Jesse is laughing. “Imogen—Jesus. You’re too much. Number one, I would love to stay and eat with you. I don’t have plans, or a waitlist for dates, or a little black book, for that matter. The food you made looks and smells amazing, and it’s special because you made it. Number…three? Four? Whatever. I would also absolutely eat you, because, Imogen, honey, I have no doubt that you taste fucking delicious. Last, I won’t shoot you, because I like you, and, in the words of The Man in Black, ‘there’s a shortage of perfect breasts in this world—it would be a pity to damage yours.’”
“Oh god, you’re quoting Princess Bride.” I hold the back of my hand to my forehead and sway backward. “Swoon.”
He laughs. “The movie quotes really get you, don’t they?”
I laugh and nod. “They really do. I’d drop quotes to my ex all the time, and he’d never get them, and I was always like, what? How do you not know what that’s from? It’s just part of how I communicate.”
“Well that’s something I understand,” Jesse says, reaching for the buckle of his tool belt. “I’m the same way.”
Just as I’m in the process of pulling two plates out of the cabinet, my mind becomes distracted. I’ve become so used to seeing him with that tool belt on that I momentarily forgot it was separate from his actual pants. So, when he reached for that buckle and started loosening it, I maybe sort of panicked a little.
Excited, horny, frantic panic.
The thought of this hot, masculine, sexy, helpful man unbuckling his jeans is just…too much for my poor libido.
I drop the plates.
They smash on the floor with a deafening crash, shards and chunks flying in every direction. A shard of ceramic slices the outside of my calf, drawing a long but shallow gash.
“Shit!” I glance down at my leg, which is already welling with blood. Damn it. “Okay, hold on. Let me get the broom.”
Jesse finishes removing his tool belt, sets it on the counter, and reaches for me, stopping me from moving. “Just stay where you are. You’re bleeding and you’re barefoot, and there are pieces everywhere. You take a step in any direction and you’ll cut your feet all up.” He keeps hold of my arms with both hands, smiling reassuringly at me. “Just tell me where the broom is and I’ll handle it.”
I point at the little closet between the stove and the far wall. “In there.”
He retrieves the broom and dustpan. “Paper bag?”
I point at the sink. “Under there.”
He finds a paper grocery bag, opens it, tosses the largest chunks into it, and then makes swift, efficient work of sweeping the floor from side to side, corner to corner. After dumping the shards into the bag, he sweeps again, just to be sure, and then sets the bag aside and puts the broom away.
He turns to me. “Now you.”
I frown in confusion. “Now me, what?”
He gestures at my leg. “Gotta tend to your war wound.”
I laugh. “You mean my utterly insignificant little cut I received from my own clumsiness?”
He shrugs. “Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”
“Nobody, not even an English person, says po-tah-to,” I point out.
He indicates the counter beside the sink. “Hop up there.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine, really. I just need to wet a paper towel. It doesn’t even hurt.” That was a lie—it stung like a bitch, but I didn’t want to seem weak or squeamish on top of all the other dumb shit I’d done around this guy.
I’m moving toward the sink as I say this, but I only get a few steps. And then I feel a pair of big, strong hands on my waist. He spins me around and backs me up to the counter. Before I have any clue what he’s intending to do, he dips down, wraps those powerful, huge, callused hands around the backs of my thighs—and with only the slightest hint of effort, he lifts me up and deposits me on the countertop. I gasp, a shrill in-breath of surprise, and then my lungs squeeze and my heart slams in my chest and my core tightens and heats, and my thighs clench, and heat pools and desire seeps through me. Jesse is inches away from me, standing between my thighs, his hard, broad chest and massive shoulders a wall in front of me, his trim hips wedging my legs apart. His hands are on my waist again, just above my hips, and his eyes are warm and Labrador puppy brown and twinkling with humor and sparking with what I desperately want to believe is desire.
“I—okay. I guess I’m sitting on the counter,” I say, trying not to sound breathless.
