Hope Breaks: A New Adult Romantic Comedy Read online

  Next came lunch. Norma’s Hot Dog Shop, a favorite hang out of teenagers for decades. They also had the best chili in Texas. Thick, sweet, and tangy…and it didn’t try and burn the skin off the roof of your mouth.

  I got the chili (of course) and a dog with catsup, mustard and relish. Jake got three cheddar chili dogs and a small cheddar chili fries. We both opted for the Hot Dog Shop’s much vaunted cherry soda.

  We parked ourselves at a booth overlooking the parking lot, US 87 in the background.

  Okay, as dates went—not that this was a date!—we weren’t setting the town on fire, or painting it red. But the food was good, Jake was fun to talk to… and even more fun to look at. Especially as he ate his food, covered in all that cheddar chili goodness. Just watching him lick those thick, luscious lips was making my inner engines purr.

  When he licked some sauce from his thumb I swear it felt like I was sitting on my washing machine on the spin cycle—not that I’ve ever…

  Oh hell…

  “So answer me this,” Jake said, piercing the cloud of lustful daydreaming surrounding me. “Why’d you move back here? Last I heard you were in California somewhere, doing the artist thing.”

  My heady nimbus of lustiness started to darken and I could hear thunder in the distance. I didn’t really like thinking about back then. I never talked about it either.

  I guess I’d sat there silently too long, lost in the past, because Jake cleared this throat and said, “I didn’t mean to bring up something painful.”

  I blinked at him and shook my head. “It’s not painful… really. I just don’t… I don’t talk about it anymore.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, “How about you tell me what you do now… you know, for a living.”

  I smiled and fidgeted with the straw to my cherry soda.

  “Cause you already know where I work.”

  “I’m still doing the artist thing,” I said. “Photography now.”

  He looked surprised. “Really, you don’t paint anymore?”

  Oh boy, he knew I used to paint. He really did remember me.

  “Not in years.” I held up my right hand and showed him a star shaped scar on the back of my wrist. “I shake too much to hold a paintbrush. But I’m fine at clicking a camera.”

  He reached out and took my hand, gently pulling my scarred wrist to him. He looked down at it and his calloused fingers glided over the scar tissue.

  It wasn’t a very big scar, but I’d never had anyone touch it before.

  Good god, had it really been that long since I’d let anyone touch me?

  Reflexively, I pulled my hand out of Jake’s grasp. “It tickles,” I said, trying to play off my discomfort. I held it in my lap as I tried to change the subject. “So how long have you been at Wal-Mart?”

  “Two years,” Jake said, and then asked, “So what kind of photography can you make a living at?”

  Oh, so we were at the embarrassing part of the what do you do? conversation.

  Except there was no reason to be embarrassed. It wasn’t like I was shooting porn in my living room. And I was supporting myself, all by myself, with just my camera.

  “I shoot mostly book covers.” I let that float in the air for a heartbeat before I dove into the deep end. “Covers for ebooks—Romances mostly. I work for a boutique publishing house out of Dallas.”

  Jake’s eyes flickered with playful light. “Ebooks…like those Kindles and Nooks and such?”

  “Yeah,”

  He grinned. “Paula reads those when the kids are at school. Those covers can get pretty steamy.” He smiled as he shot me through with his glittering eyes. “She’s always talking about this Olivia Lovejoy woman.”

  Oh, god. “Olivia Lovelace. And yeah, I’ve done a couple of her covers.”

  “Wow. That’s pretty impressive.” He scrubbed at the back of his neck again—that gorgeous, strong neck.

  “Don’t be too impressed. If I don’t get her new cover shot and to her liking in the next couple days I might have to find another job.”

  “You’ll do it,” he said, looking serious and very sure of himself. “And she’ll love it.”

  I blushed… I couldn’t help myself.

  Jake looked at his watch and sighed. “I better get you home if I want to make it back to work on time.”

  So we went out into the scorching Texas heat and he drove me home.

