by Virna DePaul
She cares for me, I think sleepily. I didn’t imagine the love I saw in her eyes before. Because the only explanation for what Jenna wrote, given the timing of what she wrote, is that she was jealous of Sonya. Just like I’d been jealous of William. Only neither of us had been willing to admit it. Neither of us had been willing to put ourselves out there and tell the other how we really felt.
I’m ready now, but I don’t think Jenna is.
And I’m not taking any chances that she’ll do a repeat of that spring break beach trip, pretending like she’s open to more, but bailing on me in the end.
Nope, I’m not giving her the chance to bail.
I’m going to play things cool, and even though the whole blog thing has complicated matters, Jenna and I are just going to have to see how it plays out.
Together.
Jenna
I wake up to the sound of pots and pans gently clanging away in the kitchen. And humming. Who’s humming? Who’s cooking food that smells like heaven?
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Lee.
I try to calm myself and stare blankly up at the ceiling.
Fact: I had sex with Lee last night. Multiple times.
Fact: I want to have more sex with Lee. Every night. Multiple times every night.
Fact: I want even more than just sex, and yes, it was mind blowing, toe-curling sex, but I want more than that.
Fact: Lee doesn’t.
At least, I assume he doesn’t.
He isn’t the relationship type, let alone the relationship-with-me type.
Okay, breathe. This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to go out there and play casual. I won’t make him be the one to tell me it was a mistake, or he didn’t want to hurt me.
I’m not hurt. And it wasn’t a mistake.
It was just sex. Really, really, really great sex. The kind I wanted all along with him …
Oh, and the blog. I’m going to tell him about that, too. He’ll be angry. Maybe even hate me. But at least I won’t have to see that pitying look on his face when he tells me he’s not interested in more. I hate pity.
When I can’t find my robe, I throw on a T-shirt and shorts and walk out to the kitchen.
My heart almost stops when I see him. His hair disheveled. His muscular, taut body showcased in…
“Is that my ratty grey robe?”
He turns around with a smile. “Clothes are drying.”
“Right, right.”
I nod as we stare at each other in silence. I open my mouth to tell him thanks for the night of casual sex. Or to tell him I ruined his career with my stupid drunken blog. Instead, I blurt out, “You’re bigger than I imagined.”
He laughs and returns to his cooking.
Rattled yet somewhat mesmerized by this morning-after sexiness and the shivers his laugh causes inside me, I slip onto a barstool and watch him flip pancakes.
“So, you were imagining my penis, eh?” He grins over his shoulder.
Great. Good. I’m so happy we’re not making a big deal about this. I’ll eat my pancakes and go to work and it’ll be over.
“I figured you had to be overcompensating for something,” I say. “It’s usually the penis.”
“Or … I’m just that amazing.”
“Or … I was really drunk and I’m remembering incorrectly.”
He turns around and lifts the robe without hesitation.
“Lee!”
“Well?”
I nab a grape from a bowl on the counter and throw it at him. He laughs again and returns to the griddle.
I squirm in my seat.
Lordy. I did not remember incorrectly. He’s long and thick and wide and just…yummy.
I clear my throat, deciding how to venture into awkward territory. As much as I want to, we’re going to have to discuss what happened last night sometime. Before I can spin out of control, I finally manage to get out, “So that was one train-wreck of a date, huh? I mean it must have been if you were willing to leave early, turn down model sex, and come talk to me about the blog.”
He looks over his shoulder again. “The blog?”
“That’s why you came back, right?” To hide how anxiously I’m awaiting his answer, I munch on a grape as casually as I can. Part of me is dying for Lee to say no. I’m begging for him to say that he came back for me. But I keep my face blank as he studies me.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he finally says. “The blog.”
I crush the feelings of disappointment that he hadn’t come back for me, because this is for the best. A little hurt now will save a whole lot of pain later.
“Um, about the blog …” I start. I’m going to do it. I’m going to tell him.
But Lee jumps in before I can. “I had some investors back out because of it.”
“What?”
“Yeah, heard from them this morning. My agent is trying to do some damage control with the folks at the food network, but that’s probably off the table now, too.”
Oh no. Despite the fact he’s been off his game for a while, Lee is an amazing chef. And he’s one of my best friends. And I’d screwed things up for him, all because I hadn’t been able to handle seeing him with Sonya. “Lee, I am so sorry.”
Lee puts a plate in front of me. “For what? You didn’t do anything.”
Right now. I should tell him right now. “I’m still sorry.”
I’m terrible. I’m absolutely terrible. That was my moment to come clean and I balked.
“Eat your pancakes, Jenna,” he says. “I’ll worry about the blog.”
No amount of syrup will make this bite sweet.
“You know, who knows what will come of this. Life has a way of revealing everything in time.”
I glance up at him. His expression is thoughtful. His eyes on me dark and fiery. In their depths, I almost imagine he’s replaying everything we did to one another last night.
Suddenly, my head is filled with the same images. Or more precisely, my mind focuses once again on the images that never quite left it. I’m swamped by the memories of Lee’s touch, and how he felt and tasted and sounded as we gave ourselves to one another.
