Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  “Oh my god! They’re fine!” My heart pounds in my throat. “You’re such an asshole!”

  He pauses for a second, then slowly folds my shirt, taunting me with his sarcastic fucking grin. “Now, that’s no way to talk to your future husband,” he tsks, his tongue clicking against the back of his teeth, and gives a mock-disappointed shake of his head.

  “I hate you,” I seethe.

  “No, you don’t,” he states as he sets down the shirt and picks up my sweaty bra, folds it in half and sets it on top of the pile. “But you will,” he vows with a crooked smile as he picks up my equally sweaty panties.

  He holds them up by the thick control-top waist, his brows cocked, the corner of his mouth tipped up. The jerk doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t have to. I know exactly what he’s thinking. And he knows it.

  “They looked different online, okay?” I fume.

  He shoves them into his pocket with a wink and turns toward the door.

  “What are you doing? You perv!”

  He hits off the light before walking out, shutting the door behind him with a throaty chuckle.

  “Real mature!” I yell out in the dark. “Real freaking mature!” I stand, blindly feeling for the towel slung over the shower door.

  I wrap it around myself and step out of the bath, not bothering to dry off first.

  In third grade, I punched Kyle Martin in the nose for eating all the candy off of my gingerbread house. He’s the first and only person I’ve ever hit in my life. Seeing his bloody nose made me feel like crap, so I never hit anyone again. Ever. I know with one hundred percent certainty that Benjamin Crawford will be the second. I also know that it will feel fucking fantastic.

  I flip on the light. And lock the door with a huff. Resting my back against its cool wood, I close my eyes. He’s right, I will hate him. The longer I spend with him the closer I get.

  I fantasize about stealing this all away from him. The house, the inheritance. Everything. All I have to do is walk out the front door and never turn back—poof it’s gone.

  I dry off, feeling a little lighter. I’m the one with the power here, not him. He may hold my parachute panties in his hands, but I hold his future in mine.

  Time to show him who’s boss.

  I slather vanilla lotion on my body, still pink from the hot water, and get dressed in my clean clothes. I pull my phone from my jeans, to see the text from earlier.

  Derek: Gotta run back to Half Moon Bay. Sorry! I’ll make it up to you.

  Me: You bet you will. ;) Text me when you get back, so I know you made it home safe.

  Okay, he’s not the only one who’s protective.

  Derek: I’m rolling my eyes, just so you know.

  Me: And that’s different, how? ;)

  My stomach grumbles in protest of my canceled dinner plans. I give it an apologetic pat. I tell it there’s a box of ham-and-cheese Hot Pockets in the freezer. It’s not Jack’s, but it’ll have to do.

  I move to the mirror, pulling my hair from the tie, letting it fall in wild curls around my shoulders. My scalp throbs from having it in a tight ponytail all day, so I run my fingers over my scalp, deciding to leave it down.

  I quickly take in the rest of me. I’ve never done a single day of yoga but wearing these high-waist leggings with their warrior-style mesh cutouts, I feel like I can teach a class.

  They’re badass. The T-shirt, not so much. It was from my Black Swan skinny days, so it’s tight around the chest and hugs my curves past my hips, but not enough for me to change.

  I brush my teeth and look at the few faded freckles I have left on my nose, remnants of sunshine-filled days. I need to get out more. Maybe I’ll steal Derek’s truck and take a drive down the coast. Just me and the open road. The thought gives me a boost of energy.

  The second I swing open the bathroom door two things hit me at once, the smell of something spicy cooking and the sound of music.

  Salsa music to be exact.

  A thrill moves through me as I dump my clothes and phone on the bed, before following the music down the hall.

  I’m transported back to hot Miami nights in the clubs, dancing my way through a fog of men’s cologne mixed with sex and tequila. I may not be able to walk a straight line (like ever), and I may walk into the occasional wall here and there, but the two things thing I can do without an ounce of my standard clumsiness are: (1) start an IV and (2) dance. Especially salsa. I loved it. And luckily so did my friends.

  Little Havana was our usual weekend destination. It was like stepping out of the car and into a different world. The Miami air was charged, buzzing with this energy that my entire body would hum with. I felt alive. I mean, really alive.

