Читать книгу Pillow Talk - Kathleen O'Reilly, Kathleen O'Reilly - Страница 10
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ОглавлениеAFTER WORK, Jessica always jogged on the path that ran along the lake. Two miles on a normal day and three miles when her thighs got extra dimply, which was usually after having dinner with Cassandra, who liked her desserts.
Today was a good Wednesday. No crisis at the office, the weather was a perfect sixty-five degrees, and the runner in front of her had the most motivating physique she had ever had the sheer pleasure of running after.
Somewhere between mile marker number two and mile marker number three she realized the identity of that motivating physique.
He was right ahead of her. He was going to win. She picked up her pace. Not many people could beat her on a quarter-mile sprint, and she prayed Mr. Adam Taylor wasn’t one of them.
Time for round two.
Her feet pounded against the caliche track as she found her rhythm. She began to gain on him, noticing the efficient way he moved. Very smooth.
The powerful muscles worked in his legs, and his back flexed as he ran, making it look easy. His torso was bare, the better to be ogled, my dear.
Jessica stumbled, more caught up in leering than concentrating on the track in front of her. That just made her mad, so she kicked up to the next gear.
“Afternoon, Adam.”
He glanced over at her, his eyes taking in her sports bra and shorts. “Afternoon.”
“You’re pretty good.”
“Ditto.”
He matched her pace and they ran on in silence, bounded by the skyscrapers of the city and the still waters of Lake Michigan. She concentrated on keeping her breath even and slow.
“How far do you usually go?” he asked, not even winded.
“Five,” she answered, sneaking an extra gasp. “You?”
“Five.”
“What’s your time?” she asked, trying for a casual tone.
His gaze flicked in her direction. “Fifty-five is the usual. I can shave off eight minutes when I’m concentrating. You?”
He had stepped right into her trap. “I can beat that.”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a report that I need to turn in before morning.”
“Chicken?” She pulled ahead.
“Now you’re just talking trash.”
She didn’t reply except with vaguely unprofessional, yet extremely satisfying, clucking noises.
He pulled alongside her. “That is such a pretty ass. Seems a shame to watch you lose it.”
“You think so, farm boy?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Care to bet on that?”
He laughed. “What are we playing for now? I would love to see you in a little, black—”
“No.”
“Spoilsport,” he said with a heated look that indicated he was still off in fantasyland.
Jessica almost lost her stride. “It’s got to be something more meaningful.”
“Sex can be meaningful. Great sex can be life-altering.”
She snorted in a completely unfeminine manner. “You are such a man. Loser buys dinner.”
“Cooks, not buys.”
“And a chauvinist, too. I bet you can’t cook.”
“You can’t even begin to imagine.”
“You’re just trying to get me alone.”
He clutched a hand to his extremely well-formed, sweat-glistened chest. “Gee, she sees right through me.”
“Buys dinner. Public place. Ready?” She shot forward before he could reply. “See you at the finish line.”
They kept even for three miles, but the fast pace started to get to Jessica. He didn’t look winded at all, chest pumping in even rhythm. Was he slowing his pace just to let her win?
That demeaning thought got her through another one and a half miles. By the time they reached the last half-mile marker, Jessica thought her heart was going to explode. Still she ran, concentrating on putting one foot forward. Finding the zone.
Adam started to pull ahead. Two lengths, then three.
No way.
She blocked out everything. This was the man who thought he could beat her. Had already beaten her once. Not again in this lifetime. She focused on nothing but his black silk running shorts covering his mighty fine—
Stop it, Jessica. Her pace picked up.
The final marker loomed ahead, the shadowy clump of trees and the water fountain that sparkled like a desert oasis. Almost there.
She fell in beside him.
He pulled ahead.
No.
Not just no, but hell no.
Adam took the lead.
He smiled at her, slow and sure. A victory smile.
Calling on every ounce of her reserves, she shot forward, leaving him behind.
He almost caught her, but she was determined.
There it was.
One more length.
She felt his breath hot on her back. Still she ran.
There.
There.
She zoomed past the marker, two strides ahead of Mr. Hotshot. “There.”
He came to a stop next to her, and she was grateful to see his bare chest pumping wildly, the sweat dribbling down between sharply-defined pecs. “You are good,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Jessica forced herself to look away.
