Page 30 of I’m Not Yours

“Thanks for taking me to the emergency room. I can’t say it was fun, Reece, but I’m glad I went.

” I took another bite of clam chowder. Marlene’s Chowder, a restaurant located on a blue-gray river that roars into the ocean nearby, is the best in Oregon.

Creamy, not too clammy, dollop of butter on the top.

Add hot garlic cheese bread for dipping, and you are in clam chowder heaven.

“You inhaled a lot of sea water and I don’t think I could have slept tonight unless I knew your lungs were clear. And now we know for sure that you didn’t swallow any fish.” He grinned.

“Based on the amount of water I unwillingly swallowed, anything could have slipped down my throat, including an octopus and a treasure chest.”

He laughed. “You are a funny person, June.”

“No. I’m not.” I didn’t think I was. I was sarcastic.

But funny? No. Some of the funniest people, it is said, are or were outsiders, so they see things differently.

That’s me. I have never felt as if I was part of this natural club that some Americans fall into so seamlessly, as if they were born to fit in.

I was born to be that odd link. But maybe that made my sarcasm funny . . .

“Yep, you are.” He winked at me.

How totally endearing. “Thank you, again, for saving my sorry butt today.”

Reece picked up his coffee mug. “Happy to oblige you, ma’am. And your butt is not sorry, so to speak.”

I tried not to blush, but the heat I felt between this man and me was sizzlin’.

“Cheers, June. To a meeting we’ll never forget.”

“Cheers.” We clinked our coffee mugs together and I distracted myself by staring out the windows, hung with white twinkling lights and fishnets for curtains. The sea lions were on the sand bar, lounging about, sometimes rolling into the river, then out to sea to gobble fish.

“So you heard about my wacky family. Tell me about your family, Reece.”

“Two brothers, two sisters, I’m in the middle.

Not all living in our small farming and ranching community in eastern Oregon, where I own a ranch.

My grandparents and their parents were all born there.

My parents have four and five siblings each, so there’s a ton of aunts and uncles, grandparents, cousins.

I’m related by family, marriage, or long-term friendships to almost everybody there.

Everyone knows everyone else, and their business, and their parents’ and grandparents’ business, too, and they can recite all the family scandals, dating back at least a hundred years. ”

“You have scandals in your family?”

“Heck yeah. Where do I start? There have been gunslingers and stagecoach robbers, eye-popping affairs, secrets, children fathered by men who weren’t their biological fathers, but were related to the father.

Feuds that lasted decades, stolen bulls that started family wars.

Millionaires that were generous, millionaires who visited boudoirs.

Practical jokes that are legend. There’s been a whole lot of love and friendship, too. ”

“Tell me about the practical jokes.”

“Let’s see. My brother’s truck ended up on top of the elementary school. Horses were led out of a barn late one night and replaced by cows. My cousin snuck chickens into his uncle’s living room.” He told me more jokes, and I laughed so hard, I had to cross my legs.

“And your siblings?” I wiped the laughter tears from eyes.

“My oldest sister designs saddles and western wear and sells it in her store in town. The next kid, my brother, has a tea company in Portland and it’s going gangbusters.

My younger sister is a fulltime mom, lives in town, has five kids, and her husband sells plumbing equipment, and my other brother is a cameraman for major motion pictures. He live in Los Angeles.”

“All doing something different. Same house, same parents, completely different occupations.”

“And all married, except me, the rebel son, and they all have children. My parents have fifteen grandkids.”

“I bet they’re happy with that.”

He winked at me. “Always room for more O’Briens.”

“Ah, well, good luck to you and your siblings and your fertility. I’ll do a dance to the fertility goddess for you.”

“It would be exciting to see that. But if you’re on the beach doing your fertility dance, make sure you watch the waves. Scratch that. I’ll be with you, and I’ll watch the waves. You dance.”

I thought of dancing in front of him and blushed. Honestly. Blushing? Wasn’t I a little too old for that? A little too mean for that?

“By the way, I’ll pay your emergency room bill,” Reece said. “I know you didn’t think you needed to go, but I feel better that you did and since I insisted, it’s on me.”

I dropped my spoon into my clam chowder and it splattered out of the bowl. “You’ll do no such thing. I have money. I can pay it and I will pay it.”

“Please. Allow me.”

I could feel myself getting frazzled and angry. It had started that way with him , too. Being chivalrous. Manly. Take charge. He’d fling it back in my face later, asking for compliments and thank yous. It was all a ploy to pretend he was someone he wasn’t.

