by Lauren Layne
The mental image of sharing a drink with Jenny Dawson and all her warm laughter and gentle voice is more appealing than it should be, and also so fucking unrealistic that I strike.
“Your cocktail’s not half as good as your blow job,” I say, taking another sip of the drink.
Fuck. Fuuucck.
Jenny looks stunned, but only for a second, because the shock’s replaced almost immediately by hurt, and I just…Fuck.
Without a word, she turns on her heel and leaves the work shed.
I swear again, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck, trying to convince myself that it’s better this way, better if she hates me, because then she won’t get any ideas. And I won’t either.
But the pain in her eyes…
I can’t.
“Jenny,” I call. “Hold up.”
She doesn’t, of course, doesn’t even slow down as she strides back toward the house. But she’s in high platform sandals that slow her pace, so I have the advantage. I catch up to her easily. “Jenny.”
She ignores me, and I maneuver myself in front of her so that her options are to run into me or stop.
She stops.
But she doesn’t meet my eyes, and then I hear it…
A sniffle.
My stomach bottoms out, and before I can think better of it, I’m reaching out, hooking my forefinger under her chin and pulling her face up to mine, hoping I’m wrong.
I’m not.
Jenny Dawson is crying.
She jerks her head back and wipes angrily at the tears on her cheek. I guess anger is better than hurt, but the fact that she doesn’t want me to see her cry makes it all the more devastating.
I’m no stranger to a woman’s tears. It took me years to figure out that Yvonne’s frequent crying outbursts were deliberate and manipulative, meant to wrap me around her little finger and get her way.
Jenny’s tears are different. They’re real. I know they’re real. And they make me want to punch something. Mainly myself.
“Why do you do that?” she asks. “Why do you work so hard to convince me that you’re not a good guy?”
“Because I’m not,” I say automatically.
“Yeah,” she says with a little laugh. “I’m getting that, believe me.”
It’s what I want, but I feel a sting of regret anyway.
“Look, princess—” I break off, unsure what I want to say. “This thing with us, it’s got to stop.”
“You didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to stop me last night.”
My cock twitches at the memory, but I shake my head. “We scratched our itch. As you said, we’re even. Anything more than that will end badly.”
“I brought you a drink, Noah. Not a wedding ring. Also, the lemon juice is from a bottle—it’s not even fresh-squeezed. You totally don’t deserve fresh-squeezed juice.”
I smile a little at that. “I was a jerk.”
She nods. “Yup.”
“I’m sorry.”
Jenny sighs and looks somewhere over my shoulder, her eyes slightly unfocused as though she’s lost in thought, before she finally looks back to me.
“You know, we’ve done this a couple times now. You’re a jerk—and I mean real, grade-A asshole stuff—and then you apologize. And I say okay. But then you do it again, and I think…”
She studies me, and I’m holding my breath, hoping she won’t say what she’s about to, even though I know she will. Even though I know I deserve it.
“I think I’m done,” she says quietly. Finally.
There it is again. The stomach drop. It’s what I wanted. What I’ve been pushing for. But it doesn’t feel right.
“Whatever this is”—she waves her hand between the two of us—”it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before. But as you said, we scratched the itch, right?”
“Right,” I say, even though I’m positive my body’s not even remotely done with hers. I’ve yet to discover her taste, or what she’ll feel like when I’m buried deep inside of her. “But—”
“It’s fine,” she interrupts, holding up her hand and leveling an unsmiling, zero-bullshit look at me. “Let’s just avoid each other as best we can until I leave.”
“Which is when?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
This time she does smile, but it’s a sad one that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m thinking the sooner the better. Aren’t you?”
No.
But I don’t say it. I don’t say anything as she sidesteps me and walks into the house.
I stand there unmoving for several minutes, wishing I’d carried my drink with me instead of leaving it in the shed. I think about going back for it, but what I really need is water, and maybe someone to explain how the hell this girl has gotten under my skin so fast and so thoroughly.
I go into the kitchen, letting the door slam behind me. I automatically search for Jenny, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
I grab a glass from the cupboard, jerking open the fridge door for the pitcher of filtered water.
It takes my brain a few seconds to register what my eyes are seeing…to put it all together.
A pitcher of the drinks she made, along with a jar labeled “lemon juice” in her girly handwriting. She lied. She did hand squeeze it.
But that’s not the most damning thing.
That would be the steak.
Steaks. Plural.
As in there are two steaks on a plate, already seasoned. There’s also a plate of vegetables carefully lined up on skewers, just waiting to be grilled.
I try to tell myself not to read into it. That maybe she’s having a friend over for dinner.
But I know better. That’s what the cocktail was for. And the dress.
Jenny Dawson was planning to cook dinner. For me.
No, for us.
And as I stand there, trying to tell myself that I dodged a bullet, all I can think is that it feels like I took the bullet right in the chest.
It also looks like maybe I made a very big mistake.
Jenny
Generally speaking, taking a bubble bath isn’t my first choice for how to spend a swampy summer evening.