“In all things, Taylor.” She leaned against the tree, sucking much-needed air into her starving lungs. The world spun four times before it righted itself once more. She swept a hand through her hair, wiping the sweat off her forehead.
His thumb brushed against her lower lip. “You missed a spot.”
Her lashes drifted down, and she fought the urge to taste him. A frightening thought. Instantly the warm touch was gone and she stepped back into reality. “You owe me dinner.”
“You beat me, Barnes. I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at eight.”
For a second he sounded pleased, as if he had planned the whole thing. Suspicion tainted the moment. She stood, hands on hips, and studied his face. He looked exhausted and tousled, in a “hey baby, come jump me” kind of way. Once again, she felt the taste of victory. And it was sweet. The suspicion was gone. “717 West Patterson, apartment 2285. Think you can remember that, Taylor?”
“Don’t underestimate me, Barnes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
JESSICA PUT her key in the lock to 87 Spruce Avenue, turned the latch and pushed inside. Home. Her mom shouted a greeting from the kitchen, followed by the familiar rapid-fire barrage of requests. Set the table, chase the cat from the back bedroom and bring the clean laundry up from the basement. Jessica breathed in the ever-present aroma of fabric softener and cinnamon. Yup. Definitely home.
The family homestead in the southwest side of the city had been built proudly in 1937 by her grandfather, Elijah Barnes. An extra bathroom had been added on when Jessica was born, the attic had been finished when her brother Patrick turned seven, and four years ago her father had added a one-car garage to keep the snow off the 1987 Buick. For Jessica, it was the only home she’d ever known.
After carrying out her orders, Jessica made her way into the kitchen where her mother whisked from stove to sink to counter and back, faster than the eye could follow. There was never a wasted movement; she never stopped the way Jessica did, wondering what it was she intended to do.
Diane Barnes was a woman who kept a spotless house, was happiest when her children were nearby and had never met a casserole she didn’t like. From an early age, Jessica had known she was not her mother’s daughter. When Jessica had lived at home, they had fought almost every day. Her mom didn’t understand a career woman, and Jessica believed housework was one of the original eight plagues of Egypt, but because the Bible had been written by a man, it never got included.
Jessica watched her mother for a moment, then felt guilty and began putting things away, simply so she could look busy. “How you doing, Mom?”
Her mother lifted a lid from the pot on the stove, stirring idly. “Same as always, Jess.”
“You should take it easy some. You look tired,” Jessica said, noting the way her mother’s skin looked more fragile than usual.
Diane shook her head in a patient manner, her short brown hair rippling with movement. “I’ve got too many things to do, and the days are only getting shorter,” she answered, setting a stack of plates in Jessica’s hands.
Obediently, Jessica trotted out to the dining table and laid out the plates, moving from place to place until the spoons were lined up exactly parallel with the napkins and the forks gleamed in the bright lights from the wall sconces that were fixed around the room.
The dining table had already been set up for Wednesday dinner, five settings. It was family night at the Barnes household. Her father, Frank Barnes, had the chair at the head of the table, but until the food was actually on his plate, he sat in his recliner watching the news, thinking of new names for the local aldermen.
Jessica poked her head into the den. “Pop, supper is almost ready,” she yelled.
From behind the back of his brown easy chair came a grunt of acknowledgment. It usually took a good three tries to get Pop to leave the chair, which was incredibly inefficient, but you couldn’t skip one or he wouldn’t leave. Jessica sighed.
The front door slammed, rattling the bay window in a precarious manner. Patrick was home.
At the ripe old age of eighteen, Patrick had moved out of the house and set out on his own. For two years he’d skipped Wednesday dinners, but about the time he turned twenty, White Castle burgers had lost some of their appeal and he’d developed an appreciation for a home-cooked meal. He was now twenty-five and thought he knew everything. Jessica knew better.
He took off his jacket and threw it on top of the coat tree in the hall. “Hey, Jess. Can you get me something to drink?”
“You been taking drugs, Patrick? Do I look like Mom?”
“More and more every day,” he said, pausing before he walked into the den to pinch her cheek.
Jessica smacked her fist into her palm. “I’m your older sister, I’m the professional in the family.”
“Blah, blah, blah.”
The front door slammed again. Not quite as loudly as Patrick, which meant that Ian was now home from class. He was shorter than Jessica by a couple of inches, but what he lacked in height, he said he made up for in wisdom.
