That Thing Called Love

He’s the last man on earth she should want...

For a guy she’s fantasized about throttling, Jake Bradshaw sure is easy on the eyes. In fact, he seriously tempts inn manager Jenny Salazar to put her hands to better use. Except this is the guy who left Razor Bay—and his young son, Austin, whom Jenny adores like her own—to become a globe-trotting photojournalist. He can’t just waltz back and claim Austin now.

Jake was little more than a kid himself when he became a dad. Sure, he’d dreamed of escaping the resort town, but he’d also truly believed that Austin was better off with his grandparents. Now he wants—no, needs—to make up for his mistake. He intends to stay in Razor Bay only until he can convince Austin to return with him to New York. Trouble is, with sexy, protective, utterly irresistible Jenny in his life, and his bed, he may never want to leave....

Reviewers love New York Times bestselling author

SUSAN ANDERSEN

“A smart, arousing, spirited escapade

that is graced with a gentle mystery, a vulnerable,

resilient heroine, and a worthy, wounded hero

and served up with empathy and a humorous flair.”

—Library Journal on Burning Up

“[A] fast-paced, charming romance

with plenty of heat and cool dialog.”

—RT Book Reviews on Burning Up

“A sexy, feel-good contemporary romance....

Palpable escalating sexual tension between the pair,

a dangerous criminal on the loose and a cast of

well-developed secondary characters make this a winner.”

—Publishers Weekly on Bending the Rules

“This start of Andersen’s new series has fun and interesting characters, solid action and a hot and sexy romance.”

—RT Book Reviews on Cutting Loose

“Snappy and sexy.... Upbeat and fun, with a touch of danger and passion, this is a great summer read.”

—RT Book Reviews on Coming Undone

“Lovers of romance, passion and laughs

should go all in for this one.”

—Publishers Weekly on Just for Kicks

“Andersen again injects magic into a story that would be clichéd in another’s hands, delivering warm, vulnerable characters in a touching yet suspenseful read.”

—Publishers Weekly on Skintight, starred review

“A classic plot line receives a fresh, fun treatment....

Well-developed secondary characters add depth to this zesty novel, placing it a level beyond most of its competition.”

—Publishers Weekly on Hot & Bothered

That Thing Called Love

Susan Andersen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I am so excited about my new series. This first Razor Bay book stars Jake Bradshaw, a man who’s made a lot of mistakes, and Jenny Salazar, the take-no-crap woman who holds his full attention. And I got to plunk the fictional resort town down on Hood Canal, an area that holds a lifetime of memories for me.

Most people hear the word canal and picture man-made waterways. This canal is actually a natural sixty-five-mile saltwater fjord in western Washington. I was just a baby when my folks discovered it. Every summer for two weeks, I ran wild with my brothers and cousins, swimming in icy, superbuoyant water until my fingers and toes were pruney, playing until the sun sank behind the soaring Olympic Mountains, roasting marshmallows and hot dogs over blazing bonfires. When I was nine, my folks bought land on the beach and built a little cabin on it. This, to me, is the most beautiful, peaceful spot on earth.

It’s likely a no-brainer to tell you I consider Razor Bay a character in its own right. So trust me when I tell you it’s my dearest wish that you enjoy it, too, alongside Jake and Jenny and the folks of Razor Bay.

~Susan

This is dedicated, with love, to my friends in the industry, both old and new.

To

Jen Heaton, who, despite a crazy busy life, always carves out time to brainstorm with me, to haul me back on track and make my work better, and is just an all-around really good friend

To

The M&Ms—Meg Ruley and Margo Lipschultz— my wonderful, marvelous, world’s best agent and editor

To

Robyn Carr, Kristan Higgins and Jill Shalvis, for daily posts, a host of laughs and shared tears

And to

all you readers, without whom I’d be writing this stuff just for myself. Thank you for your loyalty, lovely emails and Facebook friendships

Plus a special thanks

to

the brilliant Robin Franzen, R.N., who allowed me to have my chicken pox and excuse it, too.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

EXCERPT

PROLOGUE

February 23

Razor Bay, Washington

“JEEZ, JENNY, are they ever gonna go home?”

