Authors: Robin Kaye
Jessie took a much-needed sip of her beer, trying to figure out how Karma could almost marry a cousin. Wasn’t that illegal? Then again, maybe they were second cousins, or maybe she misheard. Since Karma was now the only friend Jessie had in Boise, she really didn’t want to know if Karma was weird. Right now, she needed a friend. “Where was I?”
“The condition.”
“Oh, yeah. Andrew dared me to write the book I’ve talked about since we were students at Columbia.” She should have known Andrew wouldn’t just be a nice guy and give her time to lick her wounds in private. “It’s so unfair because he knows I can’t resist a dare. So here I am. I just applied for a job at Starbucks, and I’m going to write a novel.”
“What kind of novel?”
Jessie looked to make sure no one was within earshot. “You promise not to tell anyone?”
“What’s it matter? I’m the only person in Boise you know.”
“That’s not true. There’s my stalker.”
Karma’s eyes went wide. “Man, you work fast. You’ve been here less than a week, and you already have a stalker?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been wondering about it for the past few days. Every morning the same guy runs with me—uninvited, he shows up at Starbucks without fail, and twice now, I’ve run into him at the grocery store. The last time, I spotted him first and ducked down the feminine hygiene aisle just to avoid him. He turns up everywhere I go. It’s weird.”
Karma bent over the sink and washed out the beer mugs and glasses. “What’s he look like? Is he a creeper?”
“No. He’s actually gorgeous. It’s as if the sun is always shining on him, you know? Everyone I meet thinks he’s God’s gift to the female population. When he asked me out and I turned him down, one of the baristas at Starbucks questioned both my sexuality and my vision. It’s as if wherever he goes he has a fan club. I know Boise’s a lot smaller than New York, but running into him three times a day is ridiculous.” She sipped her beer and tossed a pretzel into her mouth. “If he’s not a stalker, the man missed his calling.”
Karma shrugged and wiped down the first in a long line of liquor bottles. “I don’t know how it is in New York, but we don’t get many stalkers who are highly thought of here in Boise. Maybe the two of you just have a lot in common. You could share a circadian rhythm or something. Stranger things have happened.” She plucked up another bottle and continued wiping. “Still, three times in one day is a bit of a stretch even for Boise. But hey, look at the bright side. A hot stalker is better than an ugly one. And if you’re not interested in him, you know you can introduce him to your BFF.”
“Why would I introduce him to Andrew? Andrew’s not gay, and I can assure you this guy Fisher isn’t either. The man’s got more testosterone than the entire Giants’ defensive line put together. He could bottle it and have enough to supply the eastern seaboard.”
Karma stopped wiping down the bottle of Macallan 18 and stared at Jessie. “Your stalker’s name is Fisher?”
“That’s right.” She tipped her beer mug up, foam clinging to her upper lip. “Fisher. My hot stalker.”
“You’re kidding.” Karma slipped on her poker face—it almost killed her, but she didn’t want Jessie to know that her stalker could very well be Karma’s big brother—not that Fisher was a stalker or anything. He just had very precise habits, and so, it seemed, did Jessie. This was just too funny, not to mention perfect. “What’s he look like?”
Was it horrible that Karma wanted to make her big brother squirm a little? Uh-huh, probably. What could she say? She was way more naughty than nice, and so far, it had worked for her. She wasn’t about to change her tactics now, especially since she was having so much fun. How else could a girl with three older brothers survive if not by blackmail?
Jessie leaned forward. “He has the most amazing curly, white-blond hair, and the prettiest green eyes I’ve ever seen on a man.”
Bingo. Karma’s mind spun with all the ways she could use this information to her advantage—the possibilities were endless. Outside she played the perfect bartender, while inside she was doing the Snoopy “Happy Dance.” Her brother was the only blond man named Fisher Karma knew in Boise, and her position at Hannah’s insured she knew almost every single man over the age of twenty-one in Ada County. She was positive Jessie’s stalker was none other than her big brother, Dr. Fisher Kincaid. And, from the dreamy look on Jessie’s face, Karma could almost guarantee that Jessie and Fisher had enough chemistry to fuel the Idaho National Lab’s Advanced Test Reactor. The girl couldn’t describe her best friend, but she was having absolutely no problem describing Fisher, who she’d only seen a few times.
Jessie stared into Karma’s eyes, and for a second Karma wondered if Jessie, smart girl that she was, had put two and two together. Looks-wise, Karma was the female version of Fisher, well, except her blonde was more dishwater than platinum. Leave it to the man to get the killer platinum blond hair. Sometimes life was just too unfair, although with this information, Karma could definitely tip the scales in her favor.
