The Will (Magdalene #1)(33)
Author: Kristen Ashley

Then again, he’d had three wives, he had a daughter and in our brief acquaintance, he’d shown he could be affectionate and it was doubtful he was only this way with me.

For me, I had never, not once, not since high school, walked holding a man’s hand.

And doing it, that…that knocked me right on my ass.

In a nice way that felt splendid.

“Thank you for breakfast,” I forced myself to say when I’d forced myself to breathe again.

“No worries,” he muttered.

I turned my head and looked up at him. “You were right, it was delicious.”

He dipped his chin and looked down at me. “Told you it’d knock you on your ass.”

Staring in his eyes, now a stormy gray that seemed to reflect the skies above, I knew I was.

I was getting knocked on my ass.

But not by an omelet.

By something altogether different.

And this feeling would continue when he stopped me at the driver’s side door to my car and leaned in. He brushed his lips against my cheek, which gave me another waft of his attractive cologne as well as an altogether too appealing scrape of his stubble (he had again not shaved that morning).

He pulled back and, smiling, murmured, “Later, babe.”

“Yes. See you tomorrow night.”

He winked, squeezed my hand, let it go and I watched him walk to his truck.

I forced myself to get in my car and drive to the Weavers’.

But I did it feeling a peculiar feeling.

That being knocked on my ass.

Thus winded.

And not minding at all.

* * * * *

I didn’t know why I did it; it was as if my eyes were drawn there by unseen forces.

But as I was driving back to Lavender House from the Weavers, my mind consumed with Eliza, her frailty, the pain etched around her mouth, the effort she still was making to pretend everything was all right and chitchat when her eyes were drooping, I turned my head and saw it.

Magdalene was not large and had long since had a town council that was rabidly determined to keep the old Maine coastal town feel about the place. Thus, the commercial areas of town were mostly untouched and had been for well over a century and things like fast food restaurants were firmly placed at the outskirts of town so you couldn’t even see them unless you were on the road driving that way.

That didn’t mean that off Cross Street (the main street in town), there weren’t other business that had sprung up over the decades.

And this included a large store that once was a hardware store but now, as I turned my head to look down Haver Way, it had a sign in the window that did not promote hardware.

I hadn’t taken in that building for years.

But after I drove by it, I found my opening to circle back, turned left on Haver Way and parked in the large-ish parking lot outside the building.

The gold painting edged in black on the window said “Truck’s Gym.”

And inside, through the now misting rain, I saw it was, indeed, a gym. A specific kind of gym. And I spent no time at all in gyms but even so, I knew exactly what kind of gym this was seeing as from what I could take in from my vantage point, there were two boxing rings set up in the vast open space.

They were down one side. Down the other side, there was weight equipment and I could see those bags suspended that were always in boxing gyms in movies, the little ball-like ones and the large tubular ones.

There were men punching things, lifting things and jumping rope inside. Several of them, which I found surprising seeing as it was early afternoon on a workday.

I could also see, standing outside the ring closest to the window, Jake. He was not wearing jeans, boots and a sweater as he had been that morning when he bought me an omelet. He was now wearing a pair of dark track pants with three white stripes down the side and a white, long sleeved t-shirt. There were boxers in the ring and Jake was calling out to them.

He’d mentioned his gym more than once.

This must be it.

And the name was “Truck’s.” That odious man at Breeze Point had referred to “the truck” and I didn’t think this was a coincidence.

More to learn about Jake.

I had a feeling there was much to learn about Jake. Three wives, one he had only three months. He clearly had at least partial custody of all of his children. Even though he mentioned one of his ex-wives was local, he didn’t mention her children staying with her, and Conner and Amber were both hers. He owned a boxing gym and a strip club, which were vastly different enterprises. He was well-known, if that man from Breeze Point was to be believed, not to mention, the bad-mannered Terry Baginski knew him as well.

Yes, I thought, watching him watch the boxers in the ring, there was much to learn about Jake Spear.

And I found myself already fascinated not even knowing what it was.

I reversed out of my spot, pointed the car back to Havers Way, then Cross Street and I drove out of town and to Lavender House.

I waited until I was out of my jacket and had a cup of tea in hand before I got my phone, went to the overstuffed chair by the window in the family room and called Henry. The time difference was such that it would be late in Italy but Henry was like me. A night owl. He’d be awake.

“Josephine,” he answered.

“Hello, Henry,” I replied.

Then I didn’t know what to say and clearly, Henry didn’t either because he also remained silent.

It was me who broke it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” I said softly. “It’s just that something happened the day before yesterday. A man came to the house. He’d approached Gran about buying it and he approached me too. And I had a very strong reaction to it.”

“Someone’s trying to buy Lavender House?” Henry asked.

“Yes, and Gran didn’t share that with me.” Amongst other things and I again didn’t tell Henry about these things for reasons unknown to me that I decided in that particular moment to process later.

“And he just showed up at the house?”

“Yes.”

“What an ass,” Henry murmured. “You just lost your grandmother.”

“Indeed,” I replied.

“And what was this strong reaction you had?” Henry queried.

“I…” I paused, drew in breath and lowered my voice when I shared, “I don’t want to let it go.”

“Of course you don’t.”

I blinked at his quick acceptance of that fact.

“Fuck him, sweetheart,” Henry continued. “Tell him to leave you alone. If he doesn’t, I’ll tell him when I get there.”