He flung his jacket on the coat tree and shook his head. “Sis, you always let him get to you. The only reason he does that is to get you mad.”
It was the ultimate humiliation to get behavioral lessons from her baby brother. At least he was the scholar as well, which soothed her ego somewhat. Ian had spent three years in the local community college, trying out different majors to see if they suited him. Eventually he’d wandered full circle back to Business Administration and had just been accepted to Notre Dame.
Ian threw his backpack onto the sideboard in the dining room, but then their mother scuttled into the room and moved it into the hall closet, with nary a word of complaint. Jessica couldn’t believe her brother’s inconsiderate nature. “Would it have been so much trouble to put it away yourself? Don’t you think Mom has enough to do without having to pick up after you?”
“Heavy stress at the job, Jess?”
She glared at Ian and then she sneezed. “You couldn’t imagine.”
“Yeah, I can.” He rubbed his hands together, his eyes gleaming with possibilities. “I can’t wait.”
He looked so excited, so full of enthusiasm, and Jessica didn’t have the heart to enlighten him about the real state of affairs in the business world. Maybe she was turning into a cynic. More likely she was just scared.
Her mother called from the kitchen. “Jessica, would you find out what everyone would like to drink, please?”
“Sure, Mom,” she said, collecting drink orders and pondering a career in the field of hotel and restaurant management. By the time she had returned to her mother with the information, she had decided that the hospitality industry might be a possibility. And of course, she’d forgotten what everyone wanted to drink.
Ten minutes later they were all seated at the table, and her father said grace, the same blessing he’d said for all twenty-nine years of Jessica’s life. Short, to the point and sincere. Not fancy, but it was the Barnes way.
Dinner was never a quiet affair, although Jessica wondered what it was like Thursday through Tuesday when it was just her mother and father. Did they talk about the day or get silly, or was it just like tonight with her father buried in the news and her mother buried in the kitchen?
The menu tonight was roast beef, gravy, Jessica’s favorite green-bean casserole and homemade rolls. It made Jessica weak just thinking of cooking all that stuff day after day, night after night. She watched her mother fuss over everyone with appreciation and more than a little concern.
Diane held up the rose-colored gravy boat. “More gravy, Ian? And don’t forget your vegetables.”
Her father took a bite of roast beef and emitted a long “ahhh” of satisfaction. “Those guys in meat-packing can tell me what they want, but there’s nothing closer to heaven than your roast beef, Diane.”
Her mother glowed and picked at her plate. “Thank you, Frank.”
That was all her father had to say? Jessica went to the sideboard and refilled her mother’s water glass.
“That’s all well and good, but shouldn’t Mom have a night off every now and then?”
Her father shoveled a bit of roast beef into his mouth.
Jessica shot Ian a plea for moral support, but he was too much of a pacifist or a chicken—or both—to assist.
It was a battle she would have to fight alone. “Mom deserves to get some rest. You got a birthday coming up, don’t you, Mom?”
Her mother got up and spooned more green beans onto Ian’s plate. “In June.”
Immediately Jessica knew how to solve this problem. “I think we should have a party.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Jessica.”
So typical. If no one leaped to her mom’s defense, she’d never get a break. Well, Jessica wasn’t about to let her back out now. She locked eyes with her mom. “No, no, wait. Hear me out. I don’t want you to worry about cooking or cleaning or being a hostess. I’ll take care of everything. The party will be my birthday present for you. And we can get your hair cut at one of those chi-chi places in the Loop. And your nails. You gotta get your nails done.”
Her mother still didn’t look convinced. “I suppose it could be fun.”
Jessica stood and paced around the table, continuing in full marketing, project-planning mode. It helped to have something to take her mind off the job issues right now and finally she had a chance to give something back to her mother. “We’ll have your friends and your side of the family…”
Alarmed, her father looked up. “You’re not inviting Aunt Alys. The woman eats enough for ten. Jessica, you’ll go broke just trying to feed her.”
Diane waved a hand at her husband. “Hush, Frank.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a healthy appetite,” Jessica piped in.
“And I wouldn’t dare not invite her,” her mother added.
Frank rubbed a hand over the remaining twirls of dark hair that covered his scalp. “Oy. She’s coming, then? Jessica, I’m hoping that job of yours pays well, ‘cause you’re going to have a hell of a bill.”
