Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)(77)

All so normal. Fuck. Why was everyone acting so normal? Air was being siphoned from Rita’s lungs, her skin itching, the interior of the car growing smaller and smaller. With a curse, she pushed open the back door, allowing the warm desert wind to roll into the Suburban. It slithered in under the sleeves of her shirt, climbed up her neck and held, held so tight. As if Jasper had taken the form of invisible wind, deciding to reach out for her one final time. His face, his words, the failure evident in both clawed at her consciousness. No, not a failure. You won me. I just have to leave anyway.

The reasons were all around her, taking up the seats, joining her on this insane journey, but something besides Jasper was missing. Realizing what it was, Rita reached into her slouchy canvas bag and removed Miriam’s journal, flipping to an entry toward the front, placing it in her lap and pushing two handfuls of hair back over her shoulders as she began to read.

My family isn’t one for noisy emotion. My children were meant to—



Belmont opened the driver’s-side door, starting up the Suburban without a word regarding where he’d been. While they released a collective sigh of relief, Belmont reversed the Suburban from its parking spot, the rumble feeling like an earthquake beneath Rita’s feet. A seismic shift. As they pulled out onto the main road, a rope that had been tied around her chest without permission began to pull and pull. As if it were tied to the motel and the farther away they drove, the more it threatened to slice her in half. The urge to turn around to glimpse the Liquor Hole—no, Buried Treasure—was vast and unrelenting, but some irrational voice said everything would turn to dust if she followed through, like Sodom and Gomorrah. Or maybe it would just be her? She would turn to dust and float away, just a tiny speck that couldn’t possibly fit all the feelings.

Jasper. Jasper. What was he doing? Had he left Buried Treasure yet? Would he go home and sit down on the swing where they’d made love? Or maybe have a cup of coffee while leaning up against the kitchen island, casually looking over that night’s numbers? It took precious little concentration to envision herself perched on the island beside him, wearing his flannel shirt, stealing a sip of his coffee.

Oh, Christ. Ouch. Pain speared through her rib cage, hot bread rolls pressing behind her eyelids. Remembering the distraction in her lap, Rita ducked her head to begin reading once again, trying with all her might not to look out the window and watch the town repair garage pass. The place Jasper had appeared the second morning on his motorcycle, hoping she’d consent to lunch with Rosemary. Feigning surprise over the Suburban’s lack of function when he’d damn well been the reason. God. God, who did something so sneaky just to get one more day with a woman? Jasper did. Her Jasper.

Swiping at the moisture on her cheeks, Rita focused on the open page flapping in the breeze provided by the open window. Focused on the concise nature of her mother’s handwriting, attempting to find solace.

My children were meant to take different paths. They diverged early and intersect rarely, but when they do, they make beautiful music. Even if they don’t always hear it. I hope they know I heard it for them. Beats and bad notes alike. Some families reunite every year at scheduled events—and I admire that. I really do. But spontaneity just happens to suit the Clarksons. Those rare moments when my children’s paths take unexpected detours and they crash together, coming away different without realizing. Refusing to believe they can be influenced by someone with so little in common, but having it happen all the same.

Be brave! I wish I would have said that more often without throwing my own bravery in their faces. Be brave, crash together and fall apart. It’s okay. It’s okay to diverge, knowing sometime in the future, you’ll collide again. As long as those rare times are remembered, their meanings retained.

Listen to me. I sound like such a mother. Here’s one more mom-ism for good measure…You kids stop bickering, or I’ll turn this car around right now—



“Stop,” Rita croaked. “Turn the car around.”

She looked up from the journal to find that the Suburban was already pulled over on the side of the road, its occupants staring at her from all corners. Tears plopped down on her hands, wetting the pages of Miriam’s journal until Aaron tugged it away, and stowed it in his briefcase. Belmont watched her steadily in the rearview mirror, and Peggy gave her shoulders awkward, but enthusiastic, pats from the backseat.

And with those knowing eyes on her, she could suddenly see. See all the things she’d been blind to for so long. Being in the kitchen earlier that night—she’d enjoyed herself. Maybe for the first time ever in a kitchen. Because those dishes had been made for her. For Jasper. No one else. She’d finally figured out how to cook without fear. And it was due in part to the man she was leaving behind. The man who’d spent days breaking her free of that prison, maybe without even being conscious of the difference he made, moment by moment.

Could she—stay? Stay and love a man without the terror of disappointing him? Disappointing herself? Yes. Yes. Last night, a seed had been planted in Jasper’s kitchen. The seed of enjoyment, love. Things cooking had made her feel before. Before they got lost in the attempt to be someone other than Rita. She’d proven tonight it wasn’t the cooking that had broken her. She’d broken herself. But, dammit, she’d also fixed the damage. With Jasper. Oh, God, Jasper. The only way she could disappoint him would be by leaving.