That Thing You're Good At (A Starview Novel Book 1) Read online

  “I… um,” he started and felt a loss of words holding the paper bag of goods from the store in front of him, ready to hand it over.

  She looked down at the bag and back up at his face. This was it, he thought. She would either accept the goods or he would have the door slammed in his face and he would have to leave the bag outside, hoping the food would go to use and not being wasted in a rage.

  “Mommy, look. The police brought my goodies!” The little girl elbowed herself around her mom and grabbed the hefty bag from his grip and it landed with a thud on the cement porch. In less than three seconds her little hands had grasped the carton of rainbow popsicles and stuck one in her mouth before her mom could stop her.

  “I sure wouldn’t delay that treat,” he observed and strode down the porch and turned to his squad car fast.

  “You didn’t have to!” He gathered from behind, but he was already at his car and when he turned to open the door and sit down, he saw the two carry the bag inside and just before she closed the door she waved what could have been a thank you.

  He traveled about a mile before stopping at the side of the road sighing at his own stupidity. What man drops off food and leaves without saying a word or a reason for the visit? Apparently, he did whenever he seemed to see her. At the store he would have liked to have said more than he did, but every time her eyes looked at him his words got stuck in his throat. He did a u-turn and pushed hard at the pedal and was after a brief trip back in front of the home. The woman and her daughter had stepped outside, and he opened his car door to walk across the grass covering the yard and halted when she spun to face him.

  “I'm sorry. I’m Jake.” He stretched out his large ladle of a hand and waited for hers in return. It never came. Her hands held the rake tightly, the gust swirled the ash-blond strands of her bangs slightly to the side. Fuck, he didn’t even realize he noticed that kind of stuff. Two meetings with this woman and he’d grown into a poet. Sad.

  “Oh, I know who you are. And again, thanks for the groceries. There actually wasn’t any need, but my daughter Aubrey found it remarkable a police officer brought out food from the store. Didn’t want to tell her the truth.” Her tone was soft. His hand went back into his front pocket and he grinned as he did every time he’d gotten the comment.

  “Yeah, seven seasons in the NHL does that to a person,” he answered with a small snort. “I’m retired now and have had my fair share of money and fame. Not to talk about broken bones and shot out teeth.”

  “No,” she cut him off and when he recognized she wasn’t laughing at his comment his laughter dried up in his throat and died.

  “I remember you from English Lit class in high school,” she said. "We took two years together . . . twice a week.”

  His mind churned like milk into cheese and during a few agonizing minutes he said nothing. He had nothing. She didn’t turn up on his radar. Shit. “You sure of that?” was the mere sentence falling out of his mouth.

  She smirked at him and raked the leaves closest around her feet in small gentle sweeps. “Never Mind Mandy,” she murmured and glanced behind her to make sure the little one was still trying to catch falling leaves coming down from the tree.

  She remained close. The top of her head just came up to his chin, he noticed. “How tall are you, anyhow?”

  She glanced up at him, wrinkles scrunching between her brows. “Random thoughts like that passing through your mind often? Too many tackles?”

  He shrugged and found no answer. She was right. They darted between his ears, often.

  “Five-six. Why?”

  “You’re short. But I like it.”

  He’d left her flabbergasted. He watched her mouth open and close with no noise coming out. She placed the rake handle in her opposite hand and her other in her pocket. Either shielding from the breeze or refraining herself from punching him.

  “I’m not.” She eventually came back. “You’ve just been used to all those models you’ve been escorting around in the big city. Back here, nobody . . .” she leaned into whispering distance, “nobody gives a shit about things that shallow.”

  He’d heard her. Loud and clear. “Now, don’t stereotype just because I had a fortunate career. The big city has women with smart brains and master degrees.”

  “Masters in ménage, maybe,” she heaved and glanced back at her daughter still frolicking among the leaves on the ground.

  “You might be right about that one,” he murmured and tried a grin. She didn’t care for it, and the crease between her brows grew deeper.