“I’m doing fine.”
“My little girl is going be vice president someday, I know it.” Her father grinned, his dark eyes glowing, and Jessica felt a little kick in her heart.
“You bet I will,” Jessica promised, ignoring the twinge in her stomach that seemed to indicate otherwise.
ADAM SHOWED UP at her door at eight o’clock sharp on Thursday. Much to his delight, Jessica greeted him at the door with a prickly smile and a wisp of a dress. All the blood drained from his head and he experienced a twenty-percent loss in mental capacity.
It was good. That much he knew. Sparkling, the material moved around her like liquid gold. The front was two strips of cloth that clung to her breasts. How? He didn’t know, but he was happy.
She smiled at his obvious discomfort. “Problem, Taylor?”
Her voice was smooth and confident. This was a woman who liked her power. Her idea of home was behind a desk. High risk, low return. Remember that, he told himself. He held out a hand. “Not at all.”
He made the requisite small talk as they made their way to his car. Then he flicked the keyless entry and opened the passenger door.
Adam had learned to expect a myriad of reactions to his car. Fascination and awe, and a few dates had turned—well, insatiable. And who was he to complain? But there was no awe in Jessica’s expression now, no sexual hunger, darn it, just—anger? This was a new one.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, still holding open the door. Maybe that was a mistake? Maybe she didn’t like the man-opening-car-door protocol. Well, damned if he was going to lose his manners for her.
“You drive a Porsche.”
“Yes,” he answered.
“A 911 Carrera Coupe.” She splayed a hand over the roof, her fingers smoothing over it like a lover’s caress. “It’s lapis blue, isn’t it?”
He nodded, now completely fascinated. His consultant’s training told him to hold his tongue.
“A 3.6-liter engine, 320 horsepower?”
Except when a woman started talking horsepower. “Zero to sixty in under five seconds.”
Her hand dropped to her side and she sneezed. “You’re an evil man, Taylor.”
Perhaps if he hadn’t tallied the final head-count projections today he would have been more receptive, but the insult hit close to home. His voice rose a notch, just one, before he got control. “Because I drive a Porsche?”
She jabbed the hood with an energetic finger. “That’s my car.”
Adam ran a hand through his hair, muddling his way through. “Did someone steal your car?”
She shook her head and sneezed again. “No. I don’t own the car. It’s my goal.”
Adam reached in his pocket and took out the travel package of tissues he’d brought just for her. “Here.”
Obediently she blew her nose, wadded the paper in her hand, and then faced him, liquid gold in the bright lights of the street. “I’m sorry. It’s a long story and very silly, and I won’t bore you with the details. Can I just say that I’m a little overwrought and we can leave it at that?”
Overwrought, my butt. He thought about pressing her for the truth, but the night was young. She glanced toward the car, more longing in her eyes than he really wanted to see wasted on a Porsche. Inspiration struck and he held out his keys. “Why don’t you drive?”
She palmed the keys, lightly stroking the metal. He watched in silence, wondered at the oddly vulnerable expression on her face. And then it was gone.
She threw the keys in the air, caught them with one hand and was settled in the driver’s side before he could open the door. Damn. He walked around, opened it, shut it. “Just making sure it’s closed,” and then folded his legs in the passenger side.
“You know how to drive a stick, Barnes?”
“Just watch me.”
And the car roared into the night.
THE RESTAURANT was cool and chic. Not like the normal places that Jessica chose to spend her dining dollars, but she couldn’t help the cocky swing in her hips when she crossed the elegant threshold.
Jessica Barnes had arrived, holding tight to the strong arm of Adam Taylor. Okay, technically he was still the enemy, but for tonight—tonight he was her dream man.
He was her imaginary date to the prom, the football player that had never asked her out. He was the Saturday-night phone call that never came. All neatly packaged into one living, breathing, sexy-as-hell man.
And by the way, did she forget to mention that he drove a very cool car?
Her sigh of pleasure was long overdue. Eleven years of doubts pent up inside her. It felt good to let it all out.
After they were seated and had gotten their drinks, she sipped her wine like a pro. He took off his jacket and she studied the way his tanned skin balanced the stark white of his shirt. Nice. She liked the way his gaze lingered on her, appreciation in those gray-green eyes, desire there as well.
She leaned forward, tempting the fates. “How did you become a consultant?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I really do.”