  Chapter 5

  JAKE DROVE A SOMEWHAT beat up late nineties Chevy pickup truck. The paint was dull and scratched, but there wasn’t a speck of rust, and the inside was neat and clean. The truck also purred with a low rumble that attested to Jake’s ability to keep that aged motor in tiptop shape.

  We pulled up to my little two story house.

  “Thanks for lunch and fixing my car.”

  “It’s not fixed yet,” Jake said, smiling. “But I’m pretty sure it will be soon enough.”

  For a few heartbeats I just sat there and enjoyed looking at him. He was the kind of guy you dreamed about ending up with. A good guy. Handsome verging on gorgeous, and good with his hands.

  I think I was blushing when I thought that. I couldn’t believe I’d actually thought that!

  “Don’t look now,” he said covertly, “but I think your neighbor is spying on us.”

  I looked over to the porch of the house next door, and true to form, Bette was sitting on the railing of the porch, peering at us as her hand shielded her eyes from the blistering midday sun, a big as freaking Texas smile on her face.

  I was never going to hear the end of this.

  “Well, on that note, I better let you get back to work.” I hopped out of the truck, shut the door and waved Jake good-bye. As he sped off down my street and took the first turn to head back to Wal-Mart, I turned and shot my neighbor a scathing glance.

  Bette, oblivious to such things as tact and taking a hint, beat me to my front porch and was helpfully holding my screen door open for me.

  “Don’t start,” I warned her. But she ignored me and followed me into the house.

  “So who is he and when do you see him again?”

  “See who again,” I evaded.

  “Shame on you,” Bette chided. “I’m talking about that dark, handsome, truck driving man who delivered you like the morning paper just now.”

  “Oh, him? I haven’t a clue. Complete stranger.”

  Bette poured out my old, cold coffee and started a fresh pot. She was a regular visitor in my little fortress of solitude. Actually, besides models and the occasional workmen, she’d become the only person who regularly came into my home. I liked my privacy.

  But my next door neighbor, Bette Lee Brandt, is not the sort of woman you can just ignore. Not even with deadbolt locks and pepper spray.

  When the coffee was dripping she raised an eyebrow at me. “So did your complete stranger give you any candy, little girl?”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “No, but I bought him lunch.”

  “You bought him lunch. Have I taught you nothing? Always get the guy to pay!”

  “Well, since he drove me home, and is fixing my car—”

  “Oh yeah, I was wondering about that—”

  “I thought it would be only right that I buy him lunch, since he’s probably fixing my car as we speak.”

  “You broke down in front of his garage?” Bette’s eyes brightened even more. A three time divorcee, Bette quickly categorized men by looks, and then their net worth.

  “No, I broke down in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. The kid driving the tow truck said that…” I felt a little flush as his name dropped onto the tip of my tongue. “He said that they could fix it if… Jake was working. And he was.”

  “Jake? Oh, I like that name. What’s his last name?”

  I was tempted to lie and say I didn’t know it, but I knew she’d gotten a good look at him, and had probably memorized his license plate. So either she’d find his identity out via an online reverse directory, or she’d spend the next few hours Facebook s
talking him.

  “Troy,” I said miserably. “Jake Troy. My brother went to high school with him.” And his sister had made it her mission in life to make my existence pure hell.

  “So you know him?”

  I shook my head. I opened my cookie jar for a Keebler fudge striped cookie and took a bite as Bette poured me a mug of coffee. She even added the sugar for me. “No, I don’t remember him for the life of me. But he seems to remember me just fine.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” she said, her hand at her expansive décolletage. Did I mention my neighbor was a red headed look-a-like for a young Dolly Parton? And as far I could tell, all her “assets” were real. “You actually don’t remember a hunk like that? Were you on drugs or religion as a child?”

  I snorted. “Episcopalian, and no, I only tried some reefer after a… after a concert once.” I wasn’t about to confess I’d been to see Hanson in my youth. Not now, not ever. No power on this earth could pry that information from me.

  “Well, don’t go forgetting about him now that you’ve found him. And answer my second question! When do you see him again?”