  Once, after a few shots of liquid courage and twenty minutes of constant nagging from my friends, I entered into a salsa competition, but totally chickened out when they called my name. It’s not the first time I’ve been afraid to put myself out there, to jump into the unknown.

  I can’t say bowing out of a salsa battle is at the top of my ever-growing list of life-regrets, but it’s there.

  A baritone voice accompanies the music. It’s a little off-key, but not bad. My eyes narrow as my feet carry me down toward the kitchen. I swear to god if Ben is singing while making tacos with my panties tucked into his pocket, I’m done.

  Fucking. Done.

  I turn the corner and march into the kitchen, stopping dead in my tracks when I see Jesse towering over the stove, spatula in-hand, his hips moving in perfect rhythm to the song as he stirs whatever spicy deliciousness he’s cooking. On the counter are diced onion, tomatoes, lettuce and corn tortillas, so my guess of tacos was spot on.

  He’s lost the green flannel from earlier, showing the navy-blue T-shirt he had on underneath, pulled tight against thick cords of muscles. Not swollen muscles on a small frame like your typical gym rat. But heavy dense lumberjack muscles that mold to fit his ginormous frame perfectly.

  The song blends into “Havana” by Camila Cabello. I’ve heard this song a million times, and I still freaking love it. Apparently, so does Jesse.

  His hips slow to the rhythmic beat. Seeing a guy his size move like this, seems to defy the laws of physics, like Stonehenge and the Great Pyramids, but there he is rolling his hips like he invented it.

  I have to admit it’s pretty freaking cute.

  As if sensing me ogling him, he looks over his shoulder. His lopsided grin transforms his face into something boyish and less scary. And I’m taken aback by how cute he is. Seriously cute. If this is Jesse drunk, I’ll take him over a sober Ben any day.

  My hips automatically sway to the music, matching his rhythm. His smile widens, and without missing a beat, he turns and smoothly dances toward me. His energy is contagious. I feel my chest bubble with an emotion I haven’t felt in a long time. Too long.

  He motions his fingers for me to take his hand as he dances. Ben lets out an annoyed huff at my back, pushing past me with a bag of tortilla chips and a six-pack, shaking his head with a scoff as he swaggers to the counter.

  A swagger like he’s a 1940s mob boss.

  If I had three wishes, I’d use one to make him trip.

  To spite Ben, I slip my hand into Jesse’s, and in the next breath, he pulls me close to his body. He smells like forest and campfire. And man. And beer. I breathe it in, effectively pushing back the lingering scent of car exhaust and Ben.

  Jesse’s giant hands circle my hips, and he leads the way. Taking me to a place my body remembers. A place I’d forgotten existed. My hips sway in perfect time to his. My feet move back and forth, in a rhythmic give and take.

  “You’re a seriously good dancer,” I say with a surprised smile. Of all the men I pictured tearing up the dance floor, Lumberjack Jesse was not among them.

  “My ex,” he says in some kind of explanation.

  Then we dance.

  And it feels like I’m twenty-two and back in hot clubs of Miami. Not in Rose’s kitchen dancing with my pretend fiancé’s friend
while my world falls apart around me.

  He spins me, and I start to giggle like a weirdo. Yes, giggle. I’m not really the giggling type, but I feel punch-drunk from fatigue, and my body decides giggling like a school girl is the way I’m going to release the restless energy building in my body. Not to mention, of all the ways I saw this night playing out, salsa dancing in the kitchen was not it. Not even close. Which is kind of funny.

  Jesse raises his sharp brows at my laugh, spins me again, then brings me back flush to his solid body. His hand runs up my arm. His rough calluses feel like sandpaper against my skin. Greg had soft surgeon’s hands that I thought I liked until now.

  Our rhythm slows to more of a bachata, and I can feel Ben’s glare burning a hole between my shoulder blades. I don’t question why my hips sway a little deeper knowing he’s watching. I don’t question why him seeing me have fun, dancing like this with his friend, sends a thrill through me.

  I take a step back and end up doing a little Shakira “Hips Don’t Lie” turn, partly because I need some space before I do something crazy like hump his leg, and partly because I can do Shakira pretty well, so why the hell not.