But after my fight with Noah, I feel off and a little bit dirty, and for once not a single note of lyric comes forward, so I find myself filling up the tub and dumping in some of my favorite lime-blossom-scented bath gel.
Dolly trots into the bathroom to join me just as I step into the steamy water, her new penguin toy in her mouth. She curls up on the bath mat.
The company’s nice, even if the monotonous squeak of her toy isn’t.
“So, Noah’s an ass,” I tell Dolly.
Squeak.
“I know, right? We knew this. I just…I thought maybe there was a good guy under all that cranky arrogance.”
Squeak.
“No, no, you’re right,” I say, lifting a leg out of the water and watching as the soapy water slides off my calf. “Sometimes a jerk really is just a jerk. But on the plus side, maybe you can have the second steak.”
Squeak, squeak.
“Yes, you do have to share it with Ranger,” I say. “It’s too big for you to eat by yourself, and it’s not his fault he’s got a grumpy master.”
Squeak, squeak. Squeeeeeeeeak.
Dolly apparently tires of our conversation, because she hops to her paws and dashes from the bathroom, thrashing the penguin as she goes.
“Good talk,” I mutter.
I rest my head on the back of the tub as I contemplate my failed seduction. And that’s not even the right word. I just wanted to talk to the guy.
But right when I’d just begun to think that any guy who spends all day building a porch swing has to have a heart in there somewhere, he had to go and ruin it all with a crass, cruel comment.
Your cocktail’s almost as good as your blow job.
That’s twice now he’s managed to make me feel…dirty.
There won’t be another time. For anything.
I deserve far better than the
likes of Noah Maxwell. If Preston Walcott does want to sell the house, his handyman will be the first to go. I’ll find someone old and ugly and kind to watch the place while I’m gone.
I stay in the bath for a good long while. The water grows cold, which is just as well given that the outside temperature is still in the eighties, humidity batting a thousand.
Only when my stomach growls low and angry with hunger do I get out. I put on the same dress as before, but only because it’s comfortable. Not because I care any longer about the fact that it makes my boobs look perky. In fact, I don’t bother to put on the cute pink bra I was wearing earlier.
It’s not like it’d be getting any admirers.
I open my bedroom door and head toward the stairs, Dolly trotting along beside me, penguin in tow.
I’m halfway down the stairs when my nose registers the smell of something cooking.
I sniff again, frowning when I realize it’s the potatoes I bought, planning to bake them for me and Noah later.
Is he seriously helping himself to the food I bought? It’s ballsy, even for him. Not that we haven’t shared groceries, but usually he cooks at his place.
I’m ready to rip him a new one as I go charging into the kitchen, but he’s not there.
A quick peek in the oven verifies that yes, he is baking my potatoes.
Two of them. Pig.
I step onto the back porch, following it around to the side of the house, instinctively moving toward the grill that Noah installed last week at Preston’s request but which hasn’t yet gotten any use.
He turns when I come around the corner.
He doesn’t smile. But he’s been waiting for me, braced for this exact moment. I know by the bottle of white wine in the ice bucket and the fact that there are two glasses.
He’s also found the steaks in the fridge. They’re here, waiting to be grilled.
I stare at him in confusion, registering that he’s showered. His hair’s still wet, and he’s changed from his sweaty work outfit to a blue knit polo and khaki shorts.
He says nothing, and I want to rail at him. To tell him that he doesn’t get to treat me like garbage and then help himself to my food just because they’re some really sexy-looking rib eyes.
I want to tell him that the wine and the change of clothes doesn’t make up for the things that he says, and I want to tell him exactly where he can shove the big-ass barbecue tool that he sets back down.
Ranger’s lounging at Noah’s feet, his tail thumping happily when he sees me. He gets up and searches around for Dolly, who’s opted to stay in the house and defile the penguin, and then lies back down with a sigh when he doesn’t see her.
I look back to Noah.
He meets my eyes, and I see it.
The regret is something I expect and can walk away from.
But the hope in his eyes gets to me.
Please, his eyes say. Stay.
And damn it, now I feel like crying again, only for a different reason. No matter how much this complicated guy thinks he doesn’t need anyone or anything, there’s a coarse vulnerability there that nearly undoes me.
“Just so you know, I was going to make you do the cooking anyway,” I say quietly as I step closer to him. “I don’t really know my way around steak, and I know nothing pisses off a man quicker than overcooked meat.”
His eyes flash in relief even as he smiles in victory, reaching for the wine bottle. “Pretty sure there’s a euphemism in there somewhere, and not a flattering one.”
Noah hands me a glass of the wine, but when I reach out to take it, he doesn’t release the glass until I look up at him.
“Two things,” he says. “One, I am sorry. I know I only get so many of the asshole/apology routines, but don’t doubt that the apologies are genuine. Two, I’m still not looking for a girlfriend. Or even a fling. I want to be up front about that.”
“What about a wife?”
Noah turns dead white, and I bust up laughing.
“Joking,” I say. “Look, I just…we’re here, we’re drawn to each other. I don’t think it would kill us to know a little more about the other person.”
His eyes narrow, slightly wary, but he nods slowly. “Fine. I’ll start. It would be helpful to know how you like your steak cooked.”
