Sweetheart Lost and Found

Jared Townsend believed in the power of proof. If something could be proved beyond a shadow of a doubt, then he accepted it as fact.

His quest for proof was why he had excelled in geometry but not abstract thought. Why he’d nearly failed poetic analysis and instead discovered a home in the concrete world of statistics.

But now he found himself in the most unlikely of places, to prove the most unprovable of statistics. A bar on a Thursday night.

To prove that true love could be measured and analyzed, weighed and researched. For that reason, he had a clipboard and a pen and intended to interview at least a dozen couples before the bar closed, assuming he stayed awake that long.

A party animal, he was not. He wasn’t even a party puppy.

“Welcome to O’Malley’s. What can I get you?” A rotund bartender with a gray goatee came over to Jared, a ready smile on his face, his hand already on a pint glass. At the other end of the bar sat an older man, his shoulders hunched, head hung, staring into a beer.

“Beer sounds good.” Jared slid his clipboard onto the bar, along with a few already sharpened pencils. Raring to go.

If anything spelled geek, that was it. No wonder Jared hadn’t had a date in three months. Carry a clipboard—an instant death knell for attracting women.

The bartender arched a brow at the pencils and clipboard, apparently agreeing with that mental assessment, but kept his counsel and poured the draft. He slid the frosty mug over to Jared without a word.

A couple walked in. Jared grabbed a pencil, readying himself. At first glance, they looked perfect for his survey. Early twenties, blond girl, brunette guy, walking close, talking fast, as if they were—

Arguing.

“You’re a moron,” the girl said. “I don’t know what I ever saw in you. Seriously, Joey, my toaster has more brains than you and that’s after I burned my bagel.”

“Dude, that’s mean.”

“And quit calling me dude. I’m your girlfriend, or at least I was. Not your dude.” She flung off his hand and stalked away, ordering a tequila shot, which she knocked back in one swift, easy movement that said she’d done this before. More than once.

Jared put down his pencil. He let out a sigh, settled back on his stool and took a long, deep gulp of beer. No one else was in the bar, even though it was nearly nine and the sign outside promised karaoke night would start in a little while. Maybe he should have picked a place further downtown, rather than one so close to his apartment.

“Hey, O’Malley, how ’bout another for the road?” the man sitting at the opposite end of the bar said. He raised his glass, but it trembled and he nearly dropped it.

“I think you’ve had enough,” the bartender, apparently the O’Malley namesake of the bar, said.

The man swayed in his seat. “No, no. Not enough, not yet.”

Jared heard the words—so familiar—and turned away, fiddling with his clipboard. His memory raced back all the same to someone else, to another slurred voice, determined to have one more round.

O’Malley let out a grunt of disgust. “You’re cut off. Why don’t you go home?”

“Don’t wanna go home.” The man heaved a sigh, stumbled off the stool and careened down the bar. “No one there. No one t’all.” He crashed into a couple more stools, then gripped the edge of the polished oak surface and teetered.

The memories slammed into Jared until he couldn’t ignore them any longer. He shook his head, then got to his feet and caught the man’s elbow, righting the stranger just before he lost his balance.

“Get him some coffee,” Jared said, signaling to the bartender. “And call him a cab.”

“I ain’t paying for that.” O’Malley scowled. “If I took care of every drunk—”

“I’ll pay.” The man may be a stranger, but his story hit a familiar note in Jared’s chest, one he had to heed. He turned to the man, and helped him onto one of the seats, ignoring the nearly overpowering stench of alcohol. “Sir, why don’t you sit here a bit? Have some coffee, wait for the cab.”

It took a second, then understanding filtered into the older man’s bleary gaze. “You’re a good man.” He patted Jared on the back. “My new best friend. And I don’t even know your name.”

“Jared Townsend.” Jared doubted the man would remember his name in the morning, but it didn’t matter. Jared had been down this road often enough to know where it led.

“I’m Sam.” His inebriated tongue slurred the “s,” and his handshake had a decided wave to it, but the sentiment was there. Jared slid the coffee in front of Sam, and encouraged him to drink up.

The door opened again and Jared swiveled toward the sound, once again grabbing his clipboard and pencil. This time a single woman walked in, but no man followed behind her. Jared’s spirits plummeted. Clearly he’d picked the wrong bar. Not a big surprise, given how little experience he had with this kind of scene.

Maybe he should leave, try another place, one with more atmosphere—some atmosphere at least—or try a restaurant, a diner, a—

Holy cow. Callie Phillips.

Jared’s breath caught, held. The pencil in his hands dropped to the floor, and rolled across the hardwood surface. A woman sang about a broken heart on the jukebox, Sam said something about the quality of the coffee and the tequila toting couple went on fighting, but Jared didn’t pay attention. He pushed his glasses up his nose, refocused and made two hundred percent sure.

Yes, it was Callie.

She’d just walked into the bar and upset his perfectly ordered, perfectly balanced life.

Again.

He had the advantage of watching her while her eyes adjusted to the dim interior. He studied her, noting the difference nine years had made. It could have been nine days for all his heart noticed.

She’d cut her hair, and now the dark blond locks curled around her ears, framed her face, teased at her cheeks. But she still had the same delicate, fine boned face, wide green eyes, and those lips—

Bright crimson lipstick danced across her lips, lips that had always seemed to beg him to kiss them, mesmerized him whenever she talked. He watched her approach, his gaze sweeping over her still lithe curves, outlined in jeans and a bright turquoise top, then returning to her face, to her mouth, and something tightened in his gut.

And Jared Townsend, who never did anything without a reason, a plan, completely forgot why he was here.

CHAPTER TWO

“JARED? Jared Townsend? Is that you? Oh…Wow.” She inhaled, her breasts rising with the action, along with Jared’s internal temperature. “My goodness. What a…a shock.” Callie stopped in front of him, clutching a large box to her chest, her mouth shaped in an O of surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh…” His brain fired, sputtered, fired again. “Research.”

She smiled. “Let me guess. You’re trying to determine the best beer for forgetting a broken heart?”

“Coors,” Sam put in. “Best in sh-sh-show.” Then he sent the two of them a wave and headed off to the rest rooms.

Jared glanced down at his icy mug. Beer hadn’t helped him get over the broken heart he’d suffered after her, but he kept that ancient history buried, didn’t talk about it or drag it out.

Only a masochist dug up a skeleton like that. But damned if his body didn’t start playing archaeologist all the same, resurrecting old feelings…and a lot more. There was nothing analytical, statistical or sensible about it. There never had been, not when it came to Callie.

Still, he reminded himself, she had hurt him—and hurt him badly. If he was smart, he’d simply greet her as an old acquaintance and leave it at that.

“I’m here for work,” he told her. “Really. Even if it doesn’t look it.”

Her smile widened. “It doesn’t, except for the clipboard, which is so…you.” She shrugged, laughed a little, then started to move away. “Well, it was nice to see you again, Jared.”

Clipboard was so him? Well, damn it, maybe it was, but once upon a time she’d thought of him in a very different way.