Читать книгу Anything For You - Kristan Higgins - Страница 12
ОглавлениеEight and a half years before the proposal...
THE SECOND TIME Connor and Jessica hooked up was almost exactly two years after the ill-fated first time.
In the time that passed, Connor had surprised himself by moving back home. While at the Culinary Institute, he’d traveled quite a bit—internships in France, Miami and then a prestigious stint at the only restaurant in Manhattan ever to earn three Michelin stars. And while he learned immeasurably, the big, glitzy restaurant scene wasn’t for him. Food presentation bordered on the ridiculous...filet mignon topped with a circle of half-inch, precisely cut white and green asparagus tips arranged in a yin-yang symbol; symmetrical dollops of red beet paste making a half circle around a brick of polenta with the restaurant logo branded onto it.
The food was amazing, but it wasn’t the type Connor wanted to make. He wanted to make ordinary food taste extraordinary. It was all about flavor and the experience. Happiness should be part of the meal, and at Vue des Anges, where dinner for two could easily cost more than $500, there weren’t a lot of happy patrons. Snobby patrons, definitely. Patrons trying to impress their companions. Bored patrons, sullen patrons, patrons a little stressed by the high-pressure dining experience.
What he wanted, especially now, was a place for normal people. A place that served perfect meals without the pressure. Lasagna made with veal and pork and cream and four kinds of cheese and homemade pasta—not fussy, not ridiculous...just perfect, thoughtful, fantastic. Yes, they’d serve hamburgers, which would probably enrage Etienne, his former boss, but hamburgers made with Angus beef and shallots and flat-leafed parsley and garlic-infused butter. His sister’s weakness, nachos, served with Cotija cheese and wafer-thin slices of radishes and charred tomatillo salsa.
A place that was home in a way that his own home had never really been.
On the surface, the O’Rourkes had always seemed like the classic American family—two kids, two cars, parents who were still married.
Underneath, though, ran a tension that only Connor felt. Well. Connor and his father.
Connor had never felt particularly close to his father, ever. The dog bite had only cemented that feeling. Pete O’Rourke was too busy being Manningsport’s answer to Donald Trump. Growing up, Colleen had always been Daddy’s little girl, the more outgoing twin, always with some funny, fast remark, always getting attention. She could do no wrong in their father’s eyes. Her grades weren’t as good as Connor’s, but Dad never seemed to notice or mind... Collie was never told to study harder or help their mother more. She was simply adored.
And Connor was largely ignored, except when they were out in public. Then it was Pete and his gorgeous kids, leave it to Pete to have twins, weren’t they just great, good-looking kids, both of them, and on and on and on.
Jeanette, their mom, thought Dad walked on water, never minding his slight, and not-so-slight, condescension toward her, his long workdays and lack of reciprocity in the affection or praise departments. No, the O’Rourkes were a sitcom family, starring Dad as The Hardworking Businessman; Colleen, the Sassy and Beautiful Daughter; Mom with a supporting role as Slightly Dim Housewife; and Connor as...
As not that much. As Colleen’s twin. Barely a walk-on role, at least in his father’s eyes. No matter what, Connor always seemed to disappoint his father, and somewhere along the line, he’d stopped trying. Mom was so grateful for any affection or attention that Connor made a point of being her ally, complimenting her when she got dressed up, because his father always had some not-quite-nice comment for her, or watching a TV show with her, rather than have her sitting in the living room, alone.
Connor knew his father was something of a slimy businessman not above some questionable business deals. Pete used money and influence and favor-trading to get his way.
And Connor knew his father cheated on his mom...at least, he strongly suspected it. When he was fifteen, he’d been walking past an empty storefront Dad owned, and there was his father, kissing a much younger woman.
Connor wasn’t an idiot. He knew grown men didn’t kiss a woman without hoping to go all the way. And the woman sure didn’t seem to mind. For weeks afterward, Connor gave his father the cold shoulder...not that his father noticed or cared.
Just before Connor and Colleen had graduated college, their father had announced that he was leaving their mother for his girlfriend. The fact that he even had a girlfriend had shocked Colleen and Mom.
It hadn’t shocked Connor.
However, Dad’s piece on the side was pregnant...and that was a shock.
