by Liz Crowe
I snicker. “Boy, do I ever. About twenty-five or thirty years.”
He tips his head and looks back at me, a hopeless smile on his face. “I’d take thirty minutes.”
I can grant him that wish. “Know what? You’ve got it.” I move my drink into my left hand and stick out my right one. “Hello, sir. My name is Kimberly Hendricks. Nice to make your acquaintance.”
The smile he gives me is warm and genuine as he takes my hand, and there’s a sizzling sensation on my palm when his connects. “Hello, Kimberly Hendricks. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Jasper Givens, but my friends all call me Jaz.”
“Hello,” I say, and add with hesitation, “Jaz.”
The lines on his face soften, and he settles back into the sofa like before, looking straight into my eyes. “Hi. I’ve only seen you smile about twice since the first time I saw you, and both times I couldn’t miss how beautiful you are.” I hope he can’t see my heart slamming right through my cami, and I’m fumbling for something to say when he quietly says, “Just a simple thank you is plenty.”
“Thanks. Sir.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
I nod. “Sure.”
As he speaks, he turns away from me to his drink. “What are you afraid of?”
I snort, “After what I’ve been through? Pretty much everything.”
That sad look faces me again. “Me too.”
“You, sir? You’re afraid? Of what? I just watched three women at that bar almost puddle at your feet.”
For the second time since I met him, he says, “Ah, looks can be deceiving, Kimberly Hendricks.” There’s that look again, and I get the distinct impression that he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, just turns back to his beer. We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes before he finally says, “Well, enough gloom and doom, huh? Let’s talk about something a little more cheerful. Would you like to scene with me sometime?”
Hot damn. I almost blurt out, Of course!, but then I think, No, wait; is this a loaded question? My brain is running ninety miles a minute. Yes, I want to scene with this guy – he’s fucking gorgeous. No, I don’t want to scene with this guy – I have this feeling he’d be my newest addiction. I don’t know what I want. I do know that I don’t want to fall for someone. “So what exactly did you have in mind?”
His smile is gentle and warm. “I don’t have anything in mind. That would be up to you. I don’t know you well enough to know what you need. I do know you’re supposed to be some kind of enormous pain slut, but I don’t know about that. You don’t really seem the type.”
I counter with, “Looks can be deceiving, sir. How could you know that?”
“You’re right. I don’t. I’m just saying what I see. And I don’t see a pain slut.” He finishes his beer and sets the glass on the floor by his feet. “What I see is someone who’s trying to forget something. Or should I say someone?”
Now I’m getting pissed again. “What has Michael told you?”
He shakes his head. “Michael hasn’t told me shit. I’m just telling you what I see.”
I smirk. “Is this one of those ‘it takes one to know one’ things?”
He’s not smiling but he’s not being sarcastic when he says, “Probably. But you’ll never know if you don’t get to know me.”
I feel one of my eyebrows creep up. “Did you just issue me some kind of challenge?”
“No challenge.” After reaching down to pick up his beer glass, he stands. “I’m not that difficult to get to know. Unlike most people, I’m pretty forthcoming when I’m asked a question.” He stands for a few seconds, staring off into space, then seems to come back to himself and sighs. “Think about it and let me know. Good night, Kimberly Hendricks.”
I watch his back as he walks away, all the while trying to come up with a way to get him to come back. I’m not sure why I want him to, but I do.
I’m not that difficult to get to know. Unlike most people, I’m pretty forthcoming when I’m asked a question. Well, Jasper Givens, I think I have a few questions.
Chapter Three
For the next several days, that evening plays in my mind. One of the things that I see over and over was the moment I left the club and looked back to find him sitting on a sofa with Kylie, a brunette who’s about thirty and stacked. The shocking part was that, once he walked away from me, he never looked at me again that night. Never. As he talked to her, I made my way past them to the door, and he never looked away from her toward me, just kept talking to her like she was the only one in the room. Whether or not they scened later, I have no idea. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick to my stomach, and I’m really not sure why.
Mid-morning on Wednesday, my phone rings and I see his name pop up. A dozen greetings run through my mind, but when I answer all I get out is a simple, “Hello?”
“Hello, Kimberly?”
“Yes. Jaz. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. And you?”
“Good.”
“Listen, I’m not trying to rush you or anything, but I was wondering if you had my leathers ready for a fitting. I’m in town today, but I’m going to be gone for the next five days or so. I thought if you did, I mean, before I leave town, if you had . . .”
“Actually, yes. They’re together enough that it would be a good idea to fit them for tailoring. What time did you want to come?”
“What time do you have open?”
I look at my planner. “I don’t have anyone else until four o’clock this afternoon. Yours will only take about thirty minutes, so any time until three thirty should be okay.”
There’s a pause before he answers me. “I’m thinking twelve thirty. How does that sound?”
“Sounds fine.”
“Can I pick up something for lunch? Would that be okay?”
Lunch. That actually sounds kind of nice. “Sure. Whatever you want to bring will be fine. I have water here.”
“Great. I’ll show up at noon with food if that’s okay.”
