The Good Daughter by Jane Porter Page B

spatula,” she said awkwardly.
    For a moment he was silent, his dark gaze shuttered. “Not Colombian,” he said. “But close. French, English, and Choctaw.”
    “That’s not close,” Kit said.
    His smile didn’t reach his eyes this time. “I know, but some people don’t know the difference between a peace pipe and a baggie of cocaine.”
    Kit flushed. He didn’t like Polly. Fair enough. Polly didn’t like him. But at least Kit had been right about the whole
Twilight
-Jacob-werewolf vibe. Jude was part Native American. Choctaw. Oklahoma Territory and the infamous Trail of Tears.
    Kit struggled to think of something to say but couldn’t. In the end she apologized. Again. “Sorry. And I don’t think I can do coffee today.”
    Jude’s dark eyes rested on her hot face. For a moment he said nothing, then shrugged. “Maybe another time,” he said. Then, with a nod, he headed down the steps, back across the lawn to where he’d left his bike.
    Kit couldn’t take her eyes off him. Jude had a long, careless stride that fit his long hair and black embroidered vest. He walked like he didn’t care what others thought, and before she could regretletting him go, she stepped inside the house and closed the door, moving to the window to watch him slip on his helmet, start his bike, and take off.
    “Good riddance,” Polly said, joining her at the window. “He was a total druggie scumbag.”
    “No, he wasn’t.”
    “Yes, he was.”
    “He was a friend of Sarah’s.”
    “He wasn’t her friend. He probably stalked her.”
    “Polly!”
    “I’m serious. Were you really considering going with him for coffee?”
    “No. Maybe.”
    “Kit.”
Polly’s features tightened in disgust.
    “He’s actually nicer than he looks,” Kit said, defending Jude even though she didn’t need to. He was gone. He wouldn’t be back. Problem solved.
    “No, he’s not. And this is where your romance novels get you in trouble. That guy isn’t one of your wounded heroes. You do not find him appealing. He isn’t interesting. You can’t save him. He’s hard-core. Mean. Didn’t you see those tattoos?”
    “What tattoos?”
    “Kit, they were all over his arm and then there was one on his neck—”
    “He had long sleeves and I didn’t see anything on his neck.”
    “Because his hair was hiding it most of the time, but it was there, and it was ugly. It was one of those gang symbols. He’s dangerous, Kit. He’s not a good guy.”
    Kit shook her head and sank down in the rattan chair she’d been sitting in earlier grading papers. “I think you’re being a little harsh.”
    “And you’re naive.” Polly perched on the edge of the old coffee table, facing Kit. “And I love you, you know I do, but you’ve gotto wise up. Men totally take advantage of you. You let them walk all over you, and I’m sick of assholes breaking your heart.”
    Polly was right, and she didn’t even know half of it, Kit thought, pulling her fuzzy oatmeal sweater over her legs. “It’s not like I enjoy being hurt.”
    “Maybe not, but as Meg has even said, you’re a magnet for losers. You draw them to you as if you’ve got this massive beacon over your head, lighting up the sky, announcing that you’re sensitive and compassionate and have absolutely no common sense, no self-esteem, and no boundaries whatsoever.”
    Kit grimaced. “I’m not that bad.”
    “Pretty damn close.” Polly glared at her. “The problem is that you are so good, Kit. And sweet. You’re the most selfless, giving person I know. But unfortunately, men see this as a weakness and they’ll just use you, and abuse you—”
    “You don’t mean men, plural,” Kit interrupted, grateful Polly knew nothing about her date with Parker in December. “You mean Richard. And I’m in total agreement that he wasn’t good for me, and that I’m in a better place now without him—”
    “It took you ten years to see that!”
    “Because I didn’t want to see it. I wanted it to work.