Mom fell apart. Colleen, too, was struggling; not only was her image of their father utterly smashed, but she’d dumped her longtime boyfriend and had been walking around like a ghost all summer.
And then Connor got the call from Sherry Wong, who was the commercial loans director at the local bank, and whom Connor had taken to the prom. The Black Cat, a nasty, run-down bar right on the Manningsport green, had gone into bankruptcy. She’d heard that Connor was a chef... Any chance he might want to buy it?
There was. The building was his before it even went on the market, in a move that surprised and displeased his father, who seemed to own every other commercial building in town.
His maternal grandmother had died the year before and had left him and Colleen each a sizeable nest egg. Con asked his twin if she wanted to be half owner, and she was game. All of August and September, they overhauled the place, sanding the old maple-plank floors, spending an entire day driving to a salvage yard in New Hampshire to buy a gorgeous old bar, hammering and sawing and keeping each other company as their mom fell apart and Gail “the Tail” Chianese—who was a whole four years older than they were—gestated their half sibling.
Oddly enough, it was good to be back. While Connor never quite imagined settling down in his hometown, it felt right. Manningsport was as beautiful a town as they came, perched at the base of Keuka Lake, surrounded by hills and farms-turned-vineyards, filled with families who went back generations. Three seasons a year, the tourists flocked in to taste wine and exclaim over the quaintness of the village, filled with shops and a really good bakery and Hugo’s French Restaurant.
And now, there’d be O’Rourke’s. Colleen came up with the simple name and message—You’re very welcome here. It would be the only restaurant open year-round, and in that way, it would give the residents of Manningsport a place to gather in the long, cold winter months. Connor would run the kitchen with the help of Rafe, a less-ambitious friend from the Institute who was happy to live in wine country and work as a sous-chef. Colleen would manage the place and bartend. Two of their cousins asked if they could waitress. In fact, forty-nine people applied to work there.
Jessica Dunn was not one of them. Connor had half hoped she’d be interested, but while she continued to treat him politely if they crossed paths, that was it. The three feet away face was always in place.
On a Wednesday night in October while Connor was alone at the restaurant, bolting booths to the wall, Colleen called him. “We have a sister,” she said, her voice husky. “Savannah Joy, eight pounds, two ounces. I’m going to the hospital. Wanna come?”
He paused. It was nine o’clock, and he was sweaty and grimy. “No. I’ll go tomorrow. Uh...everyone’s healthy?”
“Yep. That’s what Dad said.” His sister was silent. He knew what she was thinking. You won’t make the baby grow up lonely, will you? Just because Dad’s an asshole?
Give me some credit. “A sister. That’s nice. Hopefully, she’s not as ugly as you are, Collie Dog-Face.”
“Me? You’re the one who’s so ugly, you have to put a bag on your head to get the dog to hump your leg.”
“Do you still own a mirror, or did that get too sad?”
“You know what, Con? You’ll never be the man our mother is.”
That one always got him. He laughed. “You win.”
“I always do.”
He rolled his eyes. “And yet you work for me.”
“Ha! Brother mine, you work for me.”
“Keep telling yourself that. I’m hanging up now because you’re annoying me.”
“How?”
“By breathing.” He paused. “You gonna tell Mom about the baby, or am I?”
“I will, coward. I live with her, after all.” It was true. In a glorious spasm of Catholic martyrdom, Colleen had moved back in with their mother. Connor, who felt this only proved he was the smarter sibling, lived in the tiny attic apartment above the bar.
He rubbed his eyes. “Tell them I said...” He sighed. “I guess congratulations. Tell Gail, anyway.” He almost felt sorry for Gail. Almost.
“Tell them yourself, dumbass. Love you, even when I hate you.”
“Ditto.”
He hung up the phone.
A baby sister, just shy of twenty-three years younger than Connor and Colleen.
Christ.
He went upstairs and took a shower. The apartment wasn’t much; stifling hot in the summer, and soon to be freezing cold, but it was fine for a single guy who worked a lot. A futon couch, a chair, a TV, a bed and several crates of books. When the restaurant was turning a profit, he’d look into buying a house.
He pulled on some clean jeans and a T-shirt and briefly contemplated visiting his mother. She’d be a wreck about this, the poor thing. She still held out hope that Pete would see the error of his ways and come home again.
