Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Marie
I’m in Jace’s arms again.
And I can’t bring myself to care.
Because he’s big and strong and hard— everywhere.
I shift a little closer, arching up, not caring about muffins and ramen or cheese and wine.
He’s better.
The fire we create is better.
He bends down, and I shift closer, readying myself for?—
The kiss on the forehead.
What the fuck?
I blink once, twice, but that doesn’t change anything, and it doesn’t bring his lips to mine. Worse, it gives him time to drop his arms and step away.
What the actual fuck?
He starts opening cabinets, not stopping until he finds the ones with my dinnerware, pulling out two bowls and a plate, setting them on the island by the food he brought. Then he goes back to making himself at home in my kitchen, opening drawers until he locates the silverware. Forks and two pairs of chopsticks join the pile.
What is going on here? And why do I suddenly feel as though I’m in far over my head?
Probably because I am.
He arranges the muffins and—sweet baby Jesus—he also brought Molly’s peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. Two of them that are almost the size of my head.
My skinny jeans are going to protest.
He pours broth in the takeout containers, makes several trips over to my blanket and pillow pile, and…I just watch him.
It’s when he’s on his last trip—this time with both hands full carrying our wine glasses and the bottle of wine I’d opened earlier—that I finally unstick.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He picks up the remote, turns on the TV, making himself at home by turning on the Eagles’ game.
I stomp over, snatch it from him.
“I don’t like hockey,” I mutter. Unless it involves an owner’s box and free snacks, I think. But I keep that sentiment to myself before I add, “And if you’re invading my relaxing night at home then you’re going to watch what I want to watch and not complain about it.”
I expect him to argue.
Instead, he shrugs. “It’s your night and your condo.” Then he picks up his bowl and chopsticks and gets to work on the ramen.
Which reminds me.
Ramen .
I hit the streaming service, load up my episode, and hit play.
Then get to work on my ramen.
This is so much better than bread and cheese and caramel apple slices—and that half-assed charcuterie board was damned good to begin with. Now, my belly is filled with tender noodles, succulent meat, spicy, hearty sauce…and then I get to chase it with cheese, bread, wine, apples, muffins, and half of the peanut butter chocolate chip cookie.
I want to finish the rest of it.
But my belly is full to bursting.
Still, I look at it longingly as I set it back onto the plate in front of me.
Jace, who’s been watching the show with all the intensity of a man studying a bug beneath a microscope, turns to me and chuckles.
He didn’t make as much progress on his ramen—or his cookie.
But I’m suitably impressed that he both chose so well and that he consumed the goodies with equal abandon. Usually guys like him are all—my body is my temple and shit. And I can’t be with a man who can’t sit in front of the TV and chow down every once in a while.
And that’s a dangerous thought to allow to cross my mind.
I’m not going to be with any man. Not today. Not ever.
And yet you’re cuddled up on the floor next to him, watching your favorite show, so what does that say?
Ugh. The logical side of my brain seriously needs to fuck all the way off.
“What?” I ask grumpily because I despise the mental circles I’ve been going through. Meanwhile, the man is just sitting there without a care in the world. Chuckling.
And staring at me like I’m said bug under said microscope.
His gaze flicks from the half-eaten cookie up to mine. “I’m just enjoying the consternation on your face at not finishing that.” He tugs at one of my curls and emotions slide through my middle at the tender action. I don’t…well, I don’t know what to do with them—the emotions or the tenderness. “I’m impressed, cookie,” he says. “But remind me to never take you on in an eating contest.”
“Is that why you call me cookie ?” I ask suddenly.
Maybe he’d noticed me downing the free—and delicious—food at the gala. They’d had platters and platters of cookies from Molly’s. So many, in fact, that I had contemplated stuffing some in my purse to take home.
Alas, my handbag wasn’t big enough.
I would have ended up with just crumbs.
His lips twitch. “No, gorgeous.”
“Then why?” I press.
He tilts his head from side to side, studying me intently. “I had a dog named Cookie.” One shoulder lifts, drops. “You remind me of her.”
“I-I remind you of a dog?” I sputter.
“Yup.” A beat. “Her coat was the same color as your hair.”
It takes me a second to realize it—the man is teasing me.
And I don’t know how to process that either. His eyes are dancing, but his words aren’t a pointed comment about me eating too much or that I need to fix my hair. It’s like he’s actually impressed, like he actually is into my crazy mass of curls…and is that something men are with women like me?
Not normally.
And…more mental circles. I’ve got a tornado happening in there now.
“I like to eat,” I mutter. “And genetics gave me the hair.”
“And Cookie too.” His mouth kicks up. “But I like to eat, gorgeous, so I’m just glad you enjoy something I do.” He picks up a slice of apple, starts munching on it. “Though, I can’t say that extends to TV.” A jerk of his chin toward the screen. “You can’t seriously watch this, can you?”
“I’ll have you know that I’m fully aware that trash TV is trash TV.”
He finishes the apple slice, sips on his wine. “What about it appeals to you?”
Maybe I could brush that off as a judgmental question if he didn’t look so earnest.
But it’s like he’s actually interested in my answer.
So, I don’t dismiss him with a quip. Instead, I stop, ponder that. It’s not something I’ve thought about all that much. “It’s an escape, I guess,” I say quietly. “I love my job, but it’s stressful and involves a lot of travel. Sometimes it’s nice to just turn off my brain for a while and watch people act like idiots on TV.”
He considers the screen for a long moment. “Well, you certainly have the idiot part right.”
“Excuse me, sir,” I mock grumble. “They’re not all idiots.”
“I’ll remind you that you were the one using the term.”
“I said acting like idiots, not that they are them.” Though, to be fair, some of my favorite reality TV personalities are idiots.
“Touché,” he murmurs. “So, it’s the escapism,” he goes on before I can press my point further. I get that. Though, my preferred mode of escaping reality is through sports.” He snags the remote, points it at the screen, bringing the feed of the Eagles’ game back up.
“I—”
Another click has it swinging back to my show, cutting off my protest.
He tugs my errant curl again. “Just checking the score.”
I’m so undone by that touch, by his closeness, by the fact that he turned it back, that I forget myself for a moment.
And I reveal too much.
“Ugh, hockey.” I set the remote carefully out of his reach. Something he clocks, if the way his mouth curves up is any indication. “Between you and Jean-Michel, I can never get away from this crap.”
He’s still.
Then he slowly turns to face me, and there’s something in his eyes that I can’t read.
Something that has my heart thudding against my rib cage, that has my pulse speeding through my veins, that has me wanting to rewind the moment and take it back.
Because I’ve given Jace Henderson a piece of me.
And I may never be able to get it back.
“As in Jean-Michel Dubois?”