I want him again, and I almost stand and reach for him.
I barely manage to stop myself.
He’d said he’d come back for the blog, not for me.
What happened between us had just been the product of too much wine and him walking in on me while I was in the tub.
In any event, I didn’t deserve to have more with Lee. I’d ruined things with his investors and I’d lied to him.
I look away from his penetrating gaze and stuff a bite of pancake in my mouth. It tastes delicious but I barely manage to swallow it down. When I’m done, I wipe my mouth and hastily get up.
“Thanks, Lee, but I have to get to work. Afterward, let’s talk. About the blog. About your investors. How I can help.”
He remains silent for so long that I’m finally forced to look up at him.
His expression is almost tender as he stares at me. He looks like he wants to say something. Something that’s going to rock my world forever. Then he simply smiles and nods. “Okay, Jenna. Go to work. I’ll do the same—I’m actually late. And then we’ll talk. About you. And me. And the blog.”
9
Jenna
I don't think it's a good sign that everything in my office reminds me of Lee's body. That stapler there? His dick. The spines of the books lined up on my shelf? His washboard abs. The blue ink? His eyes, deep and dark in the candle light of the bathroom.
The door handle? His dick. The three-hole punch? His dick. Hell, the leg of my couch? His dick, his dick, his dick.
I lift the massive law reference book up closer to my face and try to bury myself in the yellowed pages and the tiny black print, but I just keep reading one word over and over again.
Dick.
Dick.
Oh, here's a different one: penis.
I groan and slam the book on my des
k and spin around in my chair. Okay, staring out the floor to ceiling windows from the ninety-third floor is not smart for my current predicament. Do you know what a lot of New York City skyscrapers look like?
I need to get it together. I have court this afternoon and an affidavit to record in two hours, and I haven't even started the brief for Thursday. Somehow, I don't think Judge Laxler will be as appreciative of Lee's dick as I am.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, today you have a very serious responsibility weighing down your shoulders. The question you will have to decide is if Lee's dick is the best dick. The burden is on me, the plaintiff, to prove this beyond a shadow of a doubt. And at the end of this trial, after examining the wide, long girth of evidence, I believe you'll agree with me: Lee's dick is the best.”
How many exhibits would I get through before being found in contempt of court, disbarred, and thrown in jail?
Stop thinking about Lee's body.
Stop thinking that you want him again, or that you might have a future together, too.
It's a slippery slope I want so badly to let myself slide down, but I know what pain lives at the bottom. Broken bones and torn ligaments will be nothing in comparison.
I can protect myself. Just stay in control.
So what if he came back to nurse my idiot hung over self? That doesn't mean anything.
He slept over after getting what he wanted? That doesn't mean anything, either.
He made himself late to work to cook breakfast for me and then even cleaned up after? Does not mean a damn thing.
I drop my forehead onto my desk. Repeat, Jenna Harrison, it does not mean a damn thing.
It was fun last night, and I'll leave it at that. Fun, casual, meaningless. I’ll call him after work, just like I said, but I won't see him for a few days, and by that time I'll have cleared my head of this girlish crush. Burying myself in work this week will cure my stupidity.
As hard as it is, I manage to dive into work and get through court without a hitch. When I return to my office and start packing up for the day, I begin to strategize about my phone call with Lee. First, we’ll deal with getting his investors back in the game. Then when we’ve come up with a solid plan, I’ll confess the truth to him. He’ll be so angry with me but—
“Lee?”
He’s there in the doorway, as if I magically conjured him. As I’m still reeling from his sudden appearance, he saunters in and studies my bookshelves and desk and furniture. I realize he’s never visited me at my office before, not once.
“Lee, what are you doing here?”
“So, this is your kitchen, huh?”
He traces his fingers over the spines of the books on the shelf. I bite my finger at the thought of tracing my tongue over the ridges of his abs.
“More like my prison,” I respond, ducking my teeth-imprinted finger under my desk when he turns to face me.
“White collar prison maybe.” He grins. “If you ever drop the soap in here, I'll help you out.”
“Lee.”
“Fine, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “I'll be the prison bitch.”
I laugh.
He points to me and says, “There it is.”
“I laugh all the time.”
He crosses his arms. “When was the last time you laughed here?”
“I smile all the time then.”
“When was the last time you smiled here?”
I tap my pencil against the edge of the desk. I know what the answer is: never. I don’t smile here. I exist here. I make a shit-ton of money, and I exist. Lee waits, smug in his victory, so I throw my pencil at him.
“Sometimes I make chains with my paper clips,” I say.
Lee plays along. “Thrilling.”
“And the other day, I replaced the black pushpins in the lounge bulletin board with green ones.”
“You rebel.”
“Or, if you put the books on your desk like this.” I peek under the spread book cover with the spine in the air. “It's just like a tent.”
“Who needs the great outdoors when you have dusty paper in a sterile room?”