Jennifer Salazar heard the half angry, half plaintive query beneath the rise and fall of conversation coming from the dining room. Outside, gusts of wind, howling down out of Canada, chased rain from the Olympic Mountains rising across the water to ping and rattle against the venerable old Craftsman on the bluff.

Turning around from the momentary break she’d taken to watch raindrops fracture into prisms against the leaded glass porch light, she looked down the hallway.

Thirteen-year-old Austin stood between her and the doorways to the kitchen and dining room. He was curved in on himself, and his newly wide shoulders in that grown-up black suit coat looked out of proportion to the rest of his verging-on-skinny body—even hunched up around his ears as they currently were.

Moving quickly, she reached out to pull him into her arms. He hugged her tightly in return.

“They will,” she assured the teen. “And pretty soon, I imagine, given how fast the weather is turning.” She pulled back to smile into his tense face. “But Emmett was an institution, pal. People want to pay their respects.”

Austin was the closest thing she had to a brother, but lately she hadn’t known quite how to deal with him. It killed her to see his pain as he struggled with the loss of the grandfather who’d raised him. Emmett Pierce’s death had tromped on the heels of Austin’s grandmother’s, who had preceded her husband just a few short months ago, blasting the barely turned teen with a double whammy.

But he was so volatile these days. A well-adjusted kid one minute, unhappy or angry the next. And he rarely shied away from mouthing off the rest of the time. Emmett and Kathy had spoiled him shamelessly, up to and including buying him a brand-new Bayliner Bowrider—a boat she’d argued against—for his thirteenth birthday.

“I swear I’m gonna pop the next person who calls me ‘you poor boy,’” he muttered. “And Maggie Watson pinched my cheeks like I was four years old or something!”

She didn’t know whether to commiserate over the misguided insensitivity or laugh at the indignation in his voice. “I imagine they just want to express their sympathy but don’t know what to say.”

“And they think I do? I mean, am I supposed to say it’s okay or somethin’ when they tell me Gramps’s in a better place? ’Cause it isn’t. Plus, what genius thinks I’d jump at the chance to be ‘you poor boy’ to a bunch of people who’ve known me since birth? And I’m sure as hell not gonna talk about how it feels to lose him.” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat angrily. “My feelings are— They’re...”

“Yours and no one else’s,” she supplied with an understanding nod when he stalled. She had experience with the phenomenon. She’d only been a few years older than he was now when her own world had fallen apart.

“’Zactly,” he mumbled.

Realizing she’d stepped back to give her neck some relief from looking up at Austin, Jenny dug at the bunched muscles in her nape and gave him a rueful smile. “I’m still not used to you being bigger than me—let alone so much bigger. The last time I checked you had maybe three, four inches on me. But I’m wearing four-inch heels today and you’re still way taller!”

For the first time since Emmett’s passing last week, Austin flashed her the wholehearted smile that until recently had been his default expression—the endearing grin that crinkled his pale green eyes and carved little crescents around the corners of his lips. “I hate to break this to you, Jenny, but crickets are way taller than you are.”

“Why, you little smart-ass.” She smacked his arm, but refused to be sidetracked. “When did you get to be, though? I swear you weren’t this tall yesterday.” She had begun to fear he might, in fact, turn out as height challenged as she. Heaven knew she wasn’t thrilled to have ended up a scant five-two in a default thirty-two-inch-inseam world—and that only if she practiced really excellent posture. She couldn’t help but think the same outcome for a boy would be even harder.

But considering the kid had apparently grown three or more inches overnight, her worry would probably be better directed at something that actually required it.

Austin’s momentary good humor visibly fading, he merely shrugged at her question. “What’s gonna happen to me now, Jenny?”

“Well, for starters, since Emmett’s will assigned me temporary custody, you’ll continue living with me at the resort. Or, if you’d rather...” She faltered a moment, hit with her first uncertainty. “I suppose I could move in here with you.”

