CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Are you still writing your little books, Kathryn?”
Doggone it. I shouldn’t have drained that third champagne. It’s making my brain move way too slowly, and now that people have stopped asking about Jake and started asking about my work, I need every ounce of mental acuity I can manage.
“I am.” I smile since it’s not worth addressing the whole little books jab.
These people are so good at wrapping an insult in what sounds like kindness. I’m pretty sure passive-aggressive backbiting is a graduate-level course they’re all required to take before graduating high school.
Please leave it there. Please leave it there. Don’t ask for details—
“And what’s your next book about?” The question comes from the woman of the hour herself, who saw fit to join the little group that somehow magically gathered around me when yet another of her friends asked about my books in a way that made it clear she thought they were a joke.
I shoot my grandmother what can only be described as a withering look before smiling. She knows darn well since she already asked me that question while we were having lunch together. “It’s about a girl who meets a doctor actually.”
Here’s the thing: if I lied, she would’ve called me out on it because that’s how she rolls. And lying would have only made it look like I had something to hide.
I steal a glance up at Jake, whose face is an unreadable mask. What does he think about this? This is not the way I intended to tell him.
There I was, thinking tonight was perfect. Planning to ask him back to my place even. Not usually the move I make on the third date, but this is not an average situation. Not for me anyway.
I mean, he’s wearing a tuxedo. My heart can barely take it.
Now? I’ll be lucky if he stays the entire evening.
“No, really?” Grandmother looks up at Jake, all innocent, pretending this is news to her. The little snake. “I wonder if he bears a resemblance to you, Dr. Becker.”
“The book is only partly written. I mean, very vague outlines. Nothing concrete.” I wish I could disappear. Just vanish into thin air.
“I expect it to be light and fun and enjoyable, the way your other books have been.” That’s Mrs. Wilson, who managed to slide into the group when I wasn’t looking. She’s been watching Jake all night and not bothering to pretend otherwise.
I wonder if I’ll ever get to the point in my life where I don’t give a damn what anybody thinks about my behavior. Though having millions of dollars to her name probably gives her that extra shot of confidence.
“I didn’t know you read my work,” I offer with a laugh I certainly don’t feel. Shoot, shoot, shoot. My skin’s turning all kinds of hot, and my palms are suddenly sweaty. Why did Maggie insist on publishing the more graphic work under my actual name?
“To be fair, I’ve only read your first two books,” she explains with a tiny grimace. “But I thought they were charming. Delightful.”
“Will your next book be as charming and delightful?” Jake asks.
So, he remembers how to speak. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, to be honest. His face is still unreadable.
“It depends on what my editor asks for.” I shrug. Am I sweating? I must be sweating. I’m probably dripping sweat onto the floor. Why are so many people looking at me? There’s a reason I spend most of my life behind a keyboard. I can’t deal with this.
Whitney puts a hand on Jake’s arm. “Come now. I’m sure that with a subject like this, you can’t help but write something your readers will want to devour.”
Is it my imagination, or are her fingers pressing into his arm just a little harder than they need to?
“The book isn’t about him specifically,” I rush to clarify.
He hates me; he has to hate me after this. How could I ever look at him again? I should’ve known this was all too good to be true.
“Then, who is it about?” Grandmother asks.
Seriously? Is she trying to make me squirm? Because she’s doing a pretty good job of it.
“It’s about a character who exists up here.” I tap a finger to my temple. “The way all of my books are.”
Good thing my name isn’t Pinocchio because my nose would’ve impaled the three-tier showpiece of a birthday cake in the center of the dining room table by now.
“Come now. We all know writers draw inspiration from the people they know in real life,” Whitney points out.
“That’s very true, but I wouldn’t want anyone to recognize themselves in one of my books.”
Note to self: make sure to write about a cougar with millions who has a hard time keeping her hands to herself. Name her Whitney.
“Well, with all this magnificent raw material to write about, I can’t imagine how you could pass up the opportunity.”
It is definitely not my imagination. Whitney very blatantly squeezes Jake’s arm again. Now that she’s had a few drinks, she’s even less discreet.
Jake clears his throat. “I could use a glass of water,” he murmurs, even going so far as to slide a finger under the collar of his shirt like it’s choking him. “It’s a little crowded in here.”
“I’ll show you to the kitchen,” I offer since there isn’t anyone walking around with water on trays. Only champagne, hors d’oeuvres, that sort of thing.
“One of the staff can fetch water for him,” Grandmother reminds me.
“It’s all right. Let them do their jobs. I think I can handle finding the sink.” I then practically drag Jake behind me, hardly even looking where I’m going and just barely avoiding knocking a server into the table and thus the cake.
This is a nightmare. This is exactly the sort of thing I was afraid would happen. If there could possibly be a worse time for Jake to learn about the subject of my book, I don’t know when it could be.
The butler’s pantry is just off the kitchen, and I duck in there with Jake close behind me. It’s dark and cool in here, most of the commotion taking place in the kitchen. I have to lean against the countertop and catch my breath.