Jessie shook her head as if she was silently talking herself out of something. “Fisher’s eyes are almost the same color as yours, but his have a circle of blue around the pupil. He’s a few inches taller than me, I’d say about six two or six three, dresses like a preppy surfer, and is built like David Beckham. He has washboard abs and a lean, flat, well-muscled chest, and an ass worthy of a limerick.”
Karma certainly didn’t want to talk about Fisher’s ass. She also saw no resemblance between Beckham and Fisher. Not that she compared their bodies or anything—that would have an exceptionally high
ick
factor. She made it a point never to check out her brothers or cousin. Yuck. Beckham was a god among men. Even though Fisher never had a shortage of women falling all over him, she couldn’t believe he and Beckham were even in the same league. It was clear that Jessie had either fallen under Fisher’s spell, or she was certifiable. “I love Beckham. That man can park his cleats under my bed any day.”
“Tell me about it.” Jessie fanned her face. “Beckham’s even hotter in person than in the pictures.”
Karma jumped up to sit on the cooler. “You know him?”
Jessie shook her head. “I don’t know him, know him, but I’ve interviewed him a few times. One time he was in the locker room and only wore a towel. That man’s abs are a thing of beauty.”
“Talk about a job with perks. You get to interview half-naked professional athletes.” She poured Jessie another beer and slid it over. “I’ll clear your tab if you can produce pictures of Beckham in a towel or less.”
“No problem.” Jessie tugged an iPhone out of her pocket and scrolled through pictures. “Here’s one with me and Beckham without his shirt on. His ink is amazing.”
Karma ripped the phone from Jessie’s grasp. “The hell with his ink, look at that body. Holy moly, batgirl! Wow, you got to touch my dream man. Who wouldn’t want to be you? So this Fisher dude has as a body like Beckham, and you shot him down? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I’m not here to date; I’m here to write. Besides, that guy Fisher flirted with anyone missing a Y chromosome. Plus, he didn’t strike me as the strongest brew in the coffeehouse, if you know what I mean. When I wouldn’t go out with him, he just smiled. He’s either thick or mentally challenged.”
Karma had just taken a sip of club soda—thank God she swallowed, or it would have shot straight up her nose. She should be writing this stuff down. After all, her job as a younger sister was to stick pins in Fisher’s overinflated ego, not to pump it up. “A mentally challenged stalker. How… interesting. Now back to your story. If you’re here to write a book, why is it such a big secret?”
“It’s not a secret. It’s just embarrassing. I’m a trained journalist with a degree from the best journalism school in the country. Now, if I’m lucky enough to get the job I just applied for, I’ll be pouring coffee and writing a trashy romance.”
“You’re a romance writer? I love romance, and I’ve been reading it for years. Hell, I even hooked my cousin Ben’s wife, Gina, and Toni, my new sister-in-law, on romance after swearing them to secrecy.” She leaned closer. “If one word of my addiction got to my brothers or cousin, my hard-won position as an almost equal in their eyes would disappear faster than a vegetarian at the Rocky Mountain Oyster Feed.”
Jessie took a swig of her beer. “I’d always planned to write literary fiction, but after looking at my severance package and my bank balance, if I have any hope of surviving, I’m going to have to get published pretty darn quick. I can’t afford to spend a year writing a masterpiece. I’ll spend six weeks writing a romance and turn around and sell it before my bank account hits the danger zone.”
“You think you can write a book in six weeks and sell it? Who do you think you are? Nora Roberts?”
Jessie waved Karma’s objections away. “Everyone knows that the easiest way for a debut author to break into publishing is to write a trashy romance. I’m a successful journalist. I should be able to do it with one hand tied behind my back.”
“Jessie, when was the last time you read a romance?”
“Me?” She looked as if Karma just asked her what her favorite sexual position was. “Never.”
“Have you done any research? I don’t think publishing a book, even a romance, is that easy. There’s a romance writer in Boise who comes in here every now and again. She once told me it takes the average romance writer seven books and ten years before getting published. And that’s the average. For a lot of writers, it takes even longer.”
Jessie drank the rest of her beer, reached into the bag she carried, and slid a romance face down across the bar, doing her best to hide the cover. “I’m doing research. I bought a dozen best-selling romances, and I’m going to read them even if it kills me. Honestly Karma, there’s nothing like flashing a book with a bare-chested man on the cover to make a woman’s perceived IQ drop a dozen points.”
Karma just smiled.
Jessie tossed down a handful of bills. “I guess I’ll go home and work on research. Say, do you know of any tennis courts with walls for practice?”