“Medium,” I say. “And it would be helpful for me to know where you’re from. What’s your story?”
“How would that be helpful?” He takes a sip of wine.
“Because it would help me understand why you have such a low opinion of women.”
He blows out a breath. “Wow. I deserved that.”
I shrug and head toward the railing, rattling it slightly to determine if it’ll support my weight. Noah moves up behind me, and I suck in a breath at his closeness. “I fixed it the other day.”
He takes the wine from my fingers, setting it aside as I turn around. Then, before I can brace myself for his touch, his hands are on my hips as he hoists me easily onto the railing.
I laugh a little, surprised to find my feet dangling in the air as I reach an arm out to the post on my right for support. “You’re good for a girl’s ego, lifting her easily like she’s all tiny and light as a feather.”
He blinks. “You are tiny.”
I smile, because there’s absolutely zero intent to flirt on his face, and it’s…well, flattering.
“Clearly you didn’t hear about my pregnancy a few weeks back,” I say.
He pauses in the process of handing me my wine, horror-stricken.
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly,” I say, snatching the wine. “I’m not, by the way. Pregnant, I mean. Never was.”
I lift a glass in a mocking toast.
“Who said that you were?”
“Oh, everyone,” I say, waving my wineglass around. “I’ve got a belly pooch on the best of days, and on the not-so-good days, admittedly, it could look like a baby.”
He stares at me. “A belly pooch.”
“Yeah. You know.” I tap my palm against my not so terribly flat stomach.
His eyes drift over me, lingering not on my stomach but on my breasts. My thighs. Suddenly I’m aware that I’m still wearing this dress and that I’ve skipped the bra.
“You live in a weird world if that world thinks your body’s anything short of perfect,” he says gruffly.
Just like that, I go hotter. With embarrassment at being so thoroughly studied, and also with want, and with being, well…wanted.
I want to beg him to touch me, but after last night…Nope. Ball’s in his court. If he wants me, he’ll have to tie me to the bed.
I mean, not really.
Or maybe really, I think, as I imagine what it would be like to be completely at his mercy, his hands everywhere, his mouth, hungry, exploring…
“It’s not perfect,” I blurt out.
“What?”
“My body.” I bite my lip. “I mean…it’s surprisingly gentlemanly of you to say so, but sometimes I feel like I’m twice the size of the girls in Hollywood.”
“Which is exactly why I don’t live in Hollywood. And you shouldn’t either,” he says, turning and lifting the lid of the grill. He holds the back of his fingers a few inches above the grill, testing if it’s preheated, before he grabs the plate with the veggie kebabs I painstakingly put together with pieces of onion, mushroom, and bell pepper and lays them on the grill.
I tilt my head and study him.
“Who are you, Noah Maxwell?”
His shoulders stiffen for a moment before he seems to force himself to relax. He turns around. “What do you mean?”
“How did you get this job?”
He picks up his wine, and my eyes narrow slightly at the way he swirls it and takes a sip, almost as though it’s a habit. Which makes no sense. To be honest, it’s jarring enough that a guy like Noah is even drinking white wine. That he knows the whole swirl-and-sniff rigmarole is…interesting.
“Walcott hired me,” he says, by way of a (lame) answer to my questi
on.
I roll my eyes. “You know, it’s always been my sister that’s the smart one, but believe it or not, I figured out that much on my own.”
“You have a sister?”
I nod. “Kelly. She’s only nineteen, but she’ll graduate from Georgia Tech next year. She skipped a bunch of grades.”
“You don’t seem bothered by it.”
I shrug. “Why would I be? I’m proud of her. And her of me. I mean, I’m not going to say that we’re not totally different, and yeah, sometimes we struggle to find common ground when we talk. But I have no issue calling her the smart one.”
“Does that make you the pretty one?”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “Did you just call me pretty?”
He doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. “You know you are, princess.”
“Jenny Dawson the country music star is pretty, I guess. By the time they add my hair extensions and eyelash extensions and fourteen layers of makeup, I look the part of country pop princess. I get that. But when it’s just me, the real Jenny Dawson, I don’t know. Cute at best.”
“And who is the real Jenny Dawson?”
I glance down at my wine. “Will you laugh at me if I say I’m just a small-town girl?”
“Only if you tell me you’re livin’ in a lonely world.”
I laugh. “Noah Maxwell, I do believe there’s a bit of humor under there beneath all that crust.”
“Crust?”
I wave a hand over him. “You know. The scowl. The dickhead comments. The glares.”
“Aren’t scowls and glares the same thing?”
“Don’t dodge the question. Seriously, what’s your story?”
It’s his turn to look down at his wine. “Just a city boy…born and raised in South Detroit.”
I laugh again, wishing I had something to throw at him. “You were not.”
He smiles slightly. “Nope. I’ve told you before, I’m from Baton Rouge. Just outside it, actually.”
I motion for him to continue. “More, please. Keep it coming.”
He rolls his eyes but surprises me by answering. “Village St. George.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“It is. And it’s not. Depends which side you’re from.”
“And which side are you from?” I ask gently.