  My eyes catch Ben’s over-the-shoulder death glare. He’s pretending to be chopping something already chopped. His jaw’s clenched, sharp brows pulled tight. I shoot him a wide grin, giving my hips a little extra shake with a quick teasing wink.

  Laissez les bon temps rouler, motherfucker!

  I step back into Jesse’s gravity. His hand snakes around my back, and we pick up seamlessly where we left off.

  The song abruptly cuts off.

  Jesse’s face melts into a grin, his eyes lighting with something I don’t know him well enough to name.

  He turns and calls over his shoulder to Ben, “What the hell, man?” His words are sharp, but I swear I hear laughter in his voice.

  The sound of plates clanging as they hit the tile counter is followed by Ben’s clipped voice. “Shit’s starting to burn.”

  Jesse loosens his hold but doesn’t let go. And I may or may not have moved a smidge closer to him, wanting to stay lost in the warmth of his tree-trunk arms.

  “Then turn off the fucking stove, genius,” Jesse says around a chuckle, then turns back to me with an easy smile. “You like tacos?” he asks, stepping back, releasing me from his hold, his pupils a stark black against neon blue.

  “Yep,” I answer with a smile.

  Before I can thank him for the dance, and for making my night so much better, he turns back to Ben. “Hook your girl up. I gotta take a leak.” He shoots me a playful smile and saunters out.

  I’m so not Ben’s girl. Archenemies, maybe. Mortal enemy, perhaps. But his girl? Nope. Not a chance. I choose to ignore the ring on my finger that, even if fake, says otherwise. A ring I intend to put somewhere safe, once I figure out where that is. Because the only thing worse than wearing Mrs. Baker’s loaner ring, is losing Mrs. Baker’s loaner ring.

  I breathe in the scent of tacos, and my feet close the distance, my traitorous stomach leading the way.

  “I thought you said he was drunk,” I say, trying to break the silence. My voice is still a bit breathless, and my cheeks feel flushed. Good. A twisted part of me wants him to see that just like he can be gentle with other women, I can be fun with other guys. Is it immature of me? You betcha. Do I care? Nope.

  “He is,” Ben answers without looking at me. “He won’t be back.” His muscles move and bunch under his black T-shirt as he puts the tortillas on the plates. I do not picture him naked with only a chef’s hat on.

  “What do you mean?” I stop a few feet away from him with my eyes glued on the corn tortillas and the shredded chicken deliciousness he’s scooping onto them.

  Thunderous snoring sounds from the living room, causing me to jump a little.

  Ben points the spatula toward the doorway. “That.”

  My eyes widen as I look to the doorway. “He’s asleep?”

  “Passed out. Like I said, he’s drunk.”

  No freaking way.

  Needing to see it with my own eyes, I peek into the living room. Jesse’s long jean-clad legs are dangling over the armrest of the couch, nearly touching the floor. He’s out cold except for the snoring.

  I turn back to see Ben walking past me with two plates of tacos and chips. He sets them down on the new farmhouse-style kitchen table and takes a seat.

  “Is that for me?” I point to the plate sitting across from him.

  “No, it’s for my imaginary friend,” he says under his breath before taking a bite of his taco.

  I want to flip him off and go make that ham-and-cheddar Hot Pocket, showing him I don’t need his sarcasm-filled taco. But my stomach seems to take control of my legs, and the next thing I know I’m walking to the table.

  I plaster an overly bright smile on my face as I take a seat. “Thank you, it looks great.”

  He grunts and washes down his bite with a swig of beer, his glossy eyes meeting mine briefly before turning back to his plate.

  I wonder how many beers he’s had. If he’s drunk, maybe I can coerce him into giving me back my parachute panties, but just the thought of saying those words out loud makes my skin prickle with heat. I contemplate taking the plate into my room so I can scarf the mouth-watering tacos in peace, but as much as I hate to admit it, I’m still holding out hope that Ben and I can somehow become friends. That this taco he made me is actually his version of an olive branch.

  I’m sure if we could just have one civilized conversation, we’d find some common ground. I take in a deep breath.

  Here goes. Again.

