Separation Anxiety (7 page)

Her reply came quick:
Is the inside of Decadent Drake’s truck as sexy as the outside?

God, if she only knew what I knew about the object of her lust. If she knew about that tattoo, she wouldn’t stop until she got to see it for herself. I decided to keep that little nugget to myself, at least for now. But I knew I couldn’t keep
my separation secret from my best friend for much longer, and then she’d want to know where I was staying, and she’d want me to stay with her. But I didn’t want to stay with her. I wanted to stay with Jesse. I wanted to get to know Jesse better, and I wanted to sleep next to him in his gorgeous bed after he spent the entire night making love to me.

Wait. I didn’t mean that last part.

Oh, who am I kidding? Yes I did.

Shit.

I was in big trouble.

I replied to Quinn with a smiley face and turned my phone off before joining Jesse in the kitchen.
He was pulling ingredients out of the fridge and placing them on the counter. “What are we making?” I asked.

“Chicken marsala and
mushroom risotto,” he said.

“Sounds delicious,” I said, my mouth already watering as I watched him gather everything we needed. He pulled out a cutting board, a meat mallet, the chicken, and some plastic wrap as he set up the station for pounding out the chicken, and then he motioned me over.

“Take your frustration with that two named asshole out on poor Charlie Chicken,” he said, handing me the mallet.

“Charlie Chicken?” I asked.

He winked at me. “I always name my food. Charlie Chicken, Tom Turkey, Bobby Beef, Fred Fish, Peter Porker.”

“Peter Porker? Like Spiderman? Peter Parker?”

He grinned. “You got it.”

“Weirdo,” I giggled as I took the mallet from him, our fingers accidentally brushing in the process as our eyes met again. I saw a heat pass through his eyes just as I felt a spark pass between us, and then Jesse dropped his hand quickly. He busied himself by pouring flour into a shallow dish as I went to work on Charlie.

I felt his presence behind me as he stood over my shoulder and watched me pound out the chicken.

“
Not so hard,” he instructed.

I
let up my pounding, hitting the side of the chicken.

“No,” he said, and I felt him move in closer behind me.
“Like this.” He placed his hand over mine, lifted our joined hands, and hit firmly in the center of the chicken breast.

But, honestly, I had no idea that we’d just hit raw chicken with a kitchen mallet. All I could feel was the heat from his body standing behind my own and the sizzle from his hand over mine. I felt my body automatically lean back into him for more contact as he brought our
joined hands up and back down again.

“Got it?” he breathed into my ear, his breath
on my skin sending a tremor down my spine as I realized that his front completely ran the length of my back. I shivered and goose bumps broke out across my skin at his proximity. I felt the sinewy hardness of his muscles, and I was certain that I felt another hardness pressing lower against the base of my spine.

Was he as turned on as I was? Was it possible that the little flirtations that I kept brushing off were sincere?

Was it possible that someone like Jesse Drake was interested in me?

I doubted it, but it didn’t stop me from dreaming.

“Uh,” I stuttered. “Yeah. Got it,” I said, and he broke that sexy moment between us as he backed away, running both of his hands through his hair.

“Good. I’ll get the risotto going,” he said, and he moved to the other side of the kitchen to start the burner while I continued pounding
the chicken in time to the loud pounding of my heart in my chest.

The rest of our meal preparations went off without nearly as much excitement as hitting the chicken. At one point, I glanced over at Jesse while I stirred the risotto, waiting for the rice to soak up the chicken stock before I poured in more liquid. His palms were pressed flat against the counter in front of the sink, his arms straight as he leaned forward with his head bowed. His shoulders looked tense, and I saw him take a deep breath. I wondered what he was thinking, but I couldn’t interrupt his introspective moment.

And, for about the millionth time, I wondered who the hell Allison was
and whether or not the way he stood there like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders had anything to do with her.

Jesse poured us each a glass of
Sauvignon Blanc as I plated the food, and we met at the table. The food smelled so good that I gave us both heaping platefuls. He had set the wineglasses down first so that we were seated across from each other. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him next to me, heating me up with his proximity, or if I wanted him across from me where I could stare at him as we ate. Both options seemed equally dangerous.

“Is that going to be enough?” he teased as I sat down and grabbed my fork.

“Shut up,” I warned. “I’m hungry.”

I dug in, and I couldn’t help the little moan that passed through my lips when I tasted the chicken. He’d taken the lead on chicken while I worked the risotto, although the whole meal really was a result of our teamwork.

“Good?” he asked, shifting in his chair.

I nodded. “Fantastic,” I said, licking my lips as I savored the delicious sauce he had made.

“Nice to see a woman who actually eats,” he said.

I narrowed my eyes.
“What’s that supposed mean?”

“Usually when I eat with women, they barely touch their food, or they order some salad and then they pick at it and it pisses me off because I have to pay for the damn meal that they don’t even bother eating. So it’s just nice t
o see a woman who actually enjoys food.”

I thought about the types of women he must
have typically dated. Modelesque, I was sure. Probably tall and blonde and blue eyed with fake chests and faker personalities. Definitely not any of my attributes.

I wanted to be the type he dated, though.

I shrugged. “Yep. I like my food.”

“Like those potato skins yesterday?” he asked.

I grinned. “God, those were delicious,” I moaned, closing my eyes in delight as I remembered that delectable combination of potato, cheese, bacon, grease, and sour cream. I noticed him shift in his chair again, and then he grabbed his wineglass and took a huge gulp.

