Chore Play

by Piper Rayne

“I’m Victoria, by the way. Jagger’s assistant.”

  I nod. “Quinn.”

  “And how do you two know each other? The big guy is being tight-lipped.” She thumbs back his way and Jagger steps forward, cupping her elbow in his palm.

  “Bye, Victoria.”

  She doesn’t startle, and she doesn’t pull away. There’s no jealousy in her gaze while she appraises me, so I’m guessing Jagger can keep it in his pants at work. How cliché to be fucking your secretary.

  I say nothing, more because my brain is processing everything at a dial-up internet speed, either from this quick turn of events or from the amount of cold and flu meds in my bloodstream.

  “I should get back to the office.” She places her hand on my shoulder, sliding past me in the doorway. “Really, I’m going home, but don’t tell him that,” she whispers, laughing.

  “You’re about as quiet as a police siren.” Jagger’s deep voice surprises her. She laughs again. He raises his eyebrows.

  I’m reluctant to admit that I’m envious of their relationship. It appears so easy, so comfortable. Once upon a time…

  “Caught me.” Her focus turns back to me. “It was nice meeting you, Quinn. Whatever you did to make him leave the office and cut off all communication for the day…good job. Keep it up.”

  “Thanks?” I respond, because I never asked him to stay. In fact, I’d prefer if he didn’t.

  “Oh.” She backtracks like she’s dancing the cha-cha. “I am not responsible for your fridge.”

  “Goodbye, Victoria,” Jagger barks.

  She waves her hand at waist level. “Bye.”

  My eyes lock with Jagger’s as we wait to hear the front door shut. Which it does seconds later, the walls so thin we hear her engine starting and her tires squealing out of the driveway.

  He doesn’t look as disheveled now, and much to my dismay I can’t help but worry that Victoria did something to loosen him up. His shirt sleeves are still rolled up, revealing the rippling muscles of his forearms, but his pants are now back down to his ankle, his toenails perfectly clipped and filed in an example of expert manscaping.

  “How are you feeling?” He wears no sexy smile, in fact he looks concerned, but still I want to climb him.

  I can’t believe that after everything he put me through my damn body is betraying me like this.

  “A little better. I wanted to thank you and tell you that you can leave before I go take a shower.”

  His chest rises and falls, his eyes flaring before his gaze darts down to my breasts. “I’ll stay. I’m going to make you soup, which would have been done, except for Victoria’s proclivity for overstaying her welcome.” He opens the fridge and I spy five cartons of what I’m guessing is soup.

  My chest warms from his act of kindness, but I refuse to let myself go there. “I’m not hungry,” I say in a clipped tone.

  His lips dip down as though I just ruined his day. “You should try to eat something. Go take a shower, I’ll get it started.”

  “Jagger.” I sigh. “Thank you for today—I appreciate the fact that you’ve disinfected my entire downstairs—but I’m good.”

  “Just let me heat you up the soup.” It comes out sounding like a plea and I’m still confused as to why he’d want to do anything for me. He made it clear how he really felt about me back when I was sixteen.

  “Why? As some sort of an apology? It’s been fourteen years. Believe me, I’ve moved on.”

  His forehead scrunches and a crease forms between his brows. “I’m not doing this as an apology.”

  A huff leaks out of me. “Should have known you didn’t think you needed to apologize.”

  “I didn’t say that.” The softness of his tone stokes my anger. “I am sorry, but I’m doing this because you’d do it for me.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “I’d put poison in your soup.” Not really, but maybe some Visine so he’d get a night of diarrhea.

  “There’s the tell-it-like-it-is girl I remember.” He approaches me, and I beg my feet to step back. To keep the distance between us before I do something I’ll regret. “It’s been a long time and I want to catch up. Find out what you’ve been up to. We were friends once.” He takes my hands in his, and I only let my hand stay there because I’m willing my germs to spread onto him so he can spend the next several days feeling as sick as I have. That’s what I tell myself anyway.

