Chapter 15
CARMEN
Jamie is in my apartment.
As soon as I close the door behind him, a charge tips into the air. The hint of unpredictability feels out of place in this apartment where nothing but the routine and solitary has taken place since I moved in.
He rubs his big hands vigorously to warm them from the cold he walked through. My eyes almost glaze over when he flexes his thick fingers to restore circulation. I blink and look away when I start to feel a liquid pressure low in my center.
Jamie puts his hand to his neck and winces. When he pulls his grip away, there’s a purple bruise.
“Oh, no,” I say, concern twisting on my face. “You can’t go back out until the hail stops.”
“I don’t want to intrude. I’ll just run extra fast and—”
“Shut up, you’re staying.” I hold out my hand demandingly. “Give me your jacket.”
His eyes flash. “Yes, ma’am.”
Something about his words has a line of sparks slinking up my back. My eyes tick above his shoulders and to my dark bedroom. A muscle tugs between my legs.
He slides off his jacket and hands it to me. I hang it up on the coatrack I have next to my door. It’s a nice wooden antique that Cindy dragged out of her basement for me when I moved in.
“Geez, that hail was freaking brutal,” he says, rubbing a spot on his back where a stone must have hit him.
I can’t help but feel amused at his choice of words. “Do you ever even curse?”
A mischievous look seeps into his eyes. “Are you asking me to start talking dirty?”
Heat washes over me. Since we’ve become friendly, every now and then Jamie will surprise me with a suggestive remark. But the next second, he’ll be as bashful and reserved as ever.
I let his comment hang in the air and ask what he’s doing here. He nods to the bag he set down by the door and explains.
“You already ate at Pasqually’s?” I ask, taking the bag and putting it on the kitchen counter.
“No,” he answers. “I was just going to bring your delivery and go back to the shop. The hail came out of nowhere.”
Jamie ran across town on an empty stomach just to see me. And getting pelted with hail so hard that it left bruises didn’t convince him to turn around. A fluttery feeling sweeps through me. It raises my pulse, because it’s a sensation I’m not used to.
“We’ll share what I ordered, then.” I start taking some plates and bowls from my cabinets.
“Nah, I don’t want to take your food. I’m not really hungry anyway.”
I ignore him, evenly dividing the carton of minestrone soup I ordered into two different bowls.
“Yeah, right. I see how you guys scarf down the sandwiches when you get lunch at Last Word. You’re always hungry.”
Jamie emits a noncommittal sound, and I know I’m tempting him.
“Besides, consider it your tip. Who doesn’t tip their delivery guy?”
“If you’re sure …”
I split up my Caesar salad between two plates and push one in Jamie’s direction. “You’ve already admitted defeat. Dig in.”
Honestly, right after I placed my order, I thought to myself that it probably wasn’t enough for dinner. I worked up an appetite at the café today. Cutting it in half is blatantly insufficient even for me. There’s no way it’ll fill Jamie up.
It seems like the endorphins Jamie activated running from Pasqually’s are wearing off.
His demeanor is more reserved, and his expression looks like a fish out of water.
Even after we spent hours in the middle of the night sitting side by side and looking up at the sky, even after he’s built up enough confidence to drop flirty lines that have had my thighs tingling, he can still get nervous. It’s cute.
He steps to the kitchenette to grab his plates. “Okay,” he says, looking around. “Which way to the dining room?”
I lower my brow. “Hah, hah. Very funny.”
The skin next to his deep green eyes crinkles as he smiles at his own joke.
“Get your ass on the couch,” I command.
“You’re being very demanding today. Who knew you liked to give directions so much?” There’s a salacious undertone to his voice, and the double-entendre is clear. My stomach slants.
The comment also sparks a question. Would I enjoy giving directions in that way?
I’ve never really explored what I like in bed. My sexual experiences have always been … perfunctory, is the word that comes to mind.
My ex wasn’t one for putting in effort. He liked to skip foreplay, and then never lasted long. With him, I never felt into it to the point that I wanted to try out different things. In our relationship, sex was just … there. An unremarkable, utilitarian feature of our being together.
Pretty much every aspect of our relationship was like that, if I’m being honest.
Which is why I wasn’t broken up when he cheated on me. In fact, finding him with another girl felt like a weight sliding off my shoulders. I suddenly felt free to explore possibilities I wouldn’t have considered if I stayed tied to a relationship that was running on little more than inertia.
But that’s another topic to dwell on another time.
With the couple casual hook-ups I’ve had, it was the same thing. Their fleeting, impersonal nature didn’t encourage me to try new things, and the guys I was with didn’t seem interested in anything other than getting themselves off and leaving it at that.
Thanks to the chapter I’m struggling with, sex has been on my mind more than ever lately. Along with it has come the feeling that I’ve been missing out, that I haven’t centered my own pleasure and satisfaction like I should have.
Being around Jamie makes me feel so comfortable, so inexplicably at ease, that with him, maybe …
Jamie reaches the couch before I do. I roll my eyes when he sits on the far edge of it, basically cramming himself against an armrest.
It’s just like him to go from implying that I like bossing people around in the bedroom, to being so shy that he gives me all the room in the world to sit far away from him.
Instead of taking the further cushion, I take the middle one, right next to Jamie.
I take a sip of the minestrone soup. It’s so good