  “I assume we might be done . . . or did you come by for a reason?”

  “Um . . . do you have a name?” He probably should have set up their conversation with that, but it was too late.

  “Why don’t you ask Drew. We’re pretty close.”

  He took the rake out of her hand and with little ado raked under the closest tree that by studying its form had held apples this summer and early fall.

  “I’m helping in the community now that I am back,” he began, and she watched him from where he was standing. Arms folded across her chest. Pushing up whatever was inside that jacket forming her into an extremely shapely woman. She clearly was nice to look at, even when she was mad he noticed.

  “Is that so,” she replied, taking a few leaves off the ground handing them over to her daughter who’d found interest in the newbie raking by the apple tree. He didn’t mind help, even from the youngest hands.

  “Being back has brought me into my former gears. At the beginning of my sports career I was told by my dad to always have a backup career ready should the hockey never work out. Went to the police academy in New York starting my career before my NHL gave me a lucrative contract. Loved it then and now I am picking up where I Ieft off,” he murmured and stopped to rub his shoulder, bad as it was.

  “Hurting, hot-shot?” she asked, and he noted how she was examining him, narrowing her eyes.

  “There are reasons a sports career ends before you hit your 40s, the body can’t stand it any longer.”

  “You should try deep tissue massage or acupuncture. It might benefit you.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “Ask Drew, I treated him with some of his muscle tension.”

  “Oh, you do it?”

  “At times.”

  * * *

  HOLLY

  Holly had tried hard, honestly, to overlook any butterflies fluttering about in her stomach the second she’d seen the squad car parking in front of the house and Jake had stepped out. He’d always been a looker. In school, he’d been a ten but now . . . he had matured beyond the athletic high school body and grow into a man, a ruggedly handsome one too. Even with his ever so slight limping, doubtless from one too many tackles on the ice, his dark brown hair disheveled from the wind, dull blue eyes focused like those of a hawk he walked back into her life, literally: from his car, into her front yard, and back into her heart. It was hard to deny; he had looked somewhat nervous talking to her thinking it was their first ever encounter. She’d seen his fists tighten and relax again before placing them into his pockets, shielding them from the chilly fall air. He seemed to need a pause, and although she’d always hoped to forget him, something inside her lightened a long-gone flair and she realized it would be hell to kill that flame again.

  She led him to the car, urging him to leave. She couldn't roll in the attraction and there was no way she would let him know she still wanted him. Gosh, who still got hot and bothered talking with someone you wanted to notice you in school? Well, she did apparently.

  As he opened the door to his squad car he paused and turned to her, all tall and brawny, rubbing his shoulder slightly when the frigid breeze hit it. “I might take you up on that treatment you offered Drew. I’ve never noticed him in any discomfort. He’s either suppressing it or it just isn’t there anymore.”

  “I’m that good,” she answered with assurance and a modest smile twisted his lips.

  “Confident are you
?”

  “On that, yes.”

  He examined her for a moment. “Are you free this Friday afternoon?”

  “I’m a single mom,” she sighed and gestured to her daughter who wrote vivid shapes with a stick in the soft soil by the garden.

  “Yes, I realize that.”

  “Events outside work take planning. That’s all.”

  “Fully got that, that’s why I’m giving you a few days.”She regarded him and nibbled on her lower lip.

  “I can see you’re mulling over this, but I wanted to see if you felt like getting together this Friday afternoon?”

  “For what, precisely?”

  “Find me behind the high school at 5 pm after work and I’ll explain to you.” She wasn’t sure what to make of it. If it was a date there certainly wasn’t anything to do behind the school. Picnic? Homicide?

  “Is that thinking of yours giving you a yes or a negative?”

  “Well, I’m . . . “ she drew out the answer.

  “I’ll take Drew with me if that makes it any less risky.”

  “It’s a yes. On the meeting up part, not on the bringing Drew.”

  “Good,” he grinned and sat down in the car. “I’ll see you Friday. Oh, and dress comfortably.”