“God, no!” He shook his head emphatically. “It was hard enough staying here when Grandma died—and we’d at least been kinda prepared for that.”

True. The elderly woman had been failing for the past couple of years.

“But with Gramps...” Austin surreptitiously knuckled away a tear, then scowled at her when he saw she’d noticed. “I keep expecting him to show up every time I turn around, ya know? I’d rather be at your place.”

“Then my place it is.” Jenny wouldn’t mind a good bawl herself. She missed Kathy and Emmett like crazy. They’d been so good to her, and losing them almost back-to-back had been a one-two punch to the heart.

She needed, however, to be strong for Austin.

“I went to the estate lawyer to talk about permanent custody, but he wanted to wait a bit.” She hesitated, then admitted, “He’s doing his best to contact your father.” Much as she’d prefer to keep that information to herself for the time being, Austin had a right to know.

His mouth flattened and his eyes went hard. “Like he’ll give a shit.”

She didn’t have the heart to chastise him for his language, because in all the years she had known him, she had not known his father to show a speck of interest in him.

Still. “Apparently he’s on a National Explorer shoot somewhere. No one seems to know quite where at the moment, but Mr. Verilla said he hopes to track him down soon.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to hold my breath waiting for him to show up.” Austin’s voice resonated with knife-sharp teenage sarcasm. But his angry eyes had taken on that stricken cast they adopted whenever the topic of his father came up.

And for one red-hot minute Jenny wished she could get her hands on the man who had disappointed this boy so many times over the years. It just sucked so bad that she couldn’t.

What she could do, however, was run interference as Kate Ziegler stuck her graying head out the kitchen door, focused faded blue eyes gone watery with sorrow on Austin and said, “Oh, you poor, poor b—”

Jenny strode right up to Kate with such authority she cut herself off midword and took a startled step back.

“Mrs. Ziegler!” Jenny exclaimed warmly, grasping the older woman’s arm to firmly guide her to the crowded dining room across the hall. “I’ve been meaning to compliment you on that wonderful ambrosia salad you brought. Why, if I’m not mistaken, it was the very first thing to go.”

As the woman bustled over to check out the table, Jenny shot Austin a half smile over her shoulder.

It broke her heart that, although he tried to smile back, he couldn’t quite manage it.

CHAPTER ONE

JAKE BRADSHAW BLEW INTO TOWN almost two months later, at a quarter to three on a blustery, sunny April afternoon.

Not that Jenny was keeping track or anything.

Hell, who kept track of those things? She was busy minding her own business, washing the window over her kitchen sink and thinking the shutters on the Sand Dollar—the luxury cottage across the shared parking lot from her small bungalow—would benefit from a new coat of paint, when the doorbell rang. She just happened to check her watch. Then, looking down at her seen-better-days cropped T-shirt and raggedy jeans, she sighed. Why didn’t anyone ever drop by unexpectedly when she was dressed to kill?

Murphy’s Law, she supposed. Shrugging, she set aside the old tea towel she’d been using, paused her iPod, pulled out the earbuds and went to answer the summons. School had let out for the day; it was likely a friend of Austin’s, although Austin himself wasn’t home yet.

When she pulled the door open and saw the man on the other side, her mind went blank. Holy Krakow, how wrong could one woman be—this was no teenage kid. This was a total stranger, something you didn’t see very often this time of year—unlike during the summer tourist season.

And the guy was a god.

Okay, not really. But he was definitely the next best thing. His hair, which she’d mistaken at first glance for blond, was actually a medium brown that had either been burnished by the sun or was the product of some world-class stylist.

She’d vote for the former, given that every man she’d ever known would choose castration before they’d be caught dead over at Wacka Do’s wearing a headful of little tinfoil strips. And although she could honestly say she’d never met an actual honest-to-gawd big-city metrosexual, she was pretty sure this guy wasn’t to be her first.