Karma took the bills and stuffed them back in Jessie’s hand. “You showed me a picture of Beckham without a shirt, so we’re square. I play tennis at Ann Morrison Park. How ’bout we meet to hit some balls tomorrow morning. Say about ten? That way we can discuss your research, and you can tell me what you think of this book.” Karma flipped over the book and sighed when she caught a glimpse of the cover model. “It’s on my TBR pile.”
“What the heck is a TBR pile?”
Karma shook her head. “To Be Read pile. You might want to pick up a copy of
RT
Book
Reviews
too. It will give you a good picture of the romance core demographic as well as all the different subgenres.”
“Tennis tomorrow for sure.” Jessie pulled a card out of her wallet. “Here’s my number if you need to cancel.”
Karma wrote her cell number on a bar napkin. “Here’s mine. I’ll see you at ten.”
Jessie shouldered her bag. “I’m hoping that all the exercise will counteract the depressing state of my life.”
Oh yeah, Jessie was in for a shock. Reading a good romance will take her down a few pegs, not that Karma could really hold her attitude against her. Ten years ago Karma wouldn’t have been caught dead reading a romance in public, and now the only thing keeping her from coming out of the romance closet was the fear of her brothers’ and cousin’s retribution. She couldn’t afford to be thought of as a girl—not when she’d almost reached equality. “I’m looking forward to hearing all about it tomorrow.”
“Right. The last thing I want to do is beef up on how to write a trashy, formulaic romance. Crap. I’m a journalist, not a writer of sex-infused purple prose.”
Jessie crawled out of bed, tore through a PowerBar, and chugged a glass of juice before going on her morning run. She considered skipping it. She was meeting Karma later for tennis, but since she didn’t know if Karma was any good, she decided to get her run in anyway. She got cranky if she didn’t get enough exercise. Besides, if she skipped it, she might not see Fisher, who had turned up in her dream last night.
It wasn’t as if she’d meant to dream about him, but there was no mistaking the eyes she stared into while he did amazing things to her body. Too bad she woke up before the grand finale. Between reading that hot romance last night and dreaming about Fisher that morning, she’d woken up feeling… edgy. Edgy was not good.
Maybe it was time to start dating after all. Not that she’d date a guy like Fisher, but heck, there must be a nice, single guy in Boise.
She grabbed her iPod, shoved it into her armband before stuffing her key into the pocket of her running shorts, and slammed out of the house. After a few warm-up stretches, she was off. She took it slow for the first few blocks and then quickened her pace as she hit Camel’s Back Park. It was nothing like Central Park with lush trees, lawns, and blacktop running paths. Camel’s Back Park looked like the inside of a salad bowl. The bottom was green grass, and the sides looked as if they’d strip-mined a foothill at a forty-five-degree angle. It was a striking contrast to what she was used to. At first, the barrenness shocked her, but now, she noticed all the subtle colors—a palette dotted with earth tones from dark ocher, to sepia, to taupe, softened by sagebrush and punctuated by the backdrop of a cerulean sky. It amazed her that at seven in the morning the moon hung like an orb over the foothills that rose above her in the bright morning light. It was almost surreal.
She passed the tennis courts and took the path toward Hull’s Pond. She hadn’t gone a hundred yards before she heard the thud, thud, thud of running shoes against the hard-packed earthen trail beside her. She checked her watch. Fisher was punctual, if nothing else. Okay, punctual and hot. Today, instead of following her, he was running with her. Pacing her.
***
Fisher had been running late and hadn’t had time for a real warm-up before Jessica ran by at full throttle. He poured on the speed, wishing he’d grabbed a water before leaving the house. “What’cha listening to?”
“The Exit, ‘Don’t Push.’”
He hoped that was the name of a band and a song—not that he knew which was which. He’d never heard of either. Fisher matched her pace, but couldn’t say anything intelligent about the music. That was what happened when you’d had your head buried in academia for ten years. College, med school, residency, and then his fellowship took over his life. When he finally got home, he was all about studying for his boards and buying into a partnership. There was no time for a relationship more demanding than a roll in the hay. Even then, sometimes that was too much, which might explain why none of his relationships got past the hot sex stage. If it hadn’t been for Hunter and the rest of his family, Fisher would have had no contact with anyone outside the medical community.
“This is my hard-run playlist. It keeps me moving.”
“I gathered that.” Fisher’s calves burned as he ran beside her into the foothills below the Boise Front, the chain of mountains just north of Boise. “You do realize we’re gaining elevation, don’t you?” Unfortunately, the steepness of the trail hadn’t slowed her down any.
“Yeah. That’s apparent. They don’t call it Camel’s Back Park for nothing. You just gotta get over the humps.”
