Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)(57)

Go on. You got what you had coming. Get out.

Going to find her was a bad idea. Bad. Hell, watching her leave with his temper at full volume had been murder, but a calm, collected Catch-you-on-the-flip-side would be so much worse. If he could just see her, though—

You should Google me sometime.

“Laptop. Laptop,” Jasper muttered, turning in a circle, trying to remember where he’d stowed the damn piece of technology. He used a paper and pen for record keeping. Always had. His home computer seldom got a workout, too, but the office one had barely been used since he’d taken it out of the box. Please let it be charged.

Jasper pushed aside a stack of paper on the small file cabinet, finding the flat, silver laptop smirking up at him, still attached to the charging wire.

“Save it. I’m not in the mood.” He snatched up the device, opening it on his desk and powering it on. Energy fizzled in his fingertips, knowing he might see Rita soon. Even a digital version of her would be welcome. Anything to replace the shock of being kicked out of his office, her mouth still wet from his kiss. Please. I’m dying.

He had Google open in seconds, Rita’s name typed in lickety-split. First thing to pop up was a video titled “Rita Clarkson Knife Attack” and ho-lee damn, a lot of people had watched the sucker. His eyebrows lifted as he read the description, mainly because a person usually mentioned when he or she had been on television, but apparently Rita had decided to leave out that vital information, although the title gave him a notion as to why. The idea of so many people putting eyes on Rita made the back of Jasper’s neck itch, so his finger hovered over the touch pad a mere breath before punching play on the hit-heavy video brought up by the search engine.

He melted back in his chair when Rita appeared on the screen in a white chef jacket, staring down at an oven with tentative hope in her eyes, while someone screamed in the background—Two minutes!—people rushing past in the background, complete chaos all around. A boom mic dipped into the frame, just a touch, but close enough to Rita’s face to startle her out of the trance she seemed to be stuck in.

Jasper tugged the laptop closer, as if he could climb inside and calm Rita down. Quiet, stretching-on-the-rug-during-a-rainstorm Rita, caught up in tsunami. What had she been thinking, signing on for this torture? Cooking was a skill Rita had been blessed with, whether she recognized it or not. But this? It was designed to be the furthest thing from the woman he knew. She needed to breathe, and they weren’t letting her. She had no room to think or—

One minute! someone shrieked.

Jasper leaned forward in the chair. Rita’s hands were shaking as she opened the oven and took out—a soufflé. A perfect one. Any layman would be able to see that. Had she won this round of the contest? Lord, she was so pretty, hair pulled back, lips lifting in a small display of pleasure, maybe even surprise—

Someone in a white chef jacket hip bumped her oven.

Jasper leaped to his feet, fist slamming on the desk. “Oh, fuck that. No way.”

His heart ached as Rita’s shoulders sagged, along with the dish, and he just wanted to shout the whole bar down. Slam the laptop shut. But the video wasn’t over yet, so Jasper forced himself to watch as Rita calmly set down the soufflé pan, picked up a kitchen knife, turned, and breezed toward her fellow—bastard—contestant. He expected to see anger or disbelief on Rita’s face, but he didn’t.

He saw only grief.

The same grief he’d seen on her face this afternoon, when he’d sent her packing. A pattern jumped into focus, so clear he could move it around, rearrange it in the air. The cooking demonstration he’d organized was a reminder of what Rita viewed as a failure, maybe even failures. And then she’d thrown Jasper her own version of a knife attack, trying to deflect the pain. Instead of dodging it like he should have done, he’d taken a direct hit and stabbed them both where it hurt.

Jasper didn’t bother closing the laptop. Couldn’t lift his arm to do much more than grab his keys and fall toward the door. Have to see her. Can’t leave it like this.

“Boss man,” Nate called. “Where you headed?”

He had to clear his throat to speak. “Going to the Arms.”

“Hope you aren’t aiming to find that Rita,” Nate answered, uncapping a bottle of beer. “She’s gone on an outing, she has.”

Jasper had his bartender by the shirt collar before he knew his own mind. “Don’t…don’t you fucking tell me she left town while I was sitting back there.”

“Nothing like that.” The young man held up both hands, shock radiating from his stiff form. “She’s just gone out to the desert, is all. Looking to feel the miracle of trust.”

“Christ.”





Chapter Twenty-Six



Desert excursion, my ass.

Rita should have known. Among the four siblings, Peggy was the best liar. Which was ironic, considering that Aaron was the politician. Even knowing her little sister could fudge the truth with the best of them, Rita hadn’t even blinked at Peggy’s description of their nighttime outing. Hot dogs and a bonfire had sounded foolproof. Now, however, crammed in the back of two Jeeps, bumping along the desert dunes—very likely toward their deaths—it was obvious ghost stories and s’mores were not on the agenda.

Rita’s assumption might have something to do with the painted, rainbow-colored signs adorning the doors of both Jeeps: GLEN’S TRUST EXERCISES: GOT TRUTH?