“No. I’ll pay whatever my insurance doesn’t pay myself.”

“I’d like to pay it.” His expression was determined, but gentle.

“Why? That’s ridiculous.”

“Because you went through a hard time. It’s traumatic. You’re going to have nightmares for weeks, maybe longer, and I want to do something for you that brings one good thing to this situation, and if that good thing means I pay your bill, then—”

No. “No. I’m not going to owe you anything.” My voice was tense and a bit screechy. “I’m not going to let you have that over me. I can pay for myself. I don’t need a man taking care of me. Do I give the impression that I need a man to pay my bills? Do I come off as weak? Poor? Helpless?”

“Whoa.” He held up a hand, his voice surprised. “Whoa. That’s not what I meant. I want to do something nice for you, that’s it. There’s no other ulterior motive here at all.”

I gritted my teeth, then took a breath, knowing I was bringing in way too much of my past baggage. “Maybe I needed help when a sneaker wave tried to eat me, but I don’t need help otherwise and I certainly wouldn’t put my trust in a man to help me.”

“You wouldn’t put your trust in a man to help you?” He leaned forward. He was genuinely saddened, I could see it in the lines of his face. “Why not?”

“Why not? Because I don’t trust men.” I could hear Leoni’s and Estelle’s voices echoing in my head, Be nice!

“All men? There’s no man you trust?”

“I trust my father and my brother.”

“What happened to you to make you not trust men?”

“I don’t want to talk about it because it might make me throw something at the captain’s wheel or the buoys hanging from the ceiling.” I could feel my anger bubbling away.

“I’m sorry you don’t trust men. I’m sorry for whatever happened that made you not trust men.”

I tried not to get drawn into the sincerity I saw on his face, the strength in that squared-off jaw.

“It’s not something you need to chew on for long. One drowned rat of a woman named June doesn’t trust men.” I pushed my blond curls back. “It’s not a big deal.”

“There’s only one June, I can reassure you of that.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s only one of you, and I wish you trusted men.”

“Why? What’s it to you?”

“I like you.”

I hardly knew what to say. He liked me? “How can you like me? We don’t know each other.

” But I liked him. I knew I did. How can you not like a man who risks his life to drag you out of a frothing ocean, then insists on getting you warmed up, listens to you chatter on about your hippie family as if it’s the most fascinating tale he’s ever heard, then whisks you off to the emergency room and waits, listening carefully to what the doctor says, before taking you for hot clam chowder, garlic bread, and onion rings? How can you not get a tingle?

“This is what I know about you so far, June.”

I put my coffee down because I was getting hot.

“You like walking on the beach during rainstorms. Me, too. You get distracted by butterfly shells, I’m surmising, because you find beauty in small things.

You pull seaweed out of your mouth after almost drowning, but you don’t seem a bit squeamish about having it in there in the first place.

Your dry humor shows even after a terrifying event, you never once skipped anywhere near hysteria, which most people would have, you didn’t complain about being soaked and freezing, you were pretty darn calm actually, and in fifteen minutes flat you go from being soaking wet to .

. . utterly lovely. Not that you weren’t lovely soaked, you were. You were a soaked, lovely sea lady.”

He thought I was utterly lovely! Oh, calm down, my heart!

“I saw you hug Morgan on the stairs, you were nice to the two boys in the emergency room with giant bumps on their heads, patted one of their backs after they vomited in a wastebasket, then hugged the worried mother. You spoke kindly to the nurses and doctors. You’re strong, you’re brave. How can I not like you?”

I was semistunned. “Do you always figure people out this quickly?”

“No.” He smiled again. “And I haven’t figured you out, either. I’m learning about you, and I can tell you’re a complex person. And interesting.”

“I’m temperamental, moody, abrupt, and blunt, and I’m not in a good mood at this time of my life.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s how it is. Eat some garlic bread.”

“I love this stuff.”

“Me, too. Eat it.”

“You can tell me why you’re not in a good mood at this time of your life on our next date,” he said.

“Date? This is a date?”

“Let’s call it a date.”

“No.” Oh no, I couldn’t do that. It wasn’t right. “This is not a date. Nope and nada.”

“What is it, then?” He had such a manly voice, low and controlled . . . sexy.

“It’s an . . . it’s, well . . . it’s a survivor’s luncheon. You saved me, so we’re eating together.”

“Great. Let’s have a survivor’s luncheon again. How about it?”