That wasn’t going to happen. Everyone could see it except Mom.
And while Connor had known his father was cheating, he sure hadn’t pictured Gail the Tail as his stepmother. Pete had married her nine days ago, the day after his divorce was final.
He grabbed his motorcycle helmet and went out. Yeah, yeah, he owned a motorcycle. The gas mileage couldn’t be beat. Colleen called him a cliché, but so what? It was fun. He had a small pickup truck for winter.
Where he was headed, he wasn’t quite sure. The area didn’t offer too many places for anonymity, and that was exactly what Connor wanted. A place to sit in the dark, have a beer and not think.
He thought about calling someone to join him—one of his high school pals, maybe. Levi Cooper was on leave from Afghanistan, and Big Frankie Pepitone was always up for a beer. Then he opted against it. Solitude was the order of the night. He was Irish—brooding was the song of his people. Colleen would kick him into a good mood tomorrow, as he’d been kicking her for the past few months.
His Honda purred its way up the Hill and along the lake. Penn Yan wasn’t far; maybe something would be open there. The wind was clean and cold, and his thoughts focused on driving.
The dark miles blurred past, the quiet engine of the bike soothing.
Up ahead was a cement building that every male in a fifty-mile radius visited at least once in a lifetime: Skylar’s VIP Lounge.
A strip club, in other words.
Perfect. Beer and boobs.
Connor went in. He’d been here for a bachelor party last year, and it was exactly what you’d expect. Crappy drinks, worse food, health department violations by the dozen and nearly naked women, a few of them even good-looking.
The place was mostly empty tonight, a few men sitting around the runway. The requisite pole was being humped by a very lithe and extremely overweight woman in a glittery Wonder Woman outfit, who kept flipping off the customers. It was Tuesday; Connor guessed the management saved the under-fifty strippers for the weekend.
Connor took a seat, ordered a Sam Adams (bottled, so as to avoid having to use a glass from the kitchen). The waitress brought it, and he took a pull. Wonder Woman looked familiar.
“I can’t believe you’re still stripping,” one of the guys down in front said. “A little long in the tooth, aren’t you?”
“Take a bite, Ernie. If your dentures are in, that is,” said the stripper. “And you,” she said to another guy. “Give me a tip or I’m kicking over your beer. You think my job is easy?”
Mrs. Adamson. That was it. Her son had been a year ahead of him in school.
Connor took another sip of his drink.
A baby sister. Savannah Joy.
He’d look after her. Poor kid, with those two morally bankrupt assholes as parents. Yeah. He and Colleen would make sure Savannah turned out okay.
A small part of him, though, couldn’t help feeling just a little more invisible.
At least he wasn’t eleven, hoping for a few crumbs of his father’s approval.
And a little sister...that might even be fun. He could teach her to play baseball and cook.
The beer was mellowing him. Colleen always laughed about what a lightweight he was.
“Let’s hear it for Athena, Goddess of the Hunt,” said the DJ. Connor frowned. She was supposed to be Wonder Woman, after all. Costume aside, he’d have to leave her a tip, and a good one. She’d made the best cookies, back in the day.
“When do the women start?” called one of the runway patrons.
“You people suck,” said the stripper, walking off the stage.
“Making her debut tonight, please welcome the beautiful Jezebel,” said the DJ. “Take It Off” by Kiss started up—not the most imaginative song. Connor reached for his wallet. Time to head off before his old catechism teacher showed up.
Then, onto the runway, wearing very high heels and a microscopic bikini, came Jessica Dunn.
Connor froze, his wallet halfway out of his back pocket.
She wobbled down the runway, then stopped.
She was shaking.
“Now we’re talking,” said Ernie. “Go ahead, sweetheart, start dancing.”
She tried. She took a few steps, looking like a little kid. A bob. A bend of her knees. Step to the left. Step to the right.
From behind her, Athena, Goddess of The Hunt, called out, “Try a hair toss, hon!”
Jess tried. It wasn’t hot. It looked like she wrenched her neck. Another knee bob.
“Grab the pole. It’ll help,” said Athena.
“Yeah, sweetheart, just wrap yourself around the pole. We don’t need a lot,” said Ernie.