“Yeah, guess you are.” He backs up, leaving the enclosure of my legs—I’m sorely tempted to hook my feet together around his back to keep him there, but I don’t. “You have any first aid stuff?”
“I don’t need first aid, Jesse,” I breathe. “It’s barely even bleeding.”
He cradles my foot in his hand and lifts my leg to take a look at the cut. I’m not breathing. I’m shaking all over. The gusset of my shorts has nowhere near enough fabric to provide any decent modesty, not with my leg lifted like this. Oh god. If he looks, he’ll see my hoo-ha. When was the last time I shaved? Oh yeah, just a few minutes ago, upstairs. I keep my eyes on his, watching him, watching where his eyes go.
I try to swallow but my throat is dry, unlike certain other areas.
Will he see that? Will he smell it? Oh fuck, he probably smells me.
And holy mother of all hells, am I aroused right now.
Jesse’s eyes start at my face. Watching for demurral or any hint that I’m upset—which he won’t find. Then, seeing nothing but my lip caught between my teeth and my eyes wide, he drags his eyes downward. I’m sporting a serious pair of headlights—my nipples are, shall we say, not small, and have a tendency to react aggressively to the slightest provocation or drop in temperature. And this shirt is, as I’ve said, so thin from age and wear and washings that it’s nearly sheer. With Jesse’s touch and attention and my own arousal, my nipples are the hardest they’ve ever been, standing out so thick and long and hard that I could cut twin holes in a pane of glass.
He groans again. It’s a growl, a low, almost inaudible rumble, so deep on the register that I feel it more than hear it. “Have mercy,” he murmurs to himself rather than to me.
After spending a moment blatantly ogling the protruding nubs of my hardened nipples, and the round weight of my breasts straining the fabric of my tank top, Jesse’s gaze rakes downward. Pauses at my navel, my belly. His gaze there is a brief blast of cold water on my libido as self-consciousness slices through me—I’ve always been weird about my stomach, and never more so than this stage of my life, when stress makes me eat more than usual, busyness keeps me out of the gym and into the unhealthy aisles of the store. My belly used to be flat and toned. I never had visible abs or anything, but I could rock the hell out of a midriff-baring crop top back in the day. Nowadays? Not so much.
I squirm, hating his gaze on what is, to me, my ugliest and least beautiful area. I’m good with my cleavage—having big tits has its drawbacks for sure—running hurts, jumping is dangerous, stairs are my enemy, and button-down shirts are a joke—but they also are weapons I can and have used to my benefit. I’m also fine with having a juicy booty. It’s maybe a little juicier these days than it used to be for the aforementioned reasons, but for the most part, possessing a curvy, jiggly butt is more of an asset than a problem. I’m just not cool with my belly.
Stop looking at it. God, please stop looking at my belly. Look at my thighs, look at my hips, look at my tits—anywhere but there.
“Stop it,” Jesse growls.
I gulp. “Stop what?”
“Doubting yourself.”
I stare hard at him. “How did you—ummmm, I mean—what?”
His eyes fix on mine. “You just…shut down. I felt it. Don’t do that. Don’t ever doubt yourself.”
I snort. “Yeah, because it’s just that easy.”
“No, it’s probably not, but you’re a beautiful woman, Imogen. You have no reason to doubt yourself, or to be self-conscious about any part of your body.”
I’
m deeply uncomfortable with the abrupt turn of events, and try to pull my foot away. “Jesse, I just—”
He holds on to my foot, refusing to relinquish it. “I get it, though,” he says.
He leans over me, his weight against my leg as he reaches for a strip of paper towel, wets it, folds it, and then straightens. As he does so, I feel his eyes on me again—this time sliding sensuously up my leg, from my calf to my thigh. I tense all over, fighting the urge to clamp my thighs together. It’s what I’d normally do, how I’ve always reacted in situations like this, even with someone I’ve been intimate with. It’s not that I’m shy or that I lack adventurousness sexually—it’s just…well, it’s complicated, and Jesse’s gaze is moving upward, destroying my train of thought.
Oh god.