  I coyly dipped my second cookie in my coffee and made a show of savoring a bite.

  “Don’t even try it!” Bette howled, her sky blue eyes turning hard, her peaches and cream cheeks reddening, and her cleavage surging. “Now spill it, you Wal-Mart hussy!”

  I felt a sudden pang of guilt. If she only knew I’d propositioned two young studs at the retail giant as well.

  I was going to keep that tidbit all to myself.

  “He’s dropping my car off after work.”

  “Here?” Bette squealed.

  “Yes, and then I’m driving him back to his truck.”

  Bette plopped down in one of my kitchen chairs and fanned herself dramatically. “Oh my, door to door service and a hot date afterward.”

  “It’s not a date!” Even though hadn’t I thought the same thing at lunch?

  Bette shot me through with a haughty glare. “Believe me, Miss I-haven’t-been-out-in-three-years,” I cringed at the accuracy of her little jibe. “This is a date.” And then she looked at my t-shirt and snorted.

  “That’s a good opening tactic—especially by Wal-Mart standards. But you’re going to have to clean up better than that for your date.”

  I shook my head. “I think I’d look pretty stupid opening the door to drive him home in a slinky little black dress.”

  Bette pointedly looked me in the eye, then let her eyes dip down to my chest for a five count, and then back up to glower triumphantly.

  “Good point,” I admitted.

  “And no,” she continued patiently. “I don’t mean dress to the nines. He’ll be all oil stained and smelling like exhaust fumes. I’m just saying shower, do something with your hair,” I reached up and touched my ponytail. “Maybe a little makeup. Oh, and find a top that accentuates your boobs without making you look like a Hooter’s waitress.”

  I sighed and let my head fall back. This dating thing was already exhausting. And I hadn’t even started it.

  ***

  On Bette’s counsel, I hit the showers, and of course my phone was ringing the second I stumbled out all pink and warm and soaked. I wrapped a towel around me, and then one hastily about my head. When I answered the phone I was sure that I sounded breathless—maybe I’d be mistaken for a phone sex operator.

  “Uh, hi…” a young man said tentatively. “Is this Hope Jones, the photographer?”

  Oh, it was one of the guys I’d slipped my card to this afternoon. Billy or Drew?

  Probably Drew. Billy seemed too cocksure to ever sound unsmooth when talking to the opposite sex.

  “Yes,” I said, sitting down on my bed and pulling the pen and pad of legal paper I kept on my nightstand to me. “I was hoping you’d call. This is Drew, right?”

  “Uh, yeah. I talked to my girl and she’s fine with it as long as she’s the girl in the pictures with me. I think she’s getting a kick out the prospect of being on a book cover.”

  I smiled. “That’s great. Now I won’t have to dig up someone else. When can you two come for a photo shoot? I’m free all week.” And please say soon—or I’ll be free for weeks to come too.

  “Well, we’re both off tomorrow—”

  “Perfect!” I practically yelped. “I mean, tomorrow would be great. How about ten?”

  “Okay… yeah, sure. Should we dress up or anything?”

  “Dress like you two are going out on a date. And maybe bring a change of clothes that are a little fancier. We’ll see what works best. If necessary, I have a few outfits that might fit you.”

  “Alright, then. Ten it is. See you then book-cover lady.” And Drew hung up.

  Book cover lady?

  I sighed and shook my head. It would serve me right if that nickname stuck.

  I whipped the towel from around my head and got out my diffuser. Usually I didn’t give a rat’s ass how my curly brown tresses looked. My usual look was either a ponytail or a messy bun on the back of my head.

  But Bette had been right. My hair needed to look better on my second excursion with Jake. Not Playboy sexy, but at least not a disheveled rat’s nest.

  So I rubbed some Bed Head into my hair, and diffused my unruly curls until they fell like cascading mahogany waves around my shoulders.

  From there I put on some eyeliner, a hint of a nude eye shadow, and then some lip-gloss that was just a couple shades redder than my own lips.