  “Friends?” I ask.

  His eyes roll, and he tilts his head. We both know we were more, but where I thought we were that couple who found each other early in life, to him I was just the girl who came to live with her dad every summer that he’d have a summertime romance with until he went off to college.

  He gives me a pleading look and I can’t be bothered to fight with him. He’s as stubborn as ever and all I really want right now is a nice, hot shower.

  “One night, Jagger. I’ll go take a shower, you heat up the soup. I’ll give you tonight. Then you leave, and we continue living our lives separately.”

  He squeezes my hand, his smile growing wider. “Perfect.”

  He thinks I’ll fold like I always did. He thinks after one night, I’ll be that naive girl who trusts with an open heart. Shows how little he knows about who I am now.

  Jagger releases my hand and I hate the fact I miss his touch already. How after all these years does he still have that stupid hold on me?

  Heading upstairs, I mentally tell myself to toughen up. When I reach the bathroom, I close my eyes and remember the vision that shredded my heart as if Edward Scissorhands held it.

  Once the warm water is cascading down my body, I place my hands on the tile, allowing the heat and steam to clear my congested head and ease my aching muscles, hoping it will help me think clearly. I purposely don’t shave my legs, which showcase four days’ worth of growth. If it wasn’t for the bikini wax I got the other day, I wouldn’t have cleaned up my seventies bush either. It all acts like an electrical fence to keep Jagger’s hands off my body. Because if he gets to that, I might as well take my heart out of my chest and use a pickaxe to destroy it.

  I grab a pair of leggings and a long shirt and place thick socks over my feet. My wet hair is pulled high up on my head and I forego any make-up. He needs to know he’s not worth my time to look presentable.

  The scent of fresh bread floats upstairs and I catch sight of my office before I join Jagger.

  “Shit,” I mumble, moving over to the door, shutting then locking it. I grab the key from the top of the doorframe and toss it on the small table near the door. Our accidental reunion today is bad enough—no need to make things worse.

  “Good strategy.” Jagger peeks over his shoulder, hearing me walk into the kitchen. “Trying to look as unattractive as you can.”

  I huff.

  Asshole.

  He rests the spoon ladle against the side of the pot, moving closer to me. “Unfortunately for you, you’re always beautiful and you can’t hide your sex appeal, but kudos for trying.”

  My back hits the counter and I grip my hands around the edge on either side of my body. One night. I can so do this.

  “Where do you want to eat?” he asks, giving me some space and returning to the stove to ladle the soup into two bowls. He opens the oven door and inside is the loaf of bread I smelled upstairs.

  “You baked bread?” I ask in disbelief.

  He chuckles. “I haven’t changed that much, Belle. The place with the soup sells it half-baked.” His strong hands grip the loaf using two pot holders and he places it on the cutting board. He’s been in my things. Searching in drawers for utensils and cabinets for pots. I hate that warmth spreading inside of me.

  “It would be nearly impossible for Jagger Kale to change.”

  He glances over his shoulder again, but doesn’t argue. “Let’s cut back on the insults, shall we?” He holds the two bowls of soup in his hands. “Now sit somewhere, so I can serve you.”

  “Table,” I say. Couches are too intimate and suggest a relations
hip where we’re familiar with each other. At least in the present tense.

  “Safe bet. I see not much has changed with Quinn Ryan either.”

  I shake my head, rolling my eyes. Whatever.

  “Let’s just get this over with.” I round the counter, almost knocking into him, but I sidestep at the last minute.

  Disappointment almost sets in when he doesn’t reach out to touch me. Almost.

  I plop down on the chair, and my face droops.

  “I thought it was chicken noodle?” I ask, my voice cracking.

  He chuckles softly to himself. “Is baked potato not your favorite anymore?” he asks, his forearms flexing as he cuts the bread. Depositing the pieces into a bowl, he walks toward me, sitting down way too close for my liking.

  “It is,” I murmur. “I’m surprised—”

  “That I remembered?” he asks, picking up the spoon himself.