I force myself to remain still—stock-still, not even breathing—as his eyes trail and traipse and dance up my thighs, my skin pebbling under his gaze. I swallow loudly, feeling faint, shaking all over.
Look at me.
Don’t look at me.
Touch me.
Don’t touch me.
I’m terrified and mortified.
I’m excited and thrilled and horny as hell.
His eyes halt at my core. I look where he’s looking—and yeah, there’s not a lot left to the imagination. I can’t breathe. Shit, I actually can’t breathe. Am I having an asthma attack? I don’t have asthma, but my lungs aren’t working.
I hear a deep, low snarl, and I realize it’s coming from him, from Jesse, as he stares at my core. He has no qualms about what he’s doing—there’s no apology or attempt to hide it or cover it up. I’m not pulling away or stopping him, so I can’t be mad about it, and honestly, his open, daring, greedy gaze is a hell of a turn-on.
I don’t know what that says about who I am, or rather who I’ve become.
And I don’t care.
It feels so naughty and almost dirty to let him stare at me like this. I barely know him—less than barely. We don’t even know each other’s last names. And here I am, sitting on my counter in an outfit a Hooter’s waitress wouldn’t wear, letting a man I literally just met stare at my lady parts. And I like it.
I really do.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I watch him carefully. His eyes widen, and his jaw clenches. His hands curl into claws and then into fists, and his forearms and biceps bunch and flex as he squeezes his fists tight. And then, with a ragged huff, he loosens his fists and wiggles his fingers. Using the wet paper towel, he wipes gently at the long, shallow cut to the outside of my calf. His touch is so gentle, so careful, I barely feel it as he dabs and wipes the cut clean.
“There.” He cups my Achilles in one hand and lowers my leg. With an almost reluctant sigh, he presses my knees inward, closing my thighs, and steps away, tossing the paper towel in the trash by the fridge. “You were right. It’s not bad at all.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He’s in the middle of the kitchen, hands shoved into his pockets. “Yeah.”
I hop down from the counter—a movement that sends my cleavage bouncing, a fact he doesn’t miss—and grab another pair of plates.
I dish out the food, hand him a plate and a fork and say, “I don’t have a dining room, and the kitchen is a little dusty, so in nice weather I eat out back.”
I’ve got a little round glass table and two chairs in the backyard, and it’s my favorite place in the world. I sit here in the mornings as weather allows and drink my coffee, and just breathe. The closest thing to peace is what I feel here, at this little table. It’s my place.
Inviting Jesse to share my favorite place feels deeply personal in an odd, intimate, scary way. This table and chairs were a purchase I made after the divorce was finalized, because I’d always wanted a table out here and Nicholas would never get me one and, at the time, I was saving all my money for the renovations. The day the judge signed the papers, I drove from the courthouse to an antique store, bought this set, brought it home, and promptly sat down with a glass of wine and cried.
Now it’s my place.
So why oh why did I invite Jesse to eat here with me? He’s sitting in the delicate wrought-iron chair, looking like an adult sitting in one of those miniature chairs in a kindergarten classroom. He’s too big for the chair, too big for the table, too big for the backyard. He just fills the whole space with his presence.
I set my plate on the table and take a bite—I smile, pleased with myself for making a yummy meal.
Jesse has eaten half his food before I get done with two bites, and then I realize there’s nothing to drink. I set my fork down and speak around a mouthful. “You want something to drink?”
He nods, fork halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, please. Whatever you have is fine. I’m not picky.
“I have sparkling water and…wine, and that’s pretty much it, unless you want me to make coffee.”
He laughs. “Water, wine, whatever you want.”
“No coffee?”
Another laugh. “At seven at night? I don’t think so. I’d be up till next week.” A self-conscious grin. “I used to be able to drink coffee all day and all night and never think twice, but nowadays? Coffee past, like, four in the afternoon keeps me up for hours. Getting older sucks.”
“It sure does.”
He eyes me. “Yeah, and what would you know about getting older? You’re just a kid.”