His tanned hands were too beat-up looking, his skin a little too weathered. He had muscular shoulders beneath a nice gray suit jacket, worn over an olive-drab hoodie and a silky, silver-gray T-shirt. And solid thighs that were molded by a pair of button-fly Levi’s that had seen hard wear.

She couldn’t see his eyes behind the shaded lenses of his sunglasses, but he had the most gorgeous lips she’d ever seen on a man, full yet precisely cut. If she were a different type of woman, in fact, she might almost be able to imagine lips like those kissing h—

“Is your mother home?”

“Seriously?” All right, not the politest response. But, please. She hadn’t almost imagined what his lips could do—Marvin Gaye had started crooning “Let’s Get It On” in her head. And having him talk to her as if she were a child was like ripping the needle across a vinyl record, bursting her pretty, if where-the-hell-did-that-come-from, fantasy.

After a startled look, he studied her more closely. Those lips curved up in a faint smile. “Oh. Sorry. Your size fooled me for a minute. But you’re not a kid.”

“Ya think?”

His smile deepened slightly. “I’m not the first to make that mistake, I’m guessing.”

Okay, get a grip, sister. What was her problem, anyway? She didn’t lust after strange men. And she’d been in the hospitality business since she was sixteen, for pity’s sake, so rarely, either, was her first inclination to unleash snide sarcasm on people.

At least not on people I don’t know.

She gave an impatient mental shrug. Because even if she was in the habit of lusting or unleashing, this guy could be a guest at the inn for all she knew. It was the dead lowest part of the low season, which was why she’d felt comfortable enough leaving Abby to man the front desk while she took a rare day off. But Abs was still green, and it wasn’t a stretch to imagine the girl blithely drawing directions on one of the resort maps to help a complete stranger find Jenny’s place on the back grounds of The Brothers Inn.

Jenny plastered a pleasant expression on her face. “Is there something I can do for you?”

He looked down at her. “Yeah. I was told I could find a Jenny Salazar here?”

“You found her.”

“I’m here about Austin Bradshaw, regarding his guardianship.”

Jenny’s heart picked up its pace, but she merely said, “You don’t look like a lawyer.”

“I’m not. But Mr. Verilla said you’re the person I need to talk to.”

She sighed and stepped back. “Then I guess you’d better come in. You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she said, leading him inside. “You caught me in the middle of cleaning day.”

Her place was just under six hundred square feet of recently weatherized cottage, so it took a total of five seconds to reach the middle of her living room. She turned to face him and saw that he’d removed his shades and was hooking one temple arm into the neck of his T-shirt. Raising her gaze from his strong, tanned throat, she met his eyes for the first time.

Shock jolted through her. Oh, God. Only one other person in the world had eyes that pale, pale green—the exact same shade as the summer shallows in the fjord that was Hood Canal.

Austin.

Anger was deep, immediate and visceral. And it had her drawing herself up to her not-so-great greatest height. “Let me guess,” she said with ice-edged diction. “You must be Jake Bradshaw.”

When she looked at him now, she didn’t see that compelling face or the abundant sex appeal. Instead, she pictured all the times Austin thought his father might call, might show up, and the stark disappointment each and every time that didn’t happen. Disdain she couldn’t quite disguise tugged at her upper lip.

“Mighty big of you to finally decide you could spare your kid a minute of your precious time.”

* * *

FOR OVER A DECADE, Jake had dealt with all manner of people. He’d long ago perfected the art of letting things slide off his back. Yet for some reason the contempt from this little female dug barbed needles under his skin.

It didn’t make a damn bit of sense. The woman was all of five foot nothing, for crissake, and her shiny dark hair, plaited into two thick little-girl braids, with a hank of long bangs pulling free from the left one, didn’t exactly promote a grown-up vibe. She had spare curves, clear olive skin and brown eyes so dark it made the surrounding sclera look almost blue-white in comparison. Dark eyebrows winged above them, and her slender nose had a slight bump to its bridge.

His brows met over the thrust of his own nose. “Who the hell do you think you are, lady?”