They passed Hull’s Pond, which shone green in the morning light. It looked as if God had taken a huge spoonful of earth out of the foothill, leaving the clear pond in its place. Jessica didn’t bother slowing down to admire the view. She just turned off the trail and kept climbing onto Owl’s Roost.
Fisher ran beside her as the North End took shape below them. Boise spread out, the greenbelt became clear—a lush green stripe of grass and deciduous trees running on both sides of the Boise River against a brown background. The Capital Dome and the few skyscrapers that made up the downtown shone in sharp relief in the September sunlight, against the endless blue sky cut only by a few jet trails.
“I run hard for four songs, I take it down a step for another four, then I’m back to running hard before I slow it down, and then I stretch. It’s a great workout.”
He didn’t bother asking which songs, since his entire repertoire of music predated 1995.
They crossed Mile High Road and continued to climb past a few incredible McMansions with amazing views of the city. “What were you listening to the first time I followed you?”
“Probably my girl power playlist. You know, Gwen Stefani, Meredith Brooks, Pink, Sheryl Crow, Nelly Furtado, and your girlfriend’s favorite, Lady Gaga.”
Yes, it was time to update the music collection. Fisher had a hard time keeping up with her and talking, yet he couldn’t help but laugh. “Laura’s not my girlfriend. I only go out with adults. I’m flattered, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Is that why you won’t go out with me?”
Jessica checked her watch. “No. I told you. I’m not interested. It’s nothing personal.”
“Sure. Like I believe that.” Fisher didn’t know why it mattered so much, but he was happy to see he might be wearing her down. Her mention of Laura meant she was at least curious, didn’t it? Maybe he was suffering delusions due to lack of oxygen to the brain. He took a deep breath and did his best not to huff. “How can disinterest be impersonal?”
She actually turned her head and looked him in the eye. “I’m here to work.”
Fisher wished she’d slow down so they could talk. “I’m not keeping you from working. What do you do, anyway?”
“I’m a writer.” She turned up the volume on her iPod, tapped her watch, and then poured on the speed.
Shit. That was a great conversation killer. He figured four more kick-ass songs added up to at least twelve minutes of sprinting. Thank God they were running on a slightly downhill slope. Still, the woman was a machine. Either that or she really didn’t want to talk. She didn’t have to worry about it now, or in the near future. He couldn’t have talked if his life depended on it. Dry air burned his lungs. His arms felt like lead, and his leg muscles were screaming. If she ran this way every day, it was no wonder she had a world-class ass. He just prayed he’d survive the playlist. If it didn’t kill him, the endorphins alone should get him out of his funk. He swallowed back a groan and did his best to keep up with her.
After running for what seemed like miles, he followed Jessica past more houses that were way above his pay grade, but not for long though. He banked a lot of his salary, even after paying his partnership buy-in. The mortgage for his North End cottage was ridiculously low, and he always bought his toys used, so they were paid off. Everything he’d worked his whole life for was coming together. He was financially stable, he loved his work, he had a great family, but something nagged at him like an annoying gnat. No matter how many times he swatted, it wouldn’t go away.
They turned onto another trail. He hadn’t been out this far since he wrecked his dirt bike—the memory was still painful. There was nothing like digging rocks out of your ass for a week, but even worse was the ribbing he’d taken from his brothers. It had been a favorite topic for at least six months. Hell, they’d even given him a set of training wheels for Christmas, complete with a deck of cards for the spokes. At least they hadn’t given him a meep, meep horn or a bell—an oversight on their part. Karma had made up for it though when she put a set of pink and purple handlebar streamers in his stocking. He’d never live it down.
East Ridgeline Drive sprang up out of nowhere—like the beginning of a Hot Wheels track missing the next piece. He was thankful for the drop in elevation as they headed toward the valley. Jessica hadn’t slowed her pace, but at least they weren’t climbing. Maybe he would finish the run without collapsing at her feet and blowing chunks after all.
It seemed an eternity before she backed off on the speed. He’d be lucky if he could walk in an hour. It was going to be a long and painful day. Good thing he didn’t see patients until one o’clock. It would take a few hours in his hot tub to get his muscles to function.
Jessica passed the pond and headed toward the park, stopping at the top of Camel’s Back Hill. It was steep as hell—at least a forty-five-degree drop. He should know. He’d been sledding on it every time they got more than a few inches of snow since he was old enough to climb the damn thing with a saucer in hand. For a second, he thought she was going to run down it. Not a bright move. He took her arm. “You don’t want to run down there.” He could barely get the words out, because he was huffing like a four-pack-a-day smoker. “Come down this way.”