I’m smiling so hard. This is the most fun I’ve had in my office… ever. It highlights two things for me. How much I love being with Lee. And how unsatisfied I am with work lately. Especially if lately means since the day I graduated from Harvard Law.
My food blog only shines a blinding light on how miserable I am with this job, this career. This life path in general.
When I eat at a restaurant for the blog, I'm excited. Whether it’s at a white linen-covered table or someplace more casual, the world feels like it's full of infinite possibilities. I’m excited as I wait for whatever incredible creation the chef has prepared. I happily write up my review, free to say whatever I want. After a successful blog, I see a hole in the wall nobody cared to try out flourish with lines out the door.
In the courtroom, the world feels black and white and absolutely colorless as I wait for an answer from the judge that is essentially either yes or no. I write up a brief for a case and I'm caged in, blocked off, locked up. A successful case, and I drink expensive whiskey with old men who will never, ever dare be seen in some of the restaurants I blog about.
Sure, I've considered walking out this office door and never returning, so I can devote myself full-time to my blog. How could I not? But it’s kind of ridiculous. I have an extremely well-paying, highly respected, steady and secure job. I hate it, but plenty of people have worse jobs.
It’s also safe. I glance at Lee, who's spinning the globe in the corner. Yes, safe is better.
“Lee,” I say, “not that I don't mind the reminder that I despise my job and live a laughter-less existence, but what are you doing here exactly? I mean, I know I said I would call you after work—”
“I am so very happy that you asked that question, Jenna.”
He sits himself down in the chair opposite from me and spreads out casually.
“Please, take a seat,” I grumble. “It's not like I'm at work or anything.”
“Thanks.” He plows on, oblivious to my sarcasm. “I am here in this lovely office, because you have free muffins in the lounge.”
“One question.”
Lee gestures that I may indeed ask my question.
“Actually, it’s two questions.”
“Okay.”
“One, aren't you a millionaire?”
“Yes.”
“Two, aren't you a chef?”
“Yep.”
“I rest my case.”
“Everyone enjoys a free muffin, Jenna. But I’m also here because I finally wanted to see where you worked and I could do that while we discussed action to take against the blogger.”
“Action?”
“I want to sue,” he declares.
“Sue for what, Lee?”
“Libel.”
“Then I can't help you.”
“What? Why?”
“That's not my specialty for one thing. And for another, libel or slander can only be applied when there is something salaciously inaccurate.” I pause for a moment. How do I put this delicately? “Is the blog really that wrong?”
Lee scratches the back of his neck and stands up. For a second, I think he's about to leave, but he stops. “Fine, we won't sue. But I want to find whoever wrote it.”
Even though I’d already decided to tell him it was me, my heart beats faster. “Why?”
“To confront the idiot.”
Idiot? Idiot? That blog clearly had a well thought out and reasoned argument. I mean, in between the borderline porn.
“I'm sure the person is entirely uneducated,” Lee goes on.
You’re crazy, I went to Harvard Law! I pinch my leg under the desk.
“I bet the blogger is unemployed and sits in his mom's basement eating Cheetos all day long.”
Somebody eating Cheetos in his mom's basement would not judge Lee’s food the way I did. And I have a job. Lee knows I have a job. He's in my office. Wai
t, no. Lee doesn't know I’m the one who wrote the blog.
I let out a shaky breath. Control.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if this loser was a virgin.”
“Why would you think tha–”
Shit, I almost lost it there, but I can’t listen to this anymore. Well, there’s certainly one surefire way to shut a man up.
“Lee, please close the door,” I say. “And lock it.”
I prop my foot up on my desk and wait until after he’s facing me again and I'm certain his eyes are fixated on me. Then I slide my black pump slowly, oh so slowly, across the wood grain, knocking over file after file in turn.
This isn’t going to help my current predicament. It’s just going to make it a thousand times worse. But I don’t care. Even as Lee was riling me up with his insults about the blogger, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. I want him. I always have. I always will.
I just need to keep emotion out of this. Just keep it physical.
I stand, walk up to Lee, then shove him down against the cleared desk. I take a step back. His chest heaves, while his eyes follow my hands, which I lower to the hem of my black pencil skirt. He props himself up on his elbows to get a better view, and I make sure to give him one. Leaning over so my blouse gapes open to reveal the lacy top of my bra, I snake my hand up under my skirt. I shimmy out of my thong and toss it aside on the floor.
This is just sex between two people. Nothing more.
No emotion, no feelings. He’s just a man.
Any straight man would grab my waist like he does when a woman hitches up her skirt and straddles his hips, knees on her desk.
Any dude with a dick between his legs would sigh like he does when a woman unbuttons her shirt and lets it hang down on her shoulders as she moves her hands to his belt buckle.
Any man would hiss and curse and buck his hips like he does when a woman unzips his pants, shoves down his boxers, and strokes his cock in an office separated from other people by a dangerously thin, locked door.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
But as Lee looks at me like he’s going to devour me, I know he isn’t just any man.
He’s Lee Bowers.
And if I had an ounce of self protection, I’d stop things right now.