  I trekked to my closet and opened it to find a kajillion pairs of faded, loose fitting jeans, and another kajillion well used t-shirts. I had to pull the hit parade apart like the red sea to get to my dressier clothes.

  I glowered at the selection afforded me and pulled out a nice silky blue top that had a scooped neckline—but not nearly considered plunging. I found a pair of barely worn midnight blue jeans that I could just tell were going to be an effort to get on.

  I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d worn either of them. Maybe Bette had a better point than she thought. I was alive, but I wasn’t kicking.

  I was tiptoeing through life waiting for someone to hand me a walker.

  A nice bra and matching panties, and I took my first shot at getting my jeans up over my hips.

  Oh boy, I’d gained some weight. I pulled and pulled, and then fell on the bed, sucking it all in and puffing out every molecule of air I had in me.

  Finally, the damn things pulled up over my hips. I took in a deep breath and cheered. Thank freaking god!

  Now to get them buttoned.

  There was another expelling of all the air—and unfortunately oxygen—in my body, and some more sucking in. Not that I’m heavy, or big boned. It’s just that I hadn’t worn these jeans in about three years, and one’s ass is bound to…change.

  Grow?

  Shut up! I shot my inner voice—that Benedict Arnold.

  With a Herculean effort I finally got the button on my jeans to hook, and then I zipped up the zipper.

  I lay there on the bed, breathing hard, in pain, and with a light sheen of sweat all over me.

  Okay, wasn’t this how I was supposed to look and feel after the date—not that this was a date. And not that I was going to sleep with him on the first date!

  Lord, I needed mental health help.

  I lay there kind of breathing, feeling my internal organs shift higher in my abdominal cavity.

  So now I needed to stand up again. Okay, not an impossible task. It only took me a few tries, and then I got purchase on the side of my mattress and hauled myself up to a sitting position… and all the air I’d gotten back into my lungs just whooshed out. My head spun. And I think I was strangling my pancreas or my liver.

  I sat there for a few beats and then made my legs move to stand me upright. They were already starting to tingle.

  I took a couple steps toward my closet and the full-length mirror some sadist had installed there before I ever moved in. Looking into it I realized I should hav
e pulled it off the door long ago.

  I was red faced and sweating, my eyeliner and mascara were starting to run, and I looked like a plump polish sausage, ready to burst its bindings from the waist down.

  Screw it! I pulled the jeans open and took in a greedy, gasping lungful of air. I’d just have to make do with the nicest pair of jeans that actually fit me.

  That turned out to be a pair I’d bought last month. Nothing fancy: stone washed with some silver thread work on the back pockets. But they weren’t stained, and they hugged my curves better than the other “comfortable” jeans in my closet.

  So I slipped on the blue top and took another look in the mirror.

  Much, much better. My color alone was a striking improvement. And the jeans actually made my legs look long and sexy.

  Then I looked down at my bare feet.

  Shiiit…

  I hadn’t worn heels in years either. And truthfully, I never did like them. They had obviously been invented by a sadist. So I rooted through my meager shoe collection and found an almost girly pair of strappy sandals—and they were flats.

  Fantastic.

  Truthfully, I think I would have felt overly desperate if I’d come clacking down my cement walkway in a pair of heels.

  It was not a date.

  It was not a date.

  I was just driving Jake back to the Wal-Mart and his truck. I didn’t even have to go in; I’d already paid with my credit card.

  I sat in my kitchen, breathing in the central air, letting my coffee get cold.

  I sat there trying to think of what I was going to talk to Jake about…on the ten minute drive from here back to the Wal-Mart. Ten minutes, if I drove like a grandma…

  This was crazy.

  I was pathetic.

  I let my head fall into my hands and felt like such a fool.

  I went back to my bedroom and looked hard in the mirror. I didn’t look right with makeup on. I never had. So I got out a moist towel and cleaned the mascara, eyeliner, and eye shadow off.

  I left the lip-gloss on.

  Then I took my hair and pulled it loosely into another ponytail, careful not to frizz out the straightened curls.