Okay, not what he’d intended to say. But being back in Razor Bay, the place he’d spent most of his teen years plotting to see the last of in his rearview mirror—well, it put him on edge. Plus, after the thirty-two-hour trip from Minahasa to Davao to Manila to Vancouver to Seattle to here, he was so dead on his feet he was all but punch-drunk. Not to mention seriously tense at the thought of seeing his kid after all these years. Of having full responsibility for him for the first time.

So excuse the hell out of him for reacting to the contempt in her voice and his own flicker of temper that here was yet someone else who thought they could dictate to him about his son.

Stuffing down every negative feeling that arose, however, he managed to moderate his tone when he inquired, “And you think you have the right to judge me, why?” God knew, he’d done enough of that on his own. He didn’t need some half-pint stranger’s condemnation on top of it.

He watched as she crossed her arms and raised her chin. “Well, let me see,” she said coolly. “Maybe because I’m the woman who’s been in Austin’s life for the past eleven years. And this is the first time I’ve ever seen you.”

Jake wanted to howl at the unfairness of her charge. Except...was she actually wrong? He’d had a series of come-to-Jesus talks with himself on the endless journey back here and was forced to admit that he’d been looking at his dad ethic through a pretty skewed lens for a long time now. The admission made not defending himself to Ms. Salazar more than a simple matter of pride, more than an ingrained reluctance to plead his case to a stranger.

He couldn’t in all conscience smear the memory of Austin’s grandparents. Not only would it be too much like something his own father would have done—making it all about him and not giving a damn that his kid had loved the people he was trash-talking—but all that damn soul searching had made him realize that he’d spent too many years blaming Emmett and Kathy for doing the job he himself had abdicated.

They’d protected Austin. And if it cut to the bone that they’d felt it necessary to do so from him...well, I guess it sucks to be you, Slick.

Somewhere over Midway Island he’d dropped his defenses and admitted they had cut him a lot more slack than he’d deserved before they’d finally lowered the ax and banished him from Austin’s life.

But that wasn’t the central thing here—at least not right this minute. That would be that he was finally doing what he should have done a long time ago: stepping up.

So, go him.

Not that any of this prevented the woman standing in front of him from scratching at his temper. He took an involuntary step in her direction. “The fact remains, I’m Austin’s father and I’m here now.”

Apparently that wasn’t what she’d expected to hear, because she blinked long, dense lashes at him, just a single slow sweep that lowered fragile-looking lids over her almond-shaped eyes, then raised them again.

The action ate up a couple of seconds tops, yet somehow it was long enough to make him aware that he was standing a whole lot closer to her than he’d intended. It made him aware as well that, except for the blink, she’d gone very still. Had she seen his banked anger? Jake slowly straightened. Shit. She couldn’t possibly think he was going to hit her, could she?

He took a giant step back, shoving his hands in his Levi’s pockets.

In the sudden silence, the back door crashed open, and from the way little Ms. Salazar stiffened, he knew exactly who it was. Heart beginning to kick hard against the wall of his chest, he stared at the opening to the kitchen.

“Hey, Jenny,” called a male voice from the other room. “I’m home.” The refrigerator door opened, then slammed shut and the lid of something rattled against a hard surface. “Dude! Leave a cookie for me.”

“Trade ya for that carton of milk,” came a second youthful tenor.

“You better be using glasses!” Jenny raised her voice to warn. “If I see washback in my milk, you’re dead men.”

Glass clinked and a cupboard slapped closed. Silence reigned for a few moments after that, before being abruptly broken by the sound of stampeding feet. Two boys burst through the archway.

The boy in the lead was a gangly brunette who—sweet mother Mary—had the exact same all-bones-no-meat thirteen-year-old build Jake had had at the same age.

God oh God. All the moisture dried up in his mouth and his habit of being aware of everything around him—honed by years of knowing that otherwise he’d likely end up bitten by a snake, stung by an insect or mauled by an animal with way more tonnage, power and teeth than him—went up in smoke. The cozy little room and everything in it faded from his consciousness, leaving nothing but his son.