Fisher led her down the switch back, which took them to the North End on Bella Street. Back on level ground, she ran the rest of the way at a slow jog, cooling off, and then stopped at a house with a picket fence. She opened the gate and waited. It wasn’t quite the invitation he’d hoped for, but she didn’t close the gate on him, so he followed her into the well-kept yard.
She pulled out her earbuds, and he heard Usher’s voice singing “Nice and Slow.” The song made him think of sweaty sex and satin sheets. Damn the woman was intriguing. Unfortunately, the only muscle in his body showing interest in a workout wasn’t going to see any action.
“Do you want a water?”
Fisher wiped the sweat from his face onto the hem of his T-shirt. “Right now, I’d drink sand.”
She dug into a hidden pocket in her shorts, pulled out a key, and motioned for him to follow. “I’ll get a few waters, but then I need to stretch. You can come in if you like, but I stretch on the porch.”
“I’ll wait here since you’re coming back out.” He wanted to collapse on the porch swing hanging from the rafters—just not in front of her.
“Okay, I’ll only be a minute.”
“Take your time.” He’d need more than a minute just to keep from embarrassing himself.
***
Jessie let the screen door slam behind her. It was such a nice day; she had all the windows open. Indian Summer had hit Boise with a vengeance, and she was going to enjoy the heck out of it. As she passed the open window, she heard Fisher groan as if in pain. She looked out to find him bending over with his hands braced above his knees, looking as if he was about to puke.
She was surprised he’d been able to keep up with her, and frankly, she was surprised she’d been able to run like she had today. She was way too competitive for her own good, pushing herself harder than she had even at the Marine-inspired boot camp she’d gone to for an article she’d written.
Jessie grabbed a few ice-cold waters and headed back to the porch. By the time she’d gotten out there, she was happy to see that Fisher had straightened up and was stretching his calf muscles on the bottom step.
She jumped off the porch to hand him his water. Fire shot from her knee to her hip. “Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck,” she belted out the all-time worst of her curses. Her left hamstring seized—not cramped. She’d had cramps before. The damn thing seized.
“Jessica, you okay?”
“Fuckity, fuckity, fuck.” She saw spots for the second time in her life. She was seeing spots, and surfer dude had to be the only living witness. She hopped on her right foot as pain shot from her ass all the way down to her foot.
Fisher dropped his water and grabbed her instead.
This was just great—not to mention incredibly embarrassing.
“Lie down.”
“What?”
“It’s your hamstring, right?”
“Well, duh.”
“Lie down. You need to stretch it out.” The man tackled her, and the next thing she knew, she was flat on her back in the grass with her leg up, and her ankle resting in his right hand as he bent over her, his bright green eyes staring into hers.
Talk about déjà vu. It was a freakin’ replay of her dream. She was still writhing beneath him, only the take-me-now tingles had been replaced with searing pain.
“Breathe.” Strong hands massaged her calf, moving higher—all the way to her ass and back again. She would have kicked him if she was able to move her leg and wasn’t about to scream in agony. He stretched it a little farther with each pass of his hands from calf to ass, and it was all she could do to keep from crying. “Better?”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
Of course, he was right, but she’d die before she admitted it. If anyone should be on the ground writhing in pain, it should be him. Okay, so she was pouting, it wasn’t her finest hour. “What are you, an expert or something?”
“On women’s legs?” He shot her a breathtaking smile that was a mixture of smug and sexy, making her wonder if he was enjoying her embarrassment or picturing her naked, maybe both. “You bet.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Yeah, Fisher’s smile was definitely
smexy
. She’d just coined a new word—one of her favorite things, but even that didn’t make her feel any better—a true testament to her pain level.
“What you need is a banana, Gatorade, and a hot tub—not necessarily in that order. Do you have any of the above?”
“What do you think?” She sucked in a breath when his fingers brushed against her inner thigh way too close to home plate, not that it seemed to register on his face—she was sure hers was changing colors, first to pale and then to bright red. “You’re the one who took an inventory of my shopping cart a few days ago.”
“Where are your car keys?”
“In my purse, why?”
“Because we’re going to my house. I live a few blocks away, and I don’t feel like carrying you.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need to go to your house for a banana, a hot tub, or anything else.”
Fisher leaned over her, his face just above hers, and his hands still kneading her left ass cheek. God, he had amazing fingers. Too bad she couldn’t enjoy them. “If we don’t treat this cramp, you’ll damage the muscle, and then where will you be?”
He sure sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. Maybe it was personal experience. In any case, the way he spoke with such supreme confidence was unnerving, yet effective. “Okay, my keys are in my purse on the hall table.”