I snort. “Okay, if you count forty as a kid.”
“I’m forty-four, so I win.”
“I didn’t realize this was a competition.”
“I can turn everything into a competition,” he says. “I’m sort of competitive.”
I get up and decide to screw it, I’m pouring wine. So I uncork a bottle, pour two big glasses, and bring them back outside. Jesse has his phone out as I enter the backyard, but as soon as he sees me, he powers it all the way off, and shoves it back into his pocket.
“Sorry, just checking my email. James tends to rely on email for all his important communication.”
“It’s no big deal.” Actually, I’m impressed by his courtesy.
Nicholas was always on his phone. What’s the term I read about? Phubbing. Snubbing someone by talking on your phone. That’s Nicholas. Yet another way he proved how little he cared about me.
Jesse, on the other hand, even on an impromptu means-nothing dinner like this, is showing more courtesy than Nicholas ever did.
It feels good.
“You didn’t have to turn it off,” I said.
He shrugs as I hand him the glass of wine. His eyes are hot and intense on mine. “My mama raised me to have manners, and in my book, staring at your phone instead of a sexy woman is just bad manners all around.”
“I thought you’d had your fill of staring a few minutes ago,” I say, the words spilling out unbidden.
He snorts sarcastically. “Got my fill? Imogen, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Um, yeah, just before I came down after my shower.”
“Haha, okay Miss Literal. What I mean is, no, I definitely did not get my fill of staring at you.” His gaze stays fixed on mine, and is so intense that I have a hard time holding it. “That’s not a thing, Imogen.”
“What’s not a thing?”
“Getting my fill of looking at you.”
Oh god. Swoon.
Instead of swooning gracefully, however, what I end up doing is choking on my wine. Is this guy real?
“Did Audra send you?” I ask, another blurt I have no control over and didn’t intend to say.
“Audra? Who’s Audra?” He shakes his head. “No, I work for James Bod and I have no idea what Audra has to do with anything.”
“Audra is my best friend,” I say, “and she’s been after me before the ink was dry on my divorce papers to meet someone. She’s tried fixing me up a dozen times in a dozen ways with a dozen different kinds of guys. I thought maybe this whole thing was an elaborate ploy of hers.”
He frowns. “How c
ould she have arranged for you to smash your own window? Is she a Time Lord or something?” He shakes his head, laughing. “I mean, seriously. And why would you think that in the first place?”
“Because you’re too good to be true.”
He leans close to me, so close I can smell the wine on his breath, the utterly masculine scent of sawdust and sweat. “Good? Have you not seen the big truck and the tattoos and the long hair?”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t make you bad. Just…a certain kind of man. You’re kind, and considerate, and generous, and skilled.” I hesitate over the next words, but again my mouth betrays me. “And hot as fuck.”
“Hot as fuck, huh?” His smirk is heated and humorous.
“Um. Sexy as sin?”
“I’m not a romance novel hero, so I’ll stick with hot as fuck, if you don’t mind.”
“My point is that yeah, actually, you are a sort of romance novel hero.”
He frowns. “How do you mean?”
“You show up looking the way you look, and you fix my window, and you flirt with me, and you say things that make me literally and figuratively swoon.” I shrug. “Ergo, you are a romance novel hero.”
“I’m not flirting with you, Imogen.”
My heart sinks. “You’re—you’re not?” God, have I just totally read this whole thing wrong?
He leans even closer, so close we could kiss, if either of were so inclined. “Nope. I’m hitting on you.”
Hope blooms, desire blossoms, and need burns sun-hot. “Oh. I see.”
At that moment, a horn blares, and then a few seconds later, a fist pounds on my front door. Puzzled as to who it could be and what they would need so urgently, I trot to the front door and crack it open.
The man on the other side of the screen door is even taller than Jesse, with arms the size of my waist. His hair and his beard are neatly cut and combed, and both are brown sprinkled with silver. He has a pair of Oakleys on his face, and his phone is clutched in one hand, and he looks furious.
“Um, can I help you?” I ask.