“See you then.” I hang up and clutch the phone to my chest. Even though I don’t want to feel it, the idea of seeing him and eating lunch with him excites me. I keep thinking about him saying that he was forthcoming with information if someone really wanted to get to know him. Did he mean that? I’m about to find out.
When the buzzer sounds at noon on the dot, I open the door to find him standing there with a large bag in his hands. Without saying a word, I stand aside so he can come in. He sets the bag down, then faces me. “Submarine sandwiches from Carlton’s Delicatessen. Michael says they’re the best.”
“Michael would be right.” I reach into the fridge and pull out two bottles of water. “Do they have onions on them?”
“No.” He takes the two enormous sandwiches out of the sack and sets them down on the counter. “I always order things without onions if I know I’m going to be in close proximity to someone else, like when you’ll be measuring and fitting. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Thanks. I hate them anyway.”
“Good to know.” He pulls out a box. “And these are their homemade pub chips. I don’t know what they taste like, but they smell awesome.”
“They’re good. I’ve had them before.” I pull up the box lid and take in the sight of the chips, all golden and crispy. With my mouth watering, I unwrap the sandwich, then pull out a few of the chips and put them on the paper beside it. Then I decide I’d better throw him a scrap. “This was very kind of you. Thanks so much.”
“You’re very welcome.” He takes a big bite of the sandwich and chews thoughtfully, and I do the same. Once again, we sit in silence, this time eating, and it’s oddly comforting. With most people, I find it important to fill the time with chatter, but not with Jasper. We’re about halfway through the meal when, out of the blue, he asks, “So, have you given any thought to my question?”
I try to deflect a little. “You mean about scening?”
“Yes.” I wait, hoping he’ll elabor
ate, but he doesn’t. He leaves the ball rolling about in my court. And in that moment, I decide on honesty.
“Yes. Frankly,” I say, deciding to step out on a limb, “I haven’t thought about much else since you asked.”
I expect him to grin in victory, but he doesn’t. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
His question shocks me to the core. “Did it unnerve you that I didn’t look at you again after we talked the other night?”
Oh my god, he HAD done that on purpose! It wasn’t my imagination. I feel vindicated and ridiculous at the same time. How do I answer that question? Honesty flies out the window in that moment. “You didn’t? I didn’t notice.”
“Kimberly.” I don’t want to look at him, but he tries again. “Kimberly, look at me.” When I finally do manage to look at him, I feel my face overheat, and I’m sure I’m especially tomato-looking. “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.” Damn him – he knows. “Finish your lunch and then we need to talk.”
“Yes, sir,” I manage to choke out.
He nods. “Good. Very good.”
And that’s when it hits me: He’s known all along. That first day, when I opened the door and almost passed out at the sight of him, he knew. That means that either he’s as attracted to me as I am to him, or he can read me like a book and I’m in deep shit because he’s going to try to manipulate me and use me. Damn. How do these things happen to me? How do I get myself into these situations? I chew slowly, hoping to prolong the agony, when he throws out, “You can only masticate for so long and then you have to swallow it. Don’t worry. I’m not going to make you suffer. I’ll make it as painless as possible.”
Well, fuck me. I hear my inner slut say, Oh, just swallow it all and get it over with. I decide that I’ll just swallow the food whole, take whatever he thinks he needs to dish out, fit the damn leathers, and get him the hell out of my life. Once they’re fitted, I can put them in a box and mail them to him. Who cares that it’s just across town? I don’t give a shit, as long as I get him out of my hair.
When I’m done with the sandwich, I wad up my paper wrapper, then pick his up and do the same. He’s not even done, and when I snatch it up and crumple it, he stops, mouth open and in mid-bite, and just stares at me. I guess he’s never seen a woman pissed off about being admired by him before. Now I’m wondering if he thinks he’s going to fuck me in the dressing room before he leaves. Fuck that shit. Not happening.
I sit back down, arms folded and resting on the table, and wait. When he’s finally finished, he throws away what’s left of his mess and sits back down in his seat. The clock ticks and I wait, not looking at him. Apparently he’s had enough when he says, “Now, can we talk without all the walls, please?”
I try so hard to come across as ignorant. “What do you mean?”
He sighs. “I mean, can we talk without both of us acting like we’re sworn enemies? Like we’re sure the other one is going to lay us low? Because I don’t mean you any harm. Just the opposite. I think we could be good for each other, but I really don’t know where you’re coming from because you’re so damn prickly.”
“Prickly?” My voice rises in timbre. “Prickly? That’s a helluva thing to say!”
“Yep. You’re getting pricklier by the minute.”
The flush I feel on my face this time is pure fury. “You’ve got a lot of nerve calling me something like that!”
“And that doesn’t fit?”
I’m finding it harder and harder to control myself, and now I shriek, “Are you purposely trying to pick a fight with me? Because if you’re not, please don’t ever try to. One of us will wind up dead if you ever do. And I’m not ‘coming from’ anywhere. This chat, the scening, all of that, it’s all your idea, not mine. And you’re acting like it’s me who’s instigated the whole thing and now trying to back out or something. You asked me, if you’ll remember.”