  That first summer break when I was shipped to my dad’s so my mom could take a months-long trip through Europe with her boyfriend runs like a slide show in my brain. That’s when he first discovered my favorite soup. If I tried hard I could almost make myself believe it’s been months, not years.

  “Tell me, Quinn, how long have you been hiding out in L.A.?” he asks, and I narrow my eyes at him.

  “I’m not hiding.”

  “Why didn’t you call me then?”

  Is he really this ignorant? “I figured you were busy.” I tilt my head with a condescending expression. One I can tell he doesn’t like.

  “I do get busy most nights.” His words sting like he meant them to.

  I gobble down three spoonfuls of my soup, trying to cut this dinner short. “Well then, I’d hate to keep you from anything tonight.”

  He leans back in his chair. Did his body always take up so much space or is he bigger now?

  “Nah, I’m where I want to be.” He shrugs.

  “Surely you have business to attend to.” Yeah, I’ve been curious enough over the years to keep up with what Jagger was doing, and being one of the biggest celebrity agents in town, he shouldn’t have time to be nursing me back to health.

  “No Hollywood crises today.” He dips his piece of bread into his soup. “When did you come back?”

  Back? Los Angeles was never my home, more like a pit stop. “A few months ago. My dad—”

  “What? Is he okay?” His chocolate-colored eyes are filled with concern. “Last time I saw him was fourteen years ago, right before he sold the house in Malibu.”

  I nod. “He’s fine, living in the Hollywood Hills now.”

  “Good. And what do you do?”

  I glance up from spooning my soup. “Just freelance stuff.”

  “That’s vague.” He raises those eyebrows at me once again.

  “I write. Freelance gigs for some magazines and things.”

  His lips lift, and my stomach flips a few times. “I always had a feeling you’d be a writer.”

  “Yeah, well, my love of reading kind of inspired it.”

  “No fiction, though?” he asks. “I figured you’d write fiction…you always had your nose in a book.”

  I concentrate on my soup. “Um…I’m in the process of writing a book…my bread and butter is the freelance stuff.”

  “That’s awesome. So, what was the last book you read, Belle?” he asks me and the nickname that used to make me giddy brings a nauseated feeling inside of me.

  “I’ve been bogged down with deadlines. I haven’t had a chance since I returned.” If he only knew my love for reading hasn’t sparked since returning to L.A. Maybe because I hole myself up in my office and never venture out. Although I told myself I didn’t care, the reality of his presence in the same city as me had me terrified that I might run into him.

  “I never knew you not to have a book with you.”

  I shrug. “Things change.”

  “Not everything changes.” He holds my gaze for a second and the weight of all that happened stretches between us. Finally, he pushes his bowl away from himself and leans back in the chair.

  “What about you? What have you read lately?” I ask.

  “The book fairy stopped leaving me books on my bed.”

  As hard as I try to keep my lips straight, I fail. “They have these things called bookstores. You can even order online and have them shipped directly to your house.”

  “I’m a busy man.”

  No doubt he is, judging by the array of images a Google search reveals.

  His phone rings, breaking up our conversation, and he glances down. “Excuse me for a second,” he says, standing and sliding out the back door.

  With him gone, I take our two bowls to the sink, rinsing them off and putting them in the dishwasher. As quickly as I can move without heaving for a breath, I pour the soup into a Tupperware container, put the container in the fridge and toss the bread into a bag.

  Jagger returns a few minutes later, his gaze casting around the room.

  “To think I was going to tell you I had to get out of here.” He shrugs on his suit jacket and sits on my breakfast stool, putting on his socks and shoes. Like that, he’s back to professional and put-together. No one would think he just cleaned my house and made me dinner.

  “I figured.”

  His eyes lock with mine for a second, the tips of his lips lifting in that classic smirk. “It was nice catching up with you. I’ll be back tomorrow to do the upstairs.”

  “No, Jagger. You’ve done enough.”

