38. Jenna
JENNA
H ave I ever told you that my love language is sacrificing my own needs to care for a man with a tragic backstory?
The soup’s bubbling on the stove. I’ve got the grilled cheese sandwiches ready for the panini maker, made with fresh bread and cheese from an elaborate cheese tray on the skinny bottom shelf of the fancy fridge.
Outside, McCarthy is silhouetted against the glittering Seattle skyline.
The story about the dog was devastating. I can’t get his face out of my mind—the lost, broken-hearted look in his eyes.
I want to wrap him in blankets and excuse every single bit of bad behavior .
Because someone whose puppy gets stolen when he’s a foster kid shouldn’t have to be held accountable for his actions, right?
“Right?” I whisper as I make my way down the hallway.
Now where would he keep it?
There’s a photo of that dog somewhere.
I need it. Because I have a plan—a ten-step plan.
It’s not in any of the drawers. It might be in the safe that’s hidden behind the painting of a bomb being dropped on a medieval city. I try a few numbers halfheartedly then give up.
I creep up the service staircase—yes, his penthouse has two different staircases—so he doesn’t see me from the oversized windows on the main stair.
I poke through this bedroom. Nothing in the nightstand or hidden in a dresser or tucked in a box under the bed.
I run my hands through the rack of dark suits in the oversized closet. A man does not need a closet this big. He doesn’t even have that many shoes.
The light in the closet is soft, soothing. The drawers open silently, the wood cool beneath my fingers as I inspect them one by one.
And there it is—in the drawer filled with expensive watches. In the corner is tucked a worn-edged photograph with of a grinning little blond boy, his arms wrapped around a goofy-looking dog.
I stare at him. McCarthy’s inner child. The one I need to heal.
It’s nothing to take a photo of the Polaroid, tuck the original carefully back in the hiding place, and sneak downstairs.
The soup’s ready. I test it, add more salt, then gently place the grilled cheese on the panini maker .
There’s movement from the living room. I jump back, hands behind my back.
McCarthy staggers inside and runs a hand through his messy hair.
“You should probably eat something.”
He’s silent. Doesn’t look at me.
Impulsively, thinking of the little boy in the photo, I wrap my arms around his middle, squeeze him tight to me. He sags against me, arms coming up to cradle my shoulders, and buries his face in my hair, whispering something silently against my neck.
I pull back, though, when he tries to tilt my face up. His mouth is slightly parted, his eyes dark.
“We shouldn’t.” I rub his arms. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry. You were sharing something deeply personal and traumatizing, and I took advantage of you.”
“Seriously, Cupcake?” He runs his thumb over my lower lip. “You can always take advantage of me.”
He kisses me softly—anywhere he can reach, my chin, my cheek, my nose, my eyelids.
“Food,” I gasp, tearing away from him.
He keeps a hand on my back, like we’re a couple, like this is a real relationship that’s leading to marriage.
You don’t know. It could happen.
Who am I to go against what the relationship gods want?
I cut the grilled cheese into triangles and give Truman his portion in the kitchen so I don’t trigger McCarthy.
“I don’t eat bread,” he says flatly as I set the plates on the table and add a little dollop of sour cream to the big bowls of bright-red soup.
“And that’s why you’re so difficult to be around. Bread and carbs are the two major food groups. ”
Glasses thunk on the table, then I’m wrestling open a stubborn bottle of wine.
“Did you just open that with your shoe?” McCarthy peers at me as I give the bottle one last bang.
“Look, man.” I glug the wine into water glasses.
“Take it from someone who has been in many intimate relationships with existential crises late at night. The wine doesn’t help, but the morning hangover really gives you some new perspective on life, makes you think ‘Hey, yesterday wasn’t that bad because I could sit down without wanting to puke, and I could watch TV without getting a migraine. ’”
“There’s a cork in mine.” He frowns, looking into his glass.
“Just drink around it.”
“You get hangovers,” he says, fishing out the cork with his fork, “because you drink cheap wine.”
I’m draining my own glass. “Not all of us have a hundred dollars to spend on fancy wine.”
“This is a…” McCarthy peers at the label. “Fifteen-hundred-dollar bottle of wine.”
I choke on the wine. It dribbles out of my nose.
“Geez, man, you can’t leave that shit lying around where anyone could grab it. It was in your public-facing wine fridge, for God’s sake.”
“Public-facing?”
“Like if you have family members who come over. It’s like leaving a little money out by the door if you live in a bad neighborhood. They immediately grab it and don’t go rooting around your house for the good stuff.”