Connor closed his mouth. He was fairly sure Jess hadn’t seen him, because she was looking straight ahead, as if staring down the angel of death. She had on a ton of eye makeup and red, red lipstick, and Connor had the sudden flash that as exposed as she was, she was trying to hide herself.
“Relax!” called Athena. “You got this!”
She really didn’t. She held on to the pole with both hands, like she was strangling it, and shuffled her feet, her ankle wobbling in the heels.
All that perfect skin, those long legs, the gorgeous body, her breasts barely covered by the tiny scraps of fabric.
Connor suddenly wished he had a blanket.
One of the men held up a bill. “Bend over, doll. Do you do lap dances, by the way?”
Connor was on his feet before he realized he was moving, but Jess had already turned, bolting down the runway and behind the curtain.
“Nice. You scared her to death, assholes,” Mrs. Adamson called with a hearty double-fisted salute.
“Last call,” said the bartender.
Connor jumped lightly onto the runway and followed Jess. No one stopped him, so he went behind the curtain.
There was a little hallway that led to the bar on one end, a small room (closet, more like it) on the other. Mrs. Adamson was talking to someone in the bar and barely flicked an eyelid at Connor.
The dressing room door was slightly ajar. Con opened it a little more.
There she was, face in her hands.
“So rhythm isn’t really your thing,” Connor said, leaning in the doorway, and she jumped out of her chair like he’d tazed her.
“Shit.” She grabbed her jeans and flannel shirt. “What are you doing here?” she asked, pulling on her clothes. She dashed her arm across her eyes.
“I’m a scout for Dancing with the Stars. Sorry, we’ve had to rule you out.” He smiled.
Her eyes flickered, then she shrugged, her face neutral. “I needed some extra money.”
“Really? It’s not your dream to be a stripper?”
“Shut up.” She might’ve been thinking about smiling. He was almost sure of it.
“So, Jess,” Mrs. Adamson said, thundering down the hall. “You’re fired. Sorry, kid. Stripping’s not for everyone.”
“You were quite good, though, Mrs. Adamson,” Connor said. He handed her a twenty.
“Oh, Connor O’Rourke! Look at you, all grown up! Thanks, sweetheart.” She pinched his cheek and took the cash. “We’re closing. Off you go, kids.” She strutted back down the hall, the floor trembling under her weight.
Jessica tied her hair into a ponytail with a smooth, quick movement. “So you go to strip clubs a lot?” she said.
“No. This is my second time.”
“Why tonight? You stalking me?”
“Not consciously.” He looked at her for a long minute, taking in the fact that she was jamming things into her bag, moving as fast as she could. “That was really brave, Jess.”
She looked up sharply.
“And I won’t tell anyone.”
Her gaze dropped back to her bag. “Thanks.”
“You want to get a drink?”
“It’s almost eleven. Nowhere’s open.”
“O’Rourke’s might be. I know the owner.”
She hesitated, then met his eyes. “I could use a drink. Which is probably why I shouldn’t have one.”
“How about a Coke, then?”
She nodded.
The fresh air was welcome after the beer-scented fog of the club. Connor waited till Jess got into her car. She turned the key, but there was only a click. “This night seems to be cursed. Can you give me a jump?”
“I only have my bike.” He gestured to his motorcycle. “I’ll give you a ride home, though. After your Coke.”
She got out of the car. He took off his leather jacket and handed it to her.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
“Put it on. This, too.” He gave her the helmet, and after a second, she did what he asked.
Mentally thanking the gods that had chosen this night for her battery to die, Connor got on the bike. Jess climbed on behind him and put her arms around his waist.
Driving through the dark, Jessica pressed against his back, was about the best thing that had happened to Connor in years. The drive had seemed long on the way out; now, it was way too short.
He parked the bike behind O’Rourke’s, then unlocked the door. “It’s not quite finished yet,” he said needlessly, turning on just the light behind the bar.
Jessica slid out of his coat and put the helmet on the bar.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. She took a long look around, then ran her hand over the bar. “You’re gonna put a dent in Hugo’s business, that’s for sure.”
“Well. It’s...it’s just a pub.”
“Looks like a lot more than that to me.”
