Page 5 of Someone to Tempt
That word…crazy. All my emotions—the worry, regret, and self-doubt—coalesce into something different inside me. Something that feels dark and thick like sludge. I lean into that blackness and let it ooze through me. I may not like Jake Byrne, but he’s the one person in this town I don't have to be nice to. Might as well take advantage of it.
“Go to hell, Jake.” I start to flip him off, but realize that’s not a great look for the mayor when there’s an audience staring from the sidewalk. Instead, I lean in closer. “Or crawl back under whatever trustafarian rock you slithered out from. Polish the watches in your overpriced collection or count the zeros in your bank account. Whatever guys like you do when you’re not busy pretending to be real.”
“Fucking hell, Iris.”
He rears back like I’ve slapped him, and a swish of guilt creeps up my spine. Maybe I took it too far—okay, I know I took it too far—but that word cuts through me like a knife.Crazy. People called my family worse, but we heard crazy whispered enough that it still gets to me. I shove down my guilt because I don’t owe him anything. Less than anything after what he took from me and my brother.
And there's something intimate in the way he says my name, like he still has the right to it. Heat rises to my cheeks, anger and attraction tangling together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. Jake Byrne doesn’t get to breeze back into town—my town—like he owns the place. Like he still has any claim on my heart.
Nope. He doesn’t get my sympathy. Not today.
3
JAKE
Iris Dixon isout of line. So far over it she’s not even in the same country as rational thought. Except…I forgot her history with the word crazy. I’m an asshole for saying it in any circumstance. I know better. I know to do better. It’s a shit word, and for her in particular given the way people lobbed it against her mom and brother with Iris caught in the crossfire. I didn’t mean it the way she thinks, but I’m still a fool for saying it to her.
Just like I’m a fool for returning to this bustling mountain town. For several reasons. A glaring one—quite literally—is the woman shooting death rays at me in front of a beater truck that should have been retired a long time ago.
The moment it left my lips, I saw that flicker of hurt in her eyes—the same look I'd seen years ago when the town gossips whispered about her mom'sissues. I’m not a person who carelessly throws around terms like that, especially knowing how those words had been weaponized, forcing her to build walls so high I never found a way over them. Yet here I am, first encounter in over a decade, already tearing at old wounds.
“Maybe if you drove a vehicle with a windshield not coated in decades of dust, you would have seen me.”
Yeah, I spoke without thinking, but this almost-accident isn’t my fault. Iris is breathing heavy, her cheeks bright pink with rage. But I’d bet all the dollars in my trust fund, which is collecting as much dust as the truck’s windshield, there’s something more going on and I’m just the closest whipping post. She wants to pin the blame on me, just like she did for the accident that landed both me and her brother at that awful camp.
The unmerited claim burrows its way under my skin, and I want to claw and fight to get it out again.
“Maybe if you used a crosswalk, which is the damn law…” I cock a brow, calling bullshit on her bluster “…I wouldn’t have come close to running you over. I assume the mayor of this quaint hamlet would understand that.”
“Hamlet is a pretty sophisticated word for a college dropout to throw around.” She points to the phone gripped in my right hand. “Have you become a fan of Shakespearean porn recently?”
“Jesus, Iris.” I bark out a laugh. “You actually went there. Out loud.”
The color in her cheeks deepens even as her chin lifts. “I’d bet you were texting and driving, Jake, which is also against the law. But you never thought the rules applied to you.”
I nearly toss back my head and laugh. Leave it to this woman to never back down or admit she’s wrong. Something electric passes between us as she steps closer, her accusation hanging in the air. Her pulse flutters at the base of her throat, and her breath catches slightly as our eyes lock. Neither of us is willing to look away first.
"You haven't changed a bit," I murmur. The words come out more like a caress than the casual observation I'd aimed for.
Since we’re stopped in the middle of the street, a car honks as it passes. The sound distracts her for a second, and I take that brief opportunity to look more closely at the girl who starred in so many of my adolescent fantasies. I won’t disrespect her by using the term spank bank, but I’m not denying it either.
She’s a woman now, the sun-kissed streaks in her hair, now colored less by drugstore spray and more by professional highlights that give it shine and dimension. Her legs are still miles long, and her build is athletic with just the right amount of curves—the kind that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand.
When she first glanced toward me, frozen in fear, her eyes had been wide with not only terror but something that looked like bone-deep desperation. For a fleeting second, I wondered if the woman in a sleek suit more appropriate for the big city than this small town jumped in front of my car on purpose. She looked hopeless enough to do something that dire.
The Iris I remember would never put herself in harm’s way on purpose. Even as a teenager, she was the most composed person I’d ever met. And my family values self-control the way fitness fanatics prioritize a low-carb lifestyle, counting macros and hours on the spin bike.
“I’m sorry,” I say when her angry gaze returns to me. “I didn’t mean to frightenorrun you over.”
The apology seems to incense her even more than the regrettable reference to her mental health. “You don’t scare me, Jake.”
She says the words through gritted teeth, and we both know she’s not talking about nearly meeting her maker on my truck’s bumper. Something about her tone piques my curiosity. Not smart when it comes to Iris, but that’s never stopped me before.
“Then what does?”
I shouldn’t ask. Never ask a question if you’re not prepared to hear the answer.
“I assume you’re here because of the announcement that your grandfather’s stepping down from running the foundation,” she says, ignoring my question. She’s a pro at ignoring what she doesn’t want to deal with. We have that in common, at least. “I hope he’s doing okay with the decision.”