“My brothers are too smart to fall for that.” He sits back in his chair and takes a bite of soup .
“Well, la-di-dah. My family is tripping on the mushrooms they forage and would definitely fall for that.”
“Did you ever—” McCarthy stops himself.
“Hm? Damn, this wine is good. I could drink the whole bottle.” I hiccup. “What were you saying?”
“Nothing.” He waits a beat then says, “Did you ever live with your dad or anything? Or is he a member of a warring commune?”
“Nope, just an upper middle-class yuppie, as my mom says.” I scratch at my neck.
“I tried, you know. Like I tried to be the kind of daughter he’d be proud of, but it’s like I was always off, always a beat behind.
Didn’t have the right clothes, was too loud, too messy…
I asked him to give me away at my wedding. ”
“Which one?” McCarthy smirks.
“Har, har. All of them. I really thought he’d like Nathan.”
“Sounds like he and Nathan deserve to be buried alive together.”
“I’m actually starting to see the benefits of a man ignoring you.”
The grilled cheese crackles under my teeth when I bite into it. I like to sprinkle a little cheese on the pan when I make it, give it an extra crunch.
“Yum, this is that bougie cheese. It’s way better than Kraft Singles. Though those have a place in my heart.”
I’m babbling while McCarthy scowls, stirring his soup.
Nails clack on the floor, and Truman trots over to the table, begging for more food.
“Truman,” I hiss at the dog, trying to scoot him away with my foot. “Go watch TV or something.”
“Cupcake.” McCarthy absently takes a bite of the sandwich .
“He knows how to work the remote control.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Yes, he does.” I’m stubborn. “Leave out the remote, and he’ll show you.”
Truman takes a leap of faith up to the chair next to McCarthy then into his lap.
“Get down,” I order the dog.
He ignores me, licks McCarthy’s face, then plunges his whole furry muzzle into McCarthy’s soup bowl.
“No!” I shriek, trying to grab the greedy little dog. “Gross, Truman.”
McCarthy tips his head back and laughs.
“Geez, you don’t have to eat that.” I swap our bowls around as Truman licks his face.
“Jenna never feeds you, does she?” he coos to the dog as he wipes at him with a napkin.
“Don’t bother. I’ll bathe him.”
“I’ll have him booked into a dog groomer,” McCarthy says like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
McCarthy takes sips of his soup, one arm around Truman, while I pick dog hair off my spoon. He lets Truman have the last of his grilled cheese.
“You should go lie down.” I pour out the last of the wine.
“I have actual wineglasses, you know, somewhere,” he says absently, following me to the stairs.
“Those things are top-heavy. Very dangerous if you’re drinking in bed or the tub.”
He’s twisting off his shirt absently. Probably the ritual he does every night—well, nights I’m not there .
McCarthy still seems a little shaky as I drag him onto the bed next to me. He stretches out on the rich cream sheets, wearing only his boxer briefs.
I cradle his head in my lap.
He nuzzles against my stomach like a big panther, almost purring as I stroke his hair and his back, idly petting him, slowly tracing the muscles of his arms, pressing slightly against his ribs to feel him breathe.
Yep, I’m obsessed.
His shoulders rotate, and he’s nuzzling against me harder.
“I can’t live without you, Jenna. You know that?” He’s mouthing me through my shorts.
The wine is making everything hazy.
“I think you’re what I’ve been waiting for my entire life.”
Don’t do it. I squeeze my eyes shut even as my heart blooms with warmth.
I grab his shoulders, his muscles flexing as he grabs my shorts and pulls them down.
“You mean everything to me, Jenna. I’m so obsessed with you.”
He glances up. His gray eyes burn with… lust? Obsession? No, it’s love for me! All for me!
It’s not, I try to tell myself, but the logic gets messed up in the drunkenness. He doesn’t love me. It’s a trap.
The fairy-tale-obsessed girl in me desperately wants it to be real.
His tongue is flicking at my slit now.
“I’m gonna mess up your sheets,” I gasp.
“Easier to clean than my carpet, but you still made a mess of that.”
I grab at the mound of pillows then the short hair at the back of his neck as he buries his tongue in my pussy, going filthily slow, his tongue curling around me.
He shoves those massive shoulders between my thighs so he can trail his tongue down to my opening to lap at me, to plunge his tongue into me, to drive me crazy until he has me coming messily all over his face and expensive sheets.
And yeah, shame on me for letting him do it. And not tucking him in and going home.
But he’s back, burying his head in my lap, begging me to pet his hair, and I’m a goner.
I’m freaking falling for him.