  She followed the car as it drove off then turned to Aubrey in the yard. “Want to play with Mrs. Peterson on Friday Aubrey?”

  “Cookies!”

  “Yeah, I bet you guys can bake cookies.”

  Chapter 4

  HOLLY

  “So, are you game for this? You’ve already got your winter gear on.”

  “Sure,” Holly replied with a wide smile. Faking confidence was something she’d become a pro at since having Aubrey. As a mom, you had to be best at everything and if you weren’t, well, fake it until you believed it. Ice skating with a sizzling hot former NHL player going cop would be a tough one to beat.

  Maybe it was the chance to look at him in the rink again. The way his 6’3 height moved easily over the ice and the way his body took swift turns and quick stops. She could observe him all. day. long. She felt her panties heating between her legs and she bet she’d feel wetness should she touch herself. “Jeez, get a grip,” she grumbled and gulped hard.

  “One of these days we might do something I’m good at,” she exhaled with a smile and placed the hockey stick in the back of his trunk. A ride in much better shape than her mom-vehicle.

  “And what is that?” He asked and tossed his coat on top of the hockey equipment and combed his strong hand through his tousled hair.

  She shot him a grin while taking a too large bite of a granola bar and coughed before she replied. Jake went still, an easy grin spreading on his mouth, his eyes dilating to black.

  “Now you’re telling me,” he murmured roughly and slowly closed the trunk before she gained enough air back into her lungs and that damn piece of granola bar unstuck from her windpipe to straighten out the mistake. But the only word that came out of her mouth as she watched him get seated behind the wheel and roll down the window, flashing a mischievous smile was a wheezing, “No!”

  Two hours later, next to her cat Chubby sharing the spot on her living room couch, she submerged her face into one of the décor cushions.

  “He thinks my ‘good thing’ is sex! Sex, Chubby, I know absolutely nothing about sex. Nothing!” She stared at the phone on the table by her feet and considered calling him to point out how mistaken he was, but shook her head. That would be even more ludicrous. “Ohmigod. This is sooo bad,” she groaned and tossed her head back against the couch and covered her burning face with her hands.

  She could see the headlines flashing before her eyes. “Tonight on ESPN. Former NHL star, Jake Bentley, desperately waiting for insecure mom to prove her worth in the sack only to call to inform it was all a lie. Stay tuned for more hotness!”

  She picked up the phone and dialed quickly.

  “Hello? It’s after 9 mind you,” a voice hissed on the other end.

  “Reena, Jake assumes I want to have sex with him and that I’m good at it!”

  “What?!”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Hold on a freaking second here . . . um, maybe you should take it from the beginning because I have no idea how that could even play out.”

  “Well, we were playing hockey this afternoon, you know, Jake was just teaching me how to do a slapshot in the ice rink behind the high school—“

  “As we all do . . .”

  “Yeah, well, Reena, I . . .”

  “How did a slapshot turn into you suggesting you craved hot sex with him?”

  “I, well, informed him we could do something I was good at, and well, I wasn’t able to complete the sentence before I choked on my snack. He grinned, drove off, and yada yada . . . ”

  “Sure, the yada yada sounds promising. How many men have you slept with, Holly?”

  “Um, yeah, that’s the possible dilemma here ‘cause it might, you know, just be—“

  “Aubrey’s dad, correct?”

  “That might be true, yes.”

  “Are you good in the sack, Holly?”

  “Um, Aubrey wasn’t planned, but I can wing—“

  “No can do, sister. Can't wing sex with someone who's already a master. Perhaps never mention that, especially to a hot guy with a history of having women beg at his feet. If you know what I mean.”

  “Oh God, he’s not a sex mate for me! He once made a photo shoot for Playboy, with nude bunnies! I’m like a grandma with extra chunk hanging around my waist compared to them. Oh, and a baby. Not to overlook that.”

  “Hm, maybe work on fewer insults on your own behalf and more on those Kegels. “

  “Reena!”

  “Just saying!”