  “So, Ben…”

  His eyes slice to mine, killing whatever civilized words were on my tongue.

  “Never mind.” I swallow them down.

  He grunts and takes another swig of beer.

  I resist the urge to grunt back, and instead, take a bite of the shredded-chicken taco. A mix of spicy and smoky flavors explode in my mouth.

  “Oh my god… soooo gooood.” I moan around my bite before I can stop myself. My stomach does a little happy dance, causing another moan to escape.

  Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten all day, but this is the best damn thing I’ve eaten in months. Even better than—

  “Can you eat your food like a normal person?” Ben growls, his death glare snatching me from my taco bliss.

  “Excuse me?” I say around the bite in my mouth. Swallowing, I look down at the taco in my hand, my fingers dripping with spicy juice.

  I guess I could use a napkin.

  Just as I’m about to get up and grab a paper towel, Ben takes a bite of his taco, a deep moan vibrating from the back of his throat. His lids flutter closed, his head tilted back as he chews like he’s getting the blow job of his life under the table.

  I will not notice how sexy he is.

  I. Will. Not. Freaking. Notice.

  Too late.

  I press my thighs together in case my ovaries decide to reach out and pull him into my body. In the next breath, he’s back to normal. And by normal, I mean he’s once again glaring at me.

  Here, I thought we could actually have an adult conversation.

  “I don’t eat like that.” My words are sharp.

  “You do. And it’s annoying as fuck, so stop.” Just when I thought he couldn’t be more of a dick, he proves me wrong.

  As predicted, my fingers itch to grab his beer bottle and go full Roadhouse Patrick Swayze on him. I take in a deep, calming breath, forcing my racing heart from my throat back to my chest and homicidal thoughts from my mind.

  I hold his eyes while I take another offending bite, letting out a loud, long, overdramatic porno-quality moan. My head tilts back, and I give the table a Meg Ryan slap as my moan crescendos into a mock-orgasmic peak.

  “Go back to sleep.” Ben’s rough voice cuts through my show.

  My eyes shoot open, and I follow Ben’s gaze to see Jesse standing against the doorframe, his laser-blue eyes fixed on me.
<
br />   My ears heat with embarrassment.

  I clear my throat. “Umm, the tacos are delicious,” I say lamely, wondering if anyone would notice if I continue to slowly slide under the table.

  Ben mutters a curse, shooting me a murderous glare as he stands from the table and goes to him. “C’mon,” he says, taking Jesse’s arm, helping him rise from the door frame he’s slumped against.

  “But I want to see her eat tacos,” Jesse protests as Ben leads him back to the couch.

  I hear Jesse murmur something about guacamole followed by Ben’s rich laughter. He’s got a good laugh. I don’t know why but it makes my chest ache to hear it.

  I grab my plate and carry it to the counter, looking to the second taco, untouched. If Rose were here, she’d have me stick the taco in the freezer. Even if I were going to eat it the next day, she’d still have me freeze it. She froze everything: milk, bread, leftover pizza, old coffee, cake, pudding. You name it, she froze it.

  A sad smile touches my lips as I bend down and reach in the bottom drawer for the freezer bags. Ben mutters a curse that causes me to stand abruptly, taking the whole box of freezer bags with me.

  I ignore the sound of the plate scraping from the table and his empty beer bottle clanging in the garbage with the others.

  I open the freezer bag and try to maneuver my taco into it without spilling out all the good stuff. I feel Ben stop next to me at the sink and set his dish in it. I wait for the water to turn on, or for him to walk away. Neither happens.

  I zip the bag closed and turn my eyes to him to see his are fixed on my taco-filled freezer bag. His brown eyes meet mine, hellfire behind weariness.

  I pinch my eyebrows together and turn my body fully to him. “What now?” I ask on an annoyed breath.

  He exhales, running his hand through his thick hair, causing it to stick up in a few places. “I’m gonna take a shower. Then we’re gonna figure out how to get out of this shit.”

  I jerk back as he grabs my hand and holds up the beacon of my stupidity perched on my ring finger.

  I pull my hand from his. “You’re calling off the wedding?” I gasp, placing my hand over my chest. “But how will I ever go on,” I taunt with a mock-pout.