handbag clipping the woman in the seat to her right.
“Watch it,” the woman said.
But Jamie couldn’t apologize. She couldn’t speak.
Because the man she had collided with in her forward motion was him.
Him of the tarot cards. Him of the light brown hair, the minor accident…She looked at his chest. And the food.
Now crushed against him in a brown bag that was leaking some kind of oily sauce from multiple directions.
“Oh,” she said. Beckwith had been so completely right. It was disarming, unsettling, weird, not as bad as she’d thought. It even felt a little…wonderful.
His hand was on her arm, gripping it firmly to keep her steady.
It was a strong hand. A warm hand.
Oh, my. Jamie stared up at him and smiled in spite of herself. “I’m sorry,” she ventured, not exactly sure what she should say to the man of her destiny.
He smiled back, showing white teeth in a somewhat crooked grin. “I’ll be alright, but I don’t think my shirt will ever recover.”
When he shifted the bag of food, she saw that he was now wearing a red sauce on his white T-shirt. Her hand came up without thought to brush it, but he shook his head. “It’s without hope. Don’t bother.”
“Aaaah. I’m such a klutz. I’ll pay you for the shirt.”
The train came to a stop, and Jamie was pushed and jostled as four or five people moved around her to get off. She was pressed up against him, a blush starting to creep up her face.
They were close enough that if she were to tilt her head up, they could kiss.
He had a strong jaw and smelled like soap and tomatoes.
The need to fan herself was overwhelming. Either the air-conditioning was on the fritz, or she was experiencing an explosive burst of lustful heat. Chances were it was the latter.
He shrugged, the movement drawing her attention to his broad shoulder. She fought the urge to squeeze his biceps. Beckwith hadn’t warned her about the sexy factor. This guy was built like a race horse. No, that didn’t sound right. He was…was…lickable.
Before Beckwith had spouted off about marriage, her original thought had been that she was destined for a rather fun affair, her first strictly steamy relationship. Looking at super sexy in front of her, she thought he was probably capable of fun with a capital F.
Hopefully unaware of her lecherous thoughts, he said, “Don’t worry about it. I mourn my ruined dinner more than my ruined shirt.”
“Italian?” she guessed, thinking of the tomato scent.
A stale, hot pocket of air fluttered over her as he nodded. “Spaghetti and meatballs. With garlic bread.”
Of course. A traditionalist. No trendy pesto for this guy. He probably didn’t even own a suit, given how comfortable he looked in his jeans. And his eyes were blue, swimming with amusement and perhaps hunger. For his pasta.
“I’m so sorry about your dinner. I’d offer to take you out to replace it, but you could be weird or something.” Weird? Oh, geez, why had she said that? Jamie wanted to groan. Followed by a mental kick in her sundress-covered behind. It was intelligent and important for a single woman to be cautious, but heck, she could have phrased that differently.
But he only grinned. “No weirder than anyone else in New York.”
Staring up at that cute grin, Jamie knew she couldn’t let this moment pass. He had to be the man in Beckwith’s prediction, and she couldn’t let him get off this subway without making plans to see him again, in a safe, public place. Even if she had to drag one of her roommates with her for security, she was not going to let this guy get off this train and turn her life into a romantic tragedy.