His face is still passive when he says, “Could you please quit being so goddamn defensive? I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m just trying to see past that cold, stony exterior you put up for everyone.”
If he was trying to knock the wind out of me, he just succeeded. He reads me like a book, and it’s so damn unnerving that I don’t know which end is up. Up and out of my chair, I stalk over to the window and stand there, my back to him, twitching all over. I’m so fucking rattled now that I’m not sure what to do or say, so I just blurt out, “You know what? I don’t need your business badly enough to put up with this. How about we just call it even and you leave? I think that would . . .” Without warning I’m being spun around to face him, and then I get the surprise of my life.
He kisses me. I try to pull away, but he puts a hand behind my head, just at the base of my skull, and crushes my lips with his. And when his other arm wraps around my waist and pulls me against him, all logic and reason fly out the window. Deep self-loathing sets up as my arms come up, independent of my will, and my hands find their way into his hair, my fingers weaving into its satiny thickness like honeysuckle in a fence row. Every gram of self-control I had seems to have taken an Alaskan cruise, frozen out and set aside while my body superheats. Kissing him back is the last thing on earth that I really want to do, and yet I find myself doing it, opening to him, hungering for him, meeting his tongue with mine, and I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move, just hang on for dear life.
Pulling back to let us come up for air, he smiles down into my face. “Now that wasn’t too bad, was it?”
I mutter, “Just shut up,” and drag his face back to mine. He chuckles softly against my lips, then traps my lower lip between his teeth and pulls back just a little.
When he turns loose, I open my eyes to find him gazing into them, his brown ones intent on probing the depths of my hazel ones. Before I have a chance to speak, he murmurs softly, “I’m not going to hurt you, Kimmie. I’d never do that.”
“What do you want from me, Jasper?”
“I want you to let go.” He tips his head and dives for the side of my neck, and when his teeth nip it, I let out a hiss. That only spurs him on, and he kisses and nips it until I think I’ll go insane. Slowly, sweetly, he kisses on up my neck, up my jaw, and traps my lips again for a few seconds, then releases me again and repeats, “Let go, Kimmie.”
An ache sets up in my chest. “I can’t.”
“Yes you can. Come here.” He pulls me across the room to my little desk, pulls out the chair, and sits down, then draws me onto his lap and wraps his arms around my waist. “Tell me: Why can’t you let go?”
I try to find a reason, any reason. “Because I don’t know you well enough.”
He nods. “Okay. We’ll fix that. Any other reason?”
“Because I don’t know what you want.”
“I want to be able to let go with you, and I want you to be able to let go with me. But somebody has to go first.”
I shrug. “Why can’t it be you?”
He smiles. “I think it already was.”
“Oh.” Now I just feel foolish.
“I’ve been very clear with you about how I feel. I’m very attracted to you. I asked if you’d like to scene with me. If I didn’t want to scene with you, do you think I would’ve asked you that?” I shake my head. “Okay. And then there’s the fact that I just kissed you. And twice now I’ve bought you food, which I think is significant.”
“Why? What’s significant about that?”
“Because it’s obvious to me that you don’t eat. The very first time I met you, the first thing I noticed is that your clothes looked too big. You haven’t been eating. That worries me.”
“Worries you?” I’m finding all of this hard to grasp.
“Yeah, worries me. You need to know that the first time I laid eyes on you, right there in that doorway, I felt something I haven’t felt in a long time.”
Now I’m starting to get really scared. This guy is getting way too close, and that’s not what I want. At least I don’t think so. I’m not
sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore. “If you’re trying to tell me it’s love at first . . .”
“No. I’m not. As you said, we don’t know each other well enough. But I want to get to know you, little girl. There’s something about you that shakes up something in me. So what keeps you from letting go?”
Might as well get it over with; he’s going to keep asking until I open up, so I just tell him outright. “I told you – I’m scared of getting hurt.”
“Baby, you have no idea what hurt is.” I’ve been sitting here looking at my hands, but when those words leave his lips, I direct my gaze at his face. Something there makes me suck in a breath, like an agony that won’t leave. “I’ve been looking for someone like you for a good while now.”
“Someone like me?”
“Yes. Someone like you. Someone who’s not a child, a grown woman who can make up her own mind. Someone who isn’t put off by differences or,” and I could swear I can feel him shudder, “scars. Someone who cares about another person because of who they are, not because of how they look.”
What the hell is he talking about? He’s absolutely gorgeous. I’ve seen his chest, his back, and his legs, and he’s perfect. There’s not enough real estate under those Fruit of the Looms to make any difference unless that’s a pair of socks stuck down in them, and I’m pretty sure that’s the real deal based on what I’ve seen through the fabric. I don’t know what to do at this point. I don’t understand anything he’s talking about, and I don’t want to seem insensitive and just question away. Then something crosses my mind. “You do realize I’m older than you, right? Significantly older.”
“I’m betting you’re not as much older than me as you think.”