Connor saw it through her eyes—the U-shaped bar, the booths with the carefully chosen lighting and comfortable leather seats, the tables that he’d paid extra for so they wouldn’t wobble, unlike 98% of all restaurant tables everywhere. The wide-planked floor and tin ceiling, the amber lights that hung over the bar.
Hopefully, yes, it would be a lot more than a pub.
Jess went to sit down on one of the stools, then stopped. “You live upstairs, right?”
“Right.” His residence wasn’t a secret, but he was surprised Jess knew.
“Would it be all right if I took a shower?” Her voice was businesslike, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
“Yeah, of course. Right this way.” He brought her upstairs, abruptly wishing his place didn’t look like a dorm room. He got a clean towel and handed it to her, feeling awkward. “Take your time,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs.”
He went back down, trying not to think about the fact that Jessica Dunn was taking off her clothes in his apartment. Stepping into his shower. Naked. Wet. Soap suds streaming down her long, smooth—
“Snap out of it,” he muttered to himself.
He went into the kitchen, since the kitchen was where he did his best thinking.
He didn’t know too much about what Jess had been doing these past two years. She was still at Hugo’s, he knew that. Lived with her brother in a little house over near the factory, at the very edge of the residential part of town, where the houses were covered in sagging vinyl siding and the sidewalks were cracked.
A neighborhood that was far better than the trailer park.
He broke three eggs into a bowl and started whisking. Chopped some parsley and cilantro, hoping Jess wasn’t one of those people who hated cilantro. Got out the nonstick frying pan that had cost a fortune, turned on the gas and put a dollop of butter into the pan. As it melted, he opened the cupboard where he’d already arranged his salt collection, chose some Peruvian sea salt and added a few flakes, waiting till they dissolved. Sliced two hearty pieces of the peasant bread he’d bought from the Mennonite market that morning and put them in the toaster.
Above his head, he heard the shower turn off.
He told himself that he shouldn’t be so happy that tonight had been an utter failure for her, that her car was a piece of crap.
He could still feel her arms around his waist from the ride here.
He added a quarter cup of heavy cream to the eggs and whisked gently. Poured it into the pan, added the herbs and ground in some Tellicherry black pepper, waited twenty seconds, then began folding the eggs gently. Buttered the toast, plated the eggs, added a sprig of parsley and brought it out, just as she came into the bar.
The makeup from earlier was gone, and her wet hair looked darker, pulled back into its ponytail.
She looked about fifteen years old, except for the way she filled out her clothes.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she said.
“I know. Would you like a glass of wine instead of that Coke?”
She hesitated. “Okay. Just a small one.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t care.”
“Now, now. You took my class. I expect better from you.”
She sat at the bar and smiled a little. “Fine. A fumé blanc?”
“An excellent choice.” He winked at her and poured her a six-ounce glass. One for himself, too, so she wouldn’t be drinking alone, then sat down next to her.
“You’re not eating?” she asked.
“Not right now. I’m just a voyeur.”
“Pervert.” She smiled slightly, then took a bite of the eggs. “Oh, my God, these are incredible,” she said, closing her eyes. “Are they really just scrambled eggs?”
Her eyelashes were dark brown and feathery. “Thanks,” he managed. “Uh, yeah.”
Watching her eat made his chest hurt from happiness. Her hands were efficient and neat, and she savored the food, really tasting it, not like some people, like Colleen, who ate like a starving coyote; not like his mother, who ate with the careful rhythm of a chronic dieter and then binge-ate junk food later.
No. Jessica tasted. She savored. Her tongue slipped out to lick a little crumb of toast from the corner of her pink mouth, and when she swallowed, he had to look away. He took a pull of his wine or beer or orange soda or whatever the hell he was drinking. It was cold. He should probably pour it in his lap.
“So I figured stripping would be easy money,” she said, and he looked back. She was talking to her glass, apparently, because she didn’t make eye contact. “There’s this new medicine they’re trying for kids with fetal alcohol syndrome, and it’s expensive, and of course Medicaid doesn’t cover it.”
“What kind of medicine?”
“It’s something to help with impulse control and outbursts. This bread is fantastic, too.”
“The Mennonite market.”
“Right. Anyway, I figured I could strip for a few months and pay for it. It was harder than I thought.” She took the last bite of eggs and wiped her mouth with the napkin. “Those were the best scrambled eggs I’ve ever had. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He paused. “Jess, I could always—”
“No. But I appreciate the offer.”