“I didn’t really need water,” Jake murmurs, standing against the counter opposite mine.
“I didn’t think you did. I’m so sorry that happened.”
“Sorry that you conveniently forgot to tell me you were writing about a doctor? Or sorry that it came out when it did, the way it did? Because clearly, you were planning on telling me very soon. Right?” There’s something in his voice that tells me how I need to answer this question.
It’s not really a question at all but rather a statement I’d better agree with or else.
“Of course I was going to tell you. But I wasn’t kidding; I haven’t written that much. Much less than I should have by now, to tell you the truth.”
“Why? Because I haven’t provided enough inspiration yet?” he whispers.
“It’s not like that,” I insist, also keeping my voice low. “I swear. And I make it a point to change details, so it’s not like anybody could identify you as being the subject.”
“That’s not what I care about. Here I was, thinking you wanted to spend time with me because of me, not because of some book you were writing.”
“That’s not how it is!” I let my head fall back, staring up at the ceiling.
“What a mess. This is all wrong. Of course I want to spend time with you. I like you so much. And to be fair, I already knew the hero of my next book would be a doctor when I met you. It’s not like I’m that much of an opportunist.”
“No, but you just so happened to meet me, and you just so happened to call me …”
It’s so dark, I can hardly see his face when I go from staring at the ceiling to looking at him. I wish I could tell how he looks since that would give me one more clue as to how he’s feeling about this.
“I called you because … I mean, okay, straight talk. Look at you. You’re gorgeous; you had a personality that put me at ease in the ER. Who wouldn’t call you if given the opportunity?”
Then, I can’t help but giggle softly. “I know Mrs. Wilson would. You’ll probably see her in the ER in the coming days.”
He turns his face away, snorting. “That’s a totally different story,” he sighs.
Okay, so he’s not in a joking mood.
“I don’t want you to think I’m using you.
That’s the last thing I want to do. I admit, sometimes, work and personal life get mixed up a little, but I promise that anything I write will be absolutely glowing.
Any negative characteristics of my hero would have nothing to do with you.
I know how to fictionalize real-life events.
Trust me, I’ve had plenty of experience with that. ”
“Oh?” He turns to me. “How much experience?”
Could I be imagining this? Does he sound playful again?
“None of your business,” I venture with a smirk. “You know what I mean.”
“I do. It threw me a little, is all.”
“You can demand I not write about a doctor, if you want. I’m serious. That’s completely up to you. I’m still early enough in the process that I can change the character to a lawyer or a dentist or a doorman, for heaven’s sake. Whatever you want.”
He’s quiet for so long, dread takes root in my heart.
“Or,” I add in a whisper when I can’t stand the silence another moment, “you can tell me to get lost and refuse to see me again. I’d totally understand.”
“What?” he asks. “You think I don’t want to see you anymore?”
“Uh, well, I mean …”
He takes a step closer and then another until we’re standing toe to toe. “That’s not what I was thinking at all,” he whispers an instant before his fingertips skim my forearm.
My breath catches, but I manage to ask, “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking …” He leans down, closer and closer, until his breath tickles my neck when he murmurs in my ear, “I need to up my game if you’re writing about me for your next book.”
I can barely formulate a thought before his hands find my waist. In one quick motion, he lifts me onto the counter.
“Jake!” I gasp, surprised and almost painfully aroused at this sudden turn of events. “What are you doing?”
“What I’ve been wanting to do since the second I set eyes on you tonight.” He takes my face in both hands, and in the dim light coming in from the door between the kitchen and pantry, I can see his eyes boring into mine. “Unless you don’t want me to,” he adds in a throaty growl that curls my toes.
“I want you to,” I admit before his kiss sweeps me away, and there’s nothing to be done but wind my arms around his neck and hold on tight.
“We’re going to get in trouble,” I whisper as he trails kisses down my throat.
He nudges my dress up just a little, so I can part my legs enough for him to step between them. Oh dear Lord, the feeling of him between my thighs is heaven.
He groans when I wrap my legs around his thighs, pulling him closer. “If you keep doing things like that, yeah, we are,” he agrees before capturing my mouth again.
I can’t help it. My hands slide underneath his jacket like they have a mind of their own and travel the many hills and planes of his body. His broad back, tapering down to his waist. Then, between us to explore his rippling abs, his bulging chest. His heart’s hammering in there, just like mine is.
“Kitty …” he groans, teeth clenched, his breath coming fast and hot against my neck. “I want you.”
A shudder runs through me when those three simple words hit home. I part my lips, ready to tell him how desperately I want him, too, when light suddenly floods into the room.
I gasp, clutching him as he lifts his head to look toward the open door with me.
“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” Grandmother says, waving a hand. “I was going to announce we’re about to cut the cake, but that’s not important. Go on ahead. Take your time. We’ll wait for you.”
“Oh my God,” I sigh, closing my eyes. This can’t be happening.
“Be sure to fix your lipstick before you come out, dear,” she continues and then, “You, too, Doctor.”
When the door swings shut, Jake just about collapses against me in helpless laughter.
Thank God he has a good sense of humor.