“Fresh out of school with an MBA, there weren’t that many jobs. I took the first offer I got, a position at one of the big consulting houses. That lasted for about three years, about the time I discovered I was good at operational efficiency.” He stared off into the distance, tugging at his tie.
“A rare talent,” she murmured.
He turned back to her and shrugged. “It’s what I do. How about you? You like numbers, huh?”
“I’ve always liked math, and finance seemed the way to go. I found Hard-Wire about two years after I graduated.” She remembered the day she’d told her parents her plans for VP. She would even spring for champagne. A vice president had never set foot in the Barnes household before and she was determined to rectify that little situation.
He watched her from over his glass. “Are you from Chicago?”
“Born and raised. And you? You’ve got this accent. What’s with it?”
“Alabama.”
“No kidding? A.L.? You don’t look like what I imagined a guy from the twenty-second state would be like.”
“A.L.?” He laughed. “So what am I supposed to look like?”
“You know, overalls, a piece of hay clamped between your teeth, rural. You look urban. You clean up good, Mr. Taylor.”
“Thank ye kindly, ma’am.”
It felt comfortable to sit here with him: talking, laughing. Trusting him. A shiver ran down her spine. That was a bad thing. “Let’s not overdo it.”
His smile faded, the mood broken.
“How’s the report coming?” she asked, making sure she didn’t forget.
All traces of a smile disappeared completely. “Let’s not go there tonight, hmm? I don’t want to talk about work, I’m more interested in you.”
“I’m boring.”
His eyes met hers and he shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so. Got any secrets, Jessica?”
“I ran away from home when I was sixteen. Was gone about seven hours before I came back. Mom and Pop still don’t know. Does that count?”
“Why’d you run away?”
“Life sucks for everybody at sixteen. I wasn’t any different.” It had been Black Tuesday. She’d been passed over for the drill team, after already having been passed over for cheerleader, after already losing the class council race. It was a bad year. She sneezed, reached for a tissue, and when she was done, immediately lost it under the table. “You? What were you like at sixteen?”
“Hauling hay, plowing the fields, helping Ma when I could.” As he talked his accent got deeper, running through her like a slow shot of Southern Comfort.
“What about your father?”
“He was always gone. Assignment here, assignment there.”
“But your mother still wanted the farm?”
“It was her home.” There was a contented smile on his face, a plowboy from Alabama. She had teased him about it, but never actually believed she was right.
The waiter interrupted, announcing the night’s specials, but Jessica ignored him. It was Adam that intrigued her. She understood him a little better, understood why he was as driven as she was. A man who wanted a new start in a new place.
Adam took the menu from the table and glanced over it. Completely casual at first. She didn’t get wise to him until he angled it in the direction of the door. “Dodging someone, Taylor? You got any secrets of your own?”
The menu didn’t move. “It’s not a secret. It was—she was a date.”
A date. Why was she surprised? She kept her voice light, kept the disappointment close inside. “And the plot thickens. What sort of date? Did you promise to call her, but never did? Or even worse, were you supposed to see her tonight? For shame, Mr. Taylor. For shame.”
The menu lowered and he rubbed his eyes. “I have a conscience. I don’t need two. It’s just not good business practice to exchange social pleasantries with one date when I’m out on another.”
Oh.
And up to the table walked a woman who caught the eye of every man in the room—the sort of woman who knew nitric acid and had experienced it daily. “Adam? Is that you?”
Jessica fought jealousy, fought a sneeze. Instead, she settled for a smug “Busted” that she made sure he could hear.
Adam shot her a dirty look, and then instantly flashed his consultant’s smile at the blonde leaning oh-so-elegantly against the table. “Hello, Fallon.”
Fallon? Jessica mouthed the name to Adam. The sneak ignored her.
“How are you doing, Adam? I’ve been waiting for the book club to meet again so I could get your take on Sula. Have you finished it yet?”
Book club? Okay, he was definitely not a man but an alien life form raised on the farm land of Alabama, and now assuming the guise of a consultant. The truth was out there after all.
The subject of her conspiracy theory looked very uncomfortable.
Jessica balanced her chin on her hand, awaiting his answer.
“Not yet. I haven’t been able to focus my energies on the story and a book isn’t any good unless you approach it with the proper frame of reference.” At long last, Adam remembered his manners. “Fallon, this is Jessica Barnes. Jessica, Fallon Morningside.”
