Stef Ann Holm by Lucy Back (books to read in your 30s TXT) 📗

Those were his last conscious thoughts as something slammed him—hard—in the base of his skull, dropping him to his knees. And then the world went black.

Seven

Jacquie stubbed out her cigarette and ordered another gin and tonic. Drew wasn’t here and she hated drinking alone.

Indigo’s was dimly illuminated by a back light above the glass shelves containing bottles of alcohol. Oil candles on the mahogany bar flickered.

She was all dressed up for her birthday, but the sexy picture she made was ruined by a frown on her carefully lined lips.

Drew wasn’t coming.

Anger boiled within Jacquie. Every curse known to man welled inside her, potent and strong, begging to be released. Her thoughts were jagged and painful. Hurt and disappointment clashed within her heart, and she couldn’t begin to sort out which one she felt the most.

When she gazed at her reflection in the backbar’s mirror, she saw a woman who looked older, stressed out. Tired.

How dare he stand her up on her fortieth birthday?

He’d called from St. Joseph’s Hospital’s emergency room. One of the boys he coached had taken a skull ball—or that’s what Drew had called it. The idiot kid had been hit on the head by a baseball, knocked out cold. And now Drew had to stay there and make sure he came around. He’d said he’d have to miss dinner, but he’d call her when he was leaving the hospital.

Damn him!

Damn him and baseball and kids.

On a day like this, she was glad she was unable to have kids of her own. She’d had a hysterectomy at age thirty-two, and at the time it had devastated her. Over the years, she’d talked to a therapist about it and was pretty much reconciled that it was for the best. She really didn’t have a good mothering instinct, although there had been a boyfriend she’d had at thirty-four who made her regret being unable to conceive a child. After six months, he’d broken up with her based on the fact she was “broken” in that department.

With Drew, having kids was never an issue. He didn’t want any more. He had a daughter he was trying to establish a relationship with, but frankly, if Jacquie were Mackenzie, she wouldn’t have anything to do with Drew, either.

When it suited her, Jacquie did have a moral thread in her composition, and knocking up a woman, then denying paternity, was a crappy thing for a man to do. And Drew had done it.

Jacquie had always looked the other way. She preferred to see Drew the way she wanted, not how he was.

She drank her gin and tonic, sulked and gazed about the room. Couples made up most of the dining crowd, a sore reminder that she was by herself. If it hadn’t been her birthday, she wouldn’t be so upset. She still would be clenching her teeth, but not with such a bad taste in her mouth.

My God. A woman didn’t turn forty every day. And Jacquie was having a hard enough time with it. She’d picked up the phone today and called a plastic surgeon’s office for a boob job consult, but then promptly hung up without making the appointment. This getting older thing sucked. She felt as if she was looking tired. Like maybe she needed a mini-everything. Face, chin, neck—lift it all up.

Running her freshly lacquered fingernails down the column of her throat, she thought the skin still felt smooth. But for how much longer? She knew smoking was killing her, but she had to have one vice. She lived a pressure-filled life, thrived on it, and nicotine was like high octane in her blood. It just kept her going and going, as if she were that energizer bunny.

Fingering a filtered cigarette from her soft pack, Jacquie stuck it between her lips. She was reaching for her lighter when a butane flame flickered to life in front of her face.

She lifted her chin and caught a view of her reflection and the tall man standing behind her. His extended hand held a lighter, its orange-blue flame wavering as she breathed, slowly in, slowly out.

Jacquie leaned forward, brought the tip of her cigarette to the offered light. “Thanks.”

He didn’t say anything in return.

She blinked a moment, brought him into focus. He wore a red-plaid flannel shirt and, without her turning around to check, what appeared to be snug-fit Wranglers. His short hair was barber-buzzed, sandy blond and clipped tightly against the sides of his head. He had a ruggedly square jaw, wide mouth. Green eyes, as far as she could tell in the bad lighting.

“I’ve seen you,” he said, his voice a deep baritone.

She swiveled on the bar stool, looked directly into his eyes. She had been right. Green, a very deep shade. “Really?” she remarked blandly. He wasn’t her type, and this sort of thing happened. Men were drawn to her, especially when she had on heels and showed off her legs.

“At that house up on Shore Lodge in Timberline.”

“The Kent Estate.”

“Yeah. I was there doing the electrical.”

So, he was a construction worker. Any interest she might have had was no longer piqued.

“Hmm,” she responded noncommittally.

“Are you here alone?”

“Yes, um, no. Well…” She momentarily lost her verve. “Yes, I’m alone.”

It was pretty obvious, as no one else had joined her as she sipped her gin and tonic at the bar. She’d almost finished her second one and, on an empty stomach, they were making her light-headed, messing with her perception.

It would serve Drew right if she left with another man. He’d stood her up. And on her fricking fortieth birthday.

She didn’t want to be alone.

When she’d started dating Drew, she’d alienated herself from the handful of girlfriends she had, choosing to spend time with her boyfriend instead. That was a big mistake women often made when entering into relationships. They threw all their energies into a man, then lost sight of what was around them.

For Jacquie, work as a Realtor was number one—she flourished on the