  “Do you want Marisol to kick my ass?” He swings his computer bag over his shoulder.

  “How is she doing?”

  “That was Isa. She said that tomorrow they have her going in for some tests.”

  “Then that’s where you should be tomorrow.” I purposely stay on the other side of the counter.

  His brown eyes study me for an uncomfortable moment. “I will be, but if I show up without finishing the job here, she’ll throw me out.”

  I giggle, remembering the way she’d smack him over the head whenever he did something stupid. She was the only one to discipline him and the only person whose opinion he seemed to care about.

  “So.” He holds up the key to my house. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning?”

  I let out an aggravated sigh. “Do you ever take no for an answer?”

  He winks. “If I did, I wouldn’t be the infamous Jagger Kale. See you in the morning.”

  He walks out of my house and my body crumples to the floor, all the strength and false bravado from earlier slipping away.

  I’m in so much trouble.

  5

  Jagger

  For the first time in I don’t remember how long, I stayed home last night. I fought the urge to go to my parents’ house in Malibu where I stupidly wanted to be because it was the last place Quinn and I were together.

  I know she’s only putting up with me because she’s a good person and because she’s nice. Isn’t that the whole reason she didn’t cut off my dick and superglue it to my forehead all those years ago? Instead, she quietly snuck out of my house, hiding her tears until there were no witnesses. She might be too good for me, but seeing her again sparked that burning craving to feel her in my arms again.

  I never forgot her. Never stopped thinking about where she was and what she might be doing. Who she might be spending her life with. I never bothered to look her up because I knew that one glance at a Facebook profile pic or an Instagram photo and the weight of regret would threaten to bury me. I did what I did, and I can’t change it.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I knock on her front door rather than letting myself in, not risking a concussion by dildo.

  She opens the door, and either seeing me has sparked something inside of her or she has somewhere to go, because she looks phenomenal.

  “I got you a coffee.” I hold it out for her.

  She glances down, our fingertips brushing as we pass it between us. “Thanks.” She widens the door, allowing me to step in with Marisol
’s bucket of cleaning supplies. I can tell she’s still not comfortable with my presence here, which, I can’t lie, is like a punch to the balls.

  “I see you’re a little more prepared today.” Her gaze roams up and down my body.

  “I have a change of clothes in my car.” I thumb in the direction of my Spyder. I’m not going into the office after, but I’m not showing up to the hospital in running shorts and my Stanford t-shirt.

  “No doubt a suit.” She sips her coffee and walks up two stairs before glancing behind her. “I’ll show you the way.”

  I follow her, admiring the way her shorts cling to her ass as it sways in front of me. She’s not trying to be sexy, unlike the girls I take home with me—the ones who bend at the waist, purposely showing me the edges of their lace bras or the fact that they’re not wearing bras at all. Quinn is reserved and has no fucking idea how sexy she is. She doesn’t know that the slight curve of her hips makes my dick chub with the thought of what it would feel like to have my hands on them again, or that her slender, long legs practically leave me panting when I think of them around my waist, or that the soft curve of her neck makes my mouth water for a taste.

  “Jagger.” She’s standing at the top of the stairs, shaking her head like a displeased mom.

  I snap my gaze to her, placing the bucket down on the ground.

  “This is my room. I’ve already made the bed, if you just want to dust and then clean the bathroom.” She points down the hall. “That room is my office and a clusterfuck that I’m not ready to touch, so don’t bother in there. There’s another bathroom over here, but honestly, no one has used it since I moved in, so you don’t really need to do that either.”

  “I’ll clean it.”

  A long breath leaves her pink lips. “You don’t—”

  “Marisol would, so I will.”

  She presses her lips together and nods.

  “You look ten times better today.” Other than the redness of her nose, her cheeks hold a tint of pink again, her body moving with ease.

  “I feel better. Thanks for the citrus tea you left behind yesterday.” A sheepish smile crosses her face and I realize it took a lot for her to thank me. “I drank about ten cups last night before bed.”