  “Well, I’m not going to Kegel myself into shape for him. He has the entire world to sleep with, no need to do me.”

  “Well, you told him something he seemed to like, maybe follow through. How long was it since you . . . were in the sack?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “And that’s your answer, right there my friend. You have two options.”

  “Which are?”

  “You either tell him you misspoke, or . . . “

  “Or what?!”

  “You start mastering the sack.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Date, sleep with someone, see if your Kegeling can master the master.”

  The phone charged on the nightstand and Holly sank down into the bed, pulling the sheets up and over her head.

  “I can’t tell him the truth,” she mumbled and groaned as the phone chimed. She grabbed it and squinted in the dark.

  “Speed dating this weekend. I just signed you up. Kegel practice, prove yourself. Love, Reena.”

  ***

  JAKE

  He’d forgotten his damn hat being preoccupied with watching Holly’s curvy wonderland of a body swaying on the ice. As most parents, whatever was left behind at the rink was lucky to end up in the city’s lost and found. But the risk was also you lost it for good, and he couldn’t let his favorite baseball hat go down the drain. Autographed and cherished and all. Maybe he should call the city department and tell them what happened hoping they had it? Or, maybe call Holly and see if she picked it up?

  He took up his phone and after searching through his contacts he found her name. It was one of the benefits of being a cop, you could find anyone’s number. It sure helped when a hat got lost if you craved to hear someone's sultry voice on the line. If just her breath.

  “Good morning, Holly. Thanks for kicking my ass in the rink. I had a great time. Any chance you picked up a red baseball cap after I left? Jake.” Send.

  Nothing happened. Maybe she was busy with her daughter, he thought and strolled the length of the alley kitchen before turning to refresh his coffee cup, phone still in hand. He placed in on the counter while he poured himself a new cup of hot brew and grew impatient. He inhaled and shook his head at his immature emotions. He took a sip
and placed the cup next to the phone. “A fuck it,” he grumbled and opened up the phone for another text and told himself, “I am fucking immature.”

  “You looked good on the ice. Invitation to play again? My way or yours . . .” Send.

  Chapter 5

  HOLLY

  Driving over to Jake’s she eyed the hat on the passenger seat and for some reason it caused her to feel sizzling hot. She’d like to be something Jake would cover his body with; a hat would be as good as anything. So, here she was driving the hat all the way over to his house, the long way, struggling to settle her nerves.

  She wandered up the pathway to his front porch, steeped in the afternoon sunlight, admiring his green thumb while hers usually killed plants desperate for life. She rang the doorbell and while waiting her heartbeat matched Led Zeppelin’s The Immigrant Song in her ears. And then he was there, one hand on the doorframe the other on the handle looking rather surprised at her visit. His loose Nike shorts hung disturbingly low on his hips, no shirt, she noticed now, all his hard lean muscles in her line of sight. And oh what a sight it was. He shifted away from the open door and leaned on the frame, crossing his arms across his chest. Only emphasizing the size of his biceps. She gulped and looked her full if there was ever such a thing. Her eyes traveled back up to his face, and she noticed—caught in the act of ogling. He grinned.

  “May I help you?”

  “Me?” she murmured and realized her brain had shortcutted and she ran on stupidity, mouth open.

  “Well . . .” he drawled. “You’re the one ringing the doorbell, love.”

  “Oh, yeah. I knew that,” she sputtered and took a deep breath. “Here’s your cap. You left it behind at the rink as you mentioned.” She passed it over and attempted to flee. “Didn’t have time to reply to your text. Sorry about the unexpected visit. You’re obviously busy,” she knew she babbled and her eyes did an once-over of his body, again, when she heard his voice rumble behind her.

  “So, Holly . . . when are we going to do that thing you’re good at?”

  She picked up the pace down the pathway and didn’t dare to glance back in case he would stop her and pull her back inside for all the wonderful things her mind was toying with. She opened her car door, using it as leverage between herself and him remaining at his front door, leaning against the doorframe, baseball cap swinging in his large hand. God, his hands.