Sure, he’d been about to offer her money. Who wouldn’t? “Do you want to pick up some shifts here?”
“No, but again, thank you. I have a job. And another job, too, actually.”
“Okay.” If she didn’t want to work for him, well...he got that. She’d always been proud.
She sipped her wine, then set the glass down, her movements controlled and precise. Now came the moment that she’d thank him and leave.
She didn’t. “How are things with you, Connor?”
The ordinary question sounded extraordinarily intimate, given the amber lighting and the late hour. “Well,” he said, “I’m a big brother. My father and his new wife had a baby girl tonight.”
“Wow. Congratulations.”
“Yeah. My dad’s been divorced from my mom for ten days. Married to Gail for nine.”
“Speedy.”
“He didn’t want the family honor stained by bastardization.”
Jess laughed. “Interesting definition of family honor. Not that I’m one to talk.”
“I’d say you know quite a bit on the subject.”
She swallowed. Took another sip of wine, and put the glass back down exactly in the spot it was in before.
“Are your parents still married?” he asked, more because he was afraid she was going to leave than because it mattered.
“Yep.”
“That’s good, I guess.”
“That’s not the word that leaps to mind. At least I got Davey out of there. My father thinks it’s funny to get him drunk, and my mom was teaching him to make cocktails.”
Jesus. His own father didn’t seem so bad, suddenly. “You’re an awfully good sister.”
She gave him a wry smile. “So I’m brave, I’m honorable, I’m a good sister... Where’s my Nobel Prize?”
“You’re also incredibly beautiful.”
She rolled her eyes. “Freak of genetics.”
So mentioning her looks was off-limits. “And smart.”
“I almost flunked out of high school, Connor.”
“Good grades don’t mean much. I was valedictorian, and I’m a cook.”
“I thought Jeremy Lyon was valedictorian.”
“No. Salutatorian.”
“You sure? Jeremy’s so perfect. I can’t see you beating him out there.”
Fucking Jeremy. Every female in town, from Connor’s own mother to his three-year-old cousin, was hung up on him. Oh, hang on. Jess was smiling. She was teasing him. Got it.
She was finished with her meal, and had drunk half her wine. But she wasn’t making any noises about leaving, either.
Connor had had a few girlfriends in the two years since they’d slept together. Two. He’d had two. One and a half, really. No one who’d really...impacted him, as much as he would’ve liked that.
Not like Jess.
He looked at her a long minute. “Remember when we, uh...hooked up? When you came to the Institute for that class?”
“No, Connor, you were just another notch on my bedpost.” She straightened out her fork and knife to the three o’clock position on the plate. “Yes. Of course I remember.”
“I didn’t sleep with you because of what you said, you know.”
“What did I say?”
“That I slept with you because I could. Because you were Jessica Does.”
“But that is the name you used.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, still keeping up with the cool-chick-with-an-edge attitude.
“It just...came out.” A crap answer, and yet the truth. That stupid name had been given to her young, and it had been liberally used throughout high school. Jess herself had used it.
“So why did we sleep together?” she asked.
“Is ‘because we’re both red-blooded American heterosexuals’ a good enough answer?”
The corner of her mouth hinted at a smile. “I mean, why did you bother? I’m guessing you have to beat the women off with a club.”
“Some days, sure. I try not to be too rough.”
“So why me, then?”
Was she serious? “I liked the way you ate dessert.” No game, he had absolutely no game. “And you smell nice.” Proof of his sorry, no-game state.
“Right now I smell like Irish Spring. You’re really living the cliché on that one, by the way.”
“A present from Colleen.”
“Ah. Well, most of the time, I smell like restaurant food and other people’s wine and whatever Davey’s wiped on me.”
“I like food. And wine. Not sure about what Davey’s wiping, so I’ll have to stay neutral on that. But you and I have a lot in common, Jess. We both work in restaurants—”
“Don’t. You’re a Culinary Institute–trained chef who has his own restaurant at the age of twenty-three. I’m a waitress.”
“So? It’s hard to be a good waitress.”
“It’s really not,” she said.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you. I bet you’re a horrible waitress.”
“Just stop saying nice things.”
“Okay. You’re a really shitty dancer.”
She laughed.
She didn’t laugh enough. Or maybe she did, but he didn’t get to hear it enough.
“And your outfit had no imagination,” he added. “Mrs. Adamson, at least she tried.”
Jessica Dunn laughed again.
Before he’d really planned on it, he leaned in, slid his hand around her neck and kissed her as gently as he knew how. Her lips were soft and full, and he was an addict, just like that, not just wanting to kiss her, but needing it like he needed breathing.
Then she kissed him back, and light seemed to spark through his veins, hot and electric, and God, she felt so good, her slender, vulnerable neck, the silky, damp hairs there. He teased her mouth open and tasted her, and she was suddenly gripping his shirt in both hands.
He probably shouldn’t be doing this. Maybe this was...uh...what was the phrase? It was hard to think with his mouth against hers, their tongues sliding...
Oh. Right. Taking advantage.
He pulled back. Ran his fingertips along her jaw, the tender, smooth flesh just below.
Her pupils were dilated, making her eyes look darker, and her mouth was slightly open.
And then, just like that, she was back to the three-feet-away zone. Without so much of a flicker of an eyelash, the wall came down.
Someday, he was going to figure her out.
“Connor,” she said calmly, “you don’t want to sleep with a stripper.”
“You’re not a stripper. You got fired.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. Twice. The Irish Spring smelled better on her.
She swallowed. “I should get back to Davey.” But she didn’t leave, either. And she was staring straight ahead, at his chest, not at his face. It was as though she was waiting for him to convince her otherwise.
In fact, it was almost like she was shy.
Jessica Dunn, who’d beaten up boys twice her size in middle school, then slept with most of them in high school, and yet who also seemed like an ice princess, totally untouchable...seemed shy. Even if her tongue had been in his mouth a few seconds ago, even if his shirt had been fisted in her hands.
She liked him. He was almost sure of it.
He wanted to say a hundred things, about taking care of her, and wanting her so much he ached, and how his chest felt punched when she came out onto that runway tonight, and how if he didn’t kiss her again, fast, it might kill him, and if he couldn’t sleep with her again, it would definitely kill him.
“Who stays with Davey when you’re out?” he asked instead, his voice a little hoarse.
“Gerard Chartier. They’re the same mental age.”
“Can Gerard stay a little longer?”
There was a long pause, and Jessica was very still, and Connor’s whole being clenched with wanting, with hope, with please say yes.
She nodded.
Connor didn’t wait. He stood up, lifted her onto the bar and kissed her, a different kiss this time, hungry and full, his tongue against hers, his hand pulling out her ponytail and sliding his fingers through her long, damp hair.
She wrapped her legs around him and kissed him back, and that thrum of electricity became a lightning storm of white heat, and all that mattered was Jessica, her mouth, her neck, the shoulder blades that shifted under his hands, her long, beautiful spine and perfect ass.
He stopped kissing her for a second. “I live upstairs,” he muttered against her neck.
She answered with a little smile, and that smile, it just killed him. “I guess I should walk you home, then.”
Rather than let her walk him anywhere, he just lifted her up and carried her up the rickety stairs to his apartment, kissing her as he did. Kicked open his door, set her down and started on the buttons of her shirt, kissing her neck as he worked. His hand seemed to be cupping her breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipple hardened against his palm, and there it was, that blinding, stunning flash of want.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait. Hang on.” She pulled back a little, gripping his hands in hers. “This has to be a secret, okay? Because Davey will... He might... You know.”
“Okay.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Right now she could’ve said You have to cut off your right arm before we do this, and he would’ve answered Hey, not a problem! “Don’t worry. We can take it slow.” Slow. And fast. And hard. And—
“I don’t want your sister to be—”
“Nope. Me neither.” Because Colleen would be insufferable if she knew.
Jess looked at him, and for the first time all night, she really looked at him, and Connor got the impression it wasn’t easy.
Then she reached up and touched the scar on his cheek, and her fingertips slid down to the place under his jaw that dented in. The scars from Chico, all those years ago.
“Take me to bed,” she whispered, and Connor couldn’t help thinking that God did exist and was smiling on him for no good reason.
He’d take it. He’d take anything Jessica Dunn and the universe saw fit to give him.