Jessica held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Morningside.”
“Oh, it’s just Fallon. I hear Miss Morningside all day, every day. It gets old.”
Jessica forced a bright smile on her face. “What do you do?”
“I teach special needs children in Bridgeport. What do you do, Jessica?” The tall blonde exuded grace, charm and, worst of all, she seemed nice. Jessica felt a telltale tickle in her nose. Not now. Please not now.
“I’m in finance.” It sounded so trivial, so meaningless, and in three short seconds she realized her entire life’s ambition had just been one-upped by a school-teacher.
She fumbled for a tissue and came up empty. Not now. A napkin. She just needed to get to the napkin. No. It was too late. She turned her head away from the table. Ha-choo.
“God bless you.” Fallon’s wonderfully melodic tones winged their way through the air.
Jessica shot upright and mumbled, “Thanks.”
“I’ll let the two of you enjoy your dinner. I highly recommend the chateaubriand. They cook it perfectly. Adam, I’ll see you on Tuesday.” She wiggled a couple of fingers in his direction, yet somehow it didn’t look goofy. On Jessica it would be goofy.
Jessica sighed and felt another sneeze coming on.
Adam studied the menu with intense fascination.
Jessica studied Adam. “She’s nice.”
“Yes. The salmon sounds really good. What are you going to have?”
She played with the silverware, tapping the fork over the knife. “I did some volunteer work when I was in high school. It wasn’t special needs kids or anything, but they were poor.”
“The lobster looks good, too. Don’t you think?”
Not quite satisfied, she tapped the fork a little harder. “I give to the United Way, you know.”
“Jessica.” Adam took away her fork and then patted her hand. “Let it go. You’re a fine human being.”
“Thank you,” she answered. Suddenly her lifelong goal of a Porsche seemed petty, but the car maneuvered so well.
She glanced across the table and decided it was time to forget about her shortcomings. That would come later. For now she wanted to enjoy the evening.
“What are you going to have?” he asked again.
“Oh. Food.” She looked over the menu. “I’ll have the linguini with clam sauce, I think.”
They ordered and Adam stayed quiet. Thinking about Fallon, probably. Jessica could nip that in the bud. “She seems nice.”
“Who?”
“Fallon. You met her at a book club?”
“Yes.”
“A book club?”
“Yes.” This time he sounded defensive, and he tugged at his tie.
She took a long sip of wine, until her loins were fully girded, and then asked the question that she really wanted answered. “And just how many men are in this book club?”
“Me.”
“And you really read all the books? It’s not just a way to meet women?”
His smile grew wider. “Do you really think I’m twisted enough to join a book club just to meet women?”
Calculating the possibility, she ran her tongue over her teeth. “Absolutely,” was her final answer.
“You’re slaying me here, Barnes.”
“Do you have book clubs in every city you work in?”
He shrugged. “Not all of them.”
The waiter brought their salads, effectively ending the conversation.
For the moment.
She changed the topic of conversation and they argued baseball. She liked the Cubs, he liked the Yankees. They argued late-night talk shows. He liked Letterman, she liked Leno. They argued hardware. He thought switches would become obsolete, she thought he was full of it.
Eventually, the waiter arrived with the entrées, and they ate their dinners in silence. Every now and then their gazes would collide and Jessica felt the warm flush prickle her skin.
At last the table was cleared and the bill paid. “You like to dance?” he asked. “There’s a club down the street.”
She knew what dancing would involve, a loud band, smoke and probably very little touching. “No thanks.”
“Then I’ll just take you home,” he said, his voice low, full of promise. Promises that involved touching.
She struggled to breathe, images of touching playing in her head. “Home,” she echoed.
Adam drove this time, the hum of the car’s engine a contented purr that suited her mood nicely. When they reached the garage, she started to wish she’d cleaned up her apartment a little more, that she had shopped for better lingerie. Something sexy. Did she have anything sexy? There was an old teddy, but it had got washed in hot water and had never recovered.
Was she going to have sex?
Sex. Oh my God. Panic started in her throat and worked its way down between her thighs.
“Jess.” A hand touched her shoulder, a whisper-touch and she jumped.
“You okay?”
She noticed the emptiness of the parking garage, the intent look on his face. The seat belts came off. Her smile was simply because it felt right, because he felt right.