“So,” he said, clearly changing the subject, “how did things go this afternoon?”

“Not great,” I said. I took a bite of the risotto and mentally patted myself on the back for a job well done since it tasted fantastic, too.

“I heard what you said to your mother,” he said.

“Which part?”

“Do you really think your family won’t support you? That you’ll be the black sheep?”

I shrugged again. “I don’t know. My family is very conservative, much more than I am. I always believed that marriage is only supposed to happen once in a person’s life, but that was before the person I married became someone I don’t recognize anymore.”

“
What did he say today?”

I sighed. “
I told him I wanted a divorce. He said he’s not going to sign the papers.”

Jesse’s eyes
darkened. “Fucking asshole.”

“Tell me about it. He said I’m stuck until he decides he’s ready to sign.”

“Then let’s make him ready.”

Let’s? As an English teacher, I knew that “Let’s” was a contraction for “let us.” Us.
Us.
He just called us an “us.”

Obviously, I took a moment for a mini freak out in my mind at the thought of being part of an “us” with Jesse.

I gulped down some wine while I composed myself. “How?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I’ll think of something,” he said as if it were a simple problem with a simpler solution. I loved how he made me feel like he would just automatically take care of things. With Richard, I had never felt that. I’d always felt like I was in it by myself, and while I’d always enjoyed the independence that gave me, I was starting to realize how much I missed
out on by never feeling like I was part of a team.

We ate in comfortable silence for a few moments.

“So, who’s the flavor of the week?” I asked, trying to dispel some of the sexual tension I was feeling between us. I hoped that if I could just get the attention on whoever he was currently banging, I’d stop picturing myself as the woman he was currently banging.

His eyes met mine and he raised one eyebrow. My breath left my body as he stared me down. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the look in his eye, but I almost sensed some irritation. At me?

“There’s no current flavor,” he said, his voice deep and quiet, his eyes never leaving mine.

So much for breaking some of that sexual tension.

He cleared his throat. “And, again, I’d like to ask what exactly you think I do in my spare time.”

“You’ve admitted to me yourself that y
ou have a new flavor every week,” I said lightly.

“When?” he challenged, narrowing his eyes at me as he took a bite of chicken.

“Random times. Like over a text, or in a passing conversation.”

I watched him chew that chicken, and even that somehow turned me on. I gazed at his strong jaw as he chewed, that jaw covered in just enough
scruff to be really, really sexy. An image of that stubble rubbing across the inside of my thigh came to mind, and just staring at him across the table from me was enough to send a shot of lust right through my spine and straight to my lady parts.

I knew I had to stop that train of thought in its tracks, but I didn’t know how to.

I thought Jesse was hot the moment I laid eyes on him nearly five years earlier, and we’d built a trusting coworker relationship and friendship over time. I’d always nursed a crush on him.

But I’d never actually been available to act on that crush.

Not that I was now, either. But I was a hell of a lot closer to being available to act on it.

As I watched him eat, I realized that all of our conversations over the past twenty-four hours had been about me. Apart from his summer plans and his penchant for women, I didn’t know all that much about Jesse.

He swallowed his bite of chicken and followed it with a sip of wine. He glanced back up at me, and I averted my eyes to my food, embarrassed about the sexual fantasies currently playing out in my mind and sure he’d be able to see it in my eyes if my eyes met his.

“Alright. I’ll give you that,” he said. He stood up and grabbed the wine bottle off of the counter. He refilled both of our glasses and then sat back down.

“Tell me something about you,” I said, suddenly desperate to know everything.

“Like what?” he asked.

“Favorite wine.”

He pretended to really ponder my question for a moment. “Beer,” he said, and I giggled. “You?”

I took a sip of the Sauvignon Blanc. “This shit’s pretty good,” I said, and it was his turn to laugh.

“Nice that you’re calling my twenty dollar bottle of wine ‘shit,’” he said dryly.

“You can always count on me for choosing just the right words.”

“The perf words?”

I laughed. “Yep. Perf use of ‘perf,’ by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“So then what’s your favorite beer?”

“Whatever’s cold and in my refrigerator.”

“Really? No preference?”

“I’m only picky when it comes to cars and women,” he said with a cheeky grin that melted a little piece of my panties.

I drank some wine to cool down, and much like the vodka the night before, all it served to do was heat me up. I had to be almost through my second glass, but it was hard to tell since Jesse kept topping me off. And, for some reason, wine hit me faster than any other alcohol.

“So
, if you’re picky with women, why flavors of the week and not something more permanent?” I asked, knowing my bold statement never would’ve come out of my mouth if I wasn’t already wine drunk.

He shrugged and took a sip of his wine, avoiding eye contact
.

“You’re a cat
ch, Jesse. You work with kids. You’re good with wood. You make a mean chicken marsala. You’re hot as hell.”

His eyes snapped sharply up to mine at my last words, and I realized what the hell had slipped out of my mouth just a moment too late.

Fucking wine.

My face was already
flushed from the wine, and I think I might’ve turned purple from embarrassment. I could not believe I just said that.

What the hell was I thinking?

This man was kind enough to extend an invitation for me to stay with him, and I just told him I thought he was hot. Or, more specifically, I told him that I thought he was “hot as hell.”

What. The. Fuck.

Something was wrong with me.

Seriously.