“Why did you even put the pearl onions in when you don’t like them?” I sounded abrupt, maybe even somewhat belligerent.
Jon raised his brows at me. “For the flavor. I can enjoy the flavor without eating the things. And you like onions.” He nodded at my clean bowl.
“Is that supposed to be some kind of metaphor?”
He laughed, a huff of breath that came out a little exasperated. “No, Amy. It’s an answer to your question. You want to tell me why you are angry now?”
“I’m not.”
“You can tell me. I won’t walk away from you.”
“I would tell you if I was angry, but I’m not.”
He steepled his fingers together, tapping them against his nose as he leaned his elbows on the table. “Coming from what we do, you and I are both adept at disguising how we really feel. Particularly the emotions that might set other people off. When you grow up with people who lose their shit when challenged, who have zero stability of their own and so can’t handle negative feelings from anyone else, particularly in their own family, you learn how to manage them—and one of the ways you do that is by pretending you’re not angry or upset when you are.”
“Wow.” I stood and gathered our plates. “Aren’t you just so much more evolved than I am? Thanks for dinner. I’ll do the dishes.”
Jon stood, too, and took my wrists. “Fuck the dishes.” He said it gently, even conversationally. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t have anything to say.”
“Bullshit.” He smiled at me. “You asked me a question, then stopped me from answering.”
“I decided I didn’t want to know.”
“Okay. That’s honest.” He kissed me on the nose, then took the dishes out of my hands. “I’ll load the dishwasher. You finish clearing the table.”
“Yes, sir, O Captain, my Captain.”
He tossed me a grin over his shoulder. “See how well we understand each other?”
I made a face at his back, but gathered up the salad plates and other silverware. Jon was rinsing the stew bowls and stacking them in the dishwasher. “Aren’t those clean dishes?”
“Hmm?” He cocked a brow at me.
“You got our salad plates out of there… wait.” I frowned realizing that had been to the left of the sink. “You have two dishwashers?”
“Efficient.” He took the plates from me. “One is always full of clean dishes, the other ready for dirty ones.”
“You mean, you don’t put your dishes away?”
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Sometimes, but really, why bother? In the dishwasher or in the cupboard, it’s all the same.”
“That just seems… really wrong.” I went in the other room and retrieved the leftover salad. “Do you have a container for this?”
“Second drawer down are those magnetic cover things. Just plop it on top and stick it in the fridge. And it’s not wrong—just a different way of thinking about it. Of course,” he said, glancing up at me with a smile, “you’ve always been far more meticulous about keeping things neat than me.”
“I just don’t know how you keep them straight,” I complained. “At my house it would be total chaos—and Marcia even has one of those flippy magnets that says clean on one side and dirty on the other and we’re still always getting it wrong.”
“But there’s a few of you, right?”
“Five, yes.”
“See, here there’s only me, but if you start hanging out here more, then we might need one of those flippy magnets.”
That jarred me out of the easy rhythm of cleaning up I’d begun to relax into. “Jon, I—”
“Don’t need to think about that.” He gave me a fast kiss, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “The Dutch oven will have to soak a while. Cut my hair in here?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“As much as possible,” he agreed. “The light’s best in here and it’ll be easiest to sweep up.”
“Fine, fine.” I couldn’t keep the reproving frown on my face, shaking my head and smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“Not at all,” he replied, very seriously. “I’m absolutely possible. Keep that in mind.”
~ 16 ~
Jon set a chair in the center of the brightest point of the focused track lights, pulled off his shirt, and sat, wearing only his jeans. He nodded his head at a line of supplies at the corner of the counter. “I think that’s everything you need.”
Biting my tongue on asking if he worked out—because that wouldn’t make it obvious I’d been looking at his chest or anything—I perused the combs, spray bottle, and gleaming sharp scissors laid out for me. All looked new. “Did you go buy this stuff?”
He looked over his shoulder, smiling wryly. “Yeah. I had combs, of course, but they were kind of gross, so I figured you’d make me get rid of them anyway. Figured best to buy new. I think I got it all.”
“I think you did.” The bottle already had water in it—the man had planned this evening to the last detail—so I spritzed his hair and dragged the comb through it, the thick curls resisting. “How do you want it?”
“Cutter’s choice. You always do a good job.”
“Not always. Remember when I tried that shag I saw in a magazine?” I giggled at the memory of how he’d looked.
“Hey!” He sounded injured. “I loved the cut. Very now. Or then,” he amended.
“Yes, well—you were always very tolerant of my experiments.”
“Experimentation is the mother of invention.”
“I thought that was necessity.”
“One drives the other.” He was quiet a moment, and I started snipping. “No one else seems to be able to cut my hair as well as you did.”
“Because you have weird hair.”
“And you have talent for knowing how things should look. Did you cut Brad’s hair?” He tried to sound all nonchalant, but I saw right through him on that one.
“As if. Brad used a real stylist.” Wisps of hair fell on shoulders broader and more developed than I remembered, the dark strands curling into semicircles.
“So you don’t cut anyone’s hair anymore?”
“I sometimes do up my housemates’ hair for a special date or something. Sometimes that involves a trim—makeup, too, if they’re feeling bold.”
“Bold?”
“Well, they always complain that I make them look not like themselves.”
“Tell me about them—did you meet them at Northwestern?”
Oh, right. Jon didn’t know my friends. And they didn’t know him, or even about him, arguably my oldest friend. The thought caught me in a strange moment, realizing how thoroughly I’d separated my past from my present. Uneasily, I also realized that I’d been planning much the same for my future—going off into my new life with Brad.
I wouldn’t have blown the rest of the Fab Five off completely, though, would I? With a bit of shocked chagrin, I reviewed my fantasies of married life. After the image of my four best friends dressed up to be my bridesmaids, they hadn’t figured into that future at all.
There was something intensely wrong with me.
“You okay back there?”
“Fine.” I started snipping again, discovering I’d paused, poleaxed by the discovery of what I cold bitch I was. “Just picturing the look I’m going for so I don’t make any mistakes.”
“Mistakes are okay, too,” he said easily, reaching a hand back to pet the part of me he could reach, which happened to be the exposed skin between my skirt and the top of my boot. “Errors refine the objective.”
I laughed. “More science wisdom?”
“Absolutely. So, there’s Marcia, Julie, and…?”
“Charley and Ice. And yes, I met them at Northwestern.”
“Ice is really her name?”
“Anaisa. She’s Indian—East Indian—in med school at U of Chicago. Super smart, immensely compassionate. She’ll be a terrific doctor someday. But she’s having
a rough time of it this semester. I’m not sure why.”
“No idea at all?”
“I can guess. She’s looking at starting her residency soon and I think her family sees that as the time for her to get serious and find a husband, too.”
“But she’s not seeing anyone?”
“Ice sees everyone,” I said on a laugh. “She gets around like nobody’s business. So did Charley—Charlotte—until she hooked up with Daniel Holt.”
“Holt, like in Holt Towers?”
“The very same. Charley is in theater. She’s gorgeous, amazing singing voice, dancing, acting, you name it. She and Ice were freshman roommates.” I left out how they’d made up the Rules to put standards on their sleeping around. We’d finally formalized that no one talks about the Rules. It’s not exactly fight club, but it’s no one’s business either. Especially not the guys being rated. “Julie and Marcia were roommates, too, next door to Ice and Charley. Julie wants to be a chef—she works down at Batafurai—and Marcia works at Holt, in the perfume department. She wants to be a nose.”
“The person who formulates fragrances? Cool. I always thought that would be fun.”
“I’m surprised you know that.” I moved around to his front, and he spread his knees to let me get closer, hands brushing the sides of my skirt as if to steady me. Okay, fine.
“I know many things. And it’s chemistry. So, how did you get looped in with this group?”
“Julie and I were in advanced freshman comp together—you know, the special small one for the kids who tested out of the cattle class. She’s from New Jersey and super smart, too.”
“I love the smart girls.” Jon lifted his hands to my hips, settling them on the curve. I decided to allow it. “So, you began to hang with them?”
“Yes—usually all five of us ended up in Ice and Charley’s room. When we moved off campus, we found an apartment big enough for all of us. After graduation—college, I mean—we moved into this big house. It’s really great. I mean, they are.”
He was quiet, watching me as I trimmed the hair over his ears, making sure it was even and also just long enough to keep them from looking like Dumbo ears, which he hated. “I’m glad you found your people,” he finally said. “People who love you for you. I’d like to meet them.”
I flicked my eyes to his for a moment before studying his hair. “You would, huh?”
“Of course.” When I didn’t say anything, instead focusing on shaping the top, he said, “I’m surprised Marcia didn’t hook up with the Holt guy, if she works with him.”
“Well, that’s actually a story. Marcia did some underhanded matchmaking hooking Charley up with Daniel, and then Charley paid her back with same. So Marcia, who was a virgin until just recently, is now happily banging Damien. But before that, they had this knock-down, drag-out over Thanksgiving dinner. Very uncomfortable, and Brad had a shit fit because—” I caught myself. I’d dropped my guard in the rhythm of telling the story.
Jon’s hands flexed on my hips. “Because?”
“It’s not important.”
“Is that why you broke up?”
“Not even close. Why do you keep asking me about that?”
“Because you’re clearly upset about it and I’m willing to listen.”
I considered him. He tipped his head back, returning the look without guile. But something lurked in his gaze. “Is that the only reason?”
His lips quirked. “I admit to a less than admirable desire to enjoy the downfall of my rival. And I’d like to learn from his mistakes, so I won’t screw up like he did.”
“Why do you think he screwed up?”
“Because he’d be out of his mind to dump you. He was all over you at that party.” Jon managed not to sound too bitter, but it leaked in. “So he was clearly into you. And you told me that you’d talked marriage. I didn’t like him, but you seemed all happy about the idea. I figured he did something to make you change your mind. But I won’t know unless you tell me.”
“I don’t want to discuss it.” I set the scissors and comb aside, then brushed the hairs off his shoulders. A mistake, as the velvety texture of his skin over the strong muscles distracted me. Unable to resist, I set both hands on his shoulders, squeezing a little. Jon’s hands tightened on my hips, drawing me closer. He still had his head tipped back to look at me, gaze intent, a question in his eyes. “You’re different than I remember,” I finally said, by way of explanation. “You must work out or something.”
Great, Amy. Way to blurt that out after you resolved not to.
“I grew more in college—a couple inches taller and filled out quite a bit. And then, yeah, exercise endorphins helped the depression, so I started running, swimming, weightlifting. You still run.” He said it like a fact, his hands sliding behind my hips, then over my bottom, eyes steady on mine, still asking that unspoken question.
“Yes,” I breathed. “Gotta love those endorphins.”
“How far?”
“Six miles, most days.”
“Bet I could keep up with you now.” He urged me closer, though I could hardly be much closer. So, drunk on the odd intimacy, the strange sense of belonging, I bent and kissed him, taking him up on the implicit offer. He opened his mouth to me, drawing me in, our tongues tangling. I ran my hands over his shoulders, the stray hairs gritty over his hot skin, and his hands tightened on my bottom. He groaned, almost a growl of hunger, and it speared through me. Giving into it, I lifted a leg and straddled his lap. He helped, lifting me into place so I sat on him, my skirt riding up—helped along by the greedy slide of his hands up my thighs. I didn’t mind because it let me press more fully against him, something I was suddenly desperate to do.
I pushed my crotch against his hardness, the ridge of his jeans driving me wild through the thin lace of my panties, which seemed to be soaked all of a sudden. Jon rucked my skirt out of the way, tracing the line of the lace thong, then exploring the naked globes of my bottom.
“Holy shit,” he muttered into my mouth. “You always had the best ass.”
I drowned the words with a harder kiss, my hands mussing the hair I’d so carefully cut, finding the short stubble at the back of his neck so sexy for no particular reason. Jon moved his mouth from mine, kissing down my throat and into the open vee of my blouse. He licked the upper curves of my breasts and I arched into it, holding onto his neck and offering more. He took, kissing me over the lace bra, biting my nipples lightly through the thin material, making me cry out, grinding myself against him in a frenzy of need.
He slipped a hand between us and into my panties, fingers sliding into my slick folds. “So hot,” he muttered. “So wet. Amy. My Amy.”
I fastened my mouth on his neck, finding that sweet spot where it met his strong shoulder, digging my nails into the bulge of his pecs and riding his fingers, drowning myself in the sweet bliss of it. He pushed a finger inside me, pressing my clit with his thumb, and I came. Suddenly, intensely, a wrenching orgasm that pounded through my body, scouring me of breath and thought and feeling.
Clinging to him, I threw my head back and screamed.
~ 17 ~
I hung there, shocked at myself, then buried my face in his shoulder, riding out the shuddering aftershocks. Trying to catch my breath again, find my stride. I felt as if I’d suddenly stumbled in the fifth mile, cruising along on the high and then finding myself on the ground, not sure how I’d fallen.
I like sex. I’ve had plenty of it—and I’m not one who has a tricky time with orgasms. But rarely had one consumed me entirely like that. Never mind that it had been strictly against the Rules.
Plus, it was Jon. I’d just come all over his hand, which was still buried between my legs, where he caressed me almost soothingly. He stroked my back with the other hand. Not making a move for more.
Which made me feel guilty. I needed to offer to reciprocate, but now that my head had cleared of the reckless lust, I felt awkward. And self-conscious. “Wow,” I managed.
He
didn’t comment, just moved his hand to my thigh, where it rested damp from being inside me. I wanted to close my legs, but that would involve a production. I should offer a blow job or something, dazzle him with my skills. Brad had liked that.
And then it felt all wrong and weird. I regretted thinking about Brad. I wondered if Jon would get mad if I said I wanted to leave. I should never have let things go this far.
Jon chuckled. “Should I save you the trouble of making up an excuse and tell you it’s fine if you want to go home now?”
Stricken, feeling more than a little exposed, I lifted my head. Jon met my gaze, affectionate amusement in his eyes. “I could feel you gradually tense up. Which is kind of the opposite of the point of good sex.”
“Well, really, you only got me off. I should—”
He stopped me by putting his hands on my waist, lifting me off of him and onto my feet, then carefully straightening my skirt. “Don’t make this transactional.”
I frowned at him. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Okay.” He carefully ran his hands over my hips, as if checking for any wrinkles in the skirt, for once not meeting my eyes. “I liked this,” he said, finally looking into my face. “I liked being with you that way, being able to do that for you. If you want to come to bed with me, stay the night, I’d love that—but not because you think you owe me something.”
“I have to work in the morning,” I said, realizing as I did that he’d accurately predicted me.
“I know.” He smiled, nothing judgmental in it. “I’ve waited this long for my chance with you. No sense blowing it now by pressuring you. I know how you like to be the one to plan things out, to know what’s going to happen.”
“I do?”
“Always. Like how you hate surprises, because you can’t get ahead of the situation. I’ve always understood that.”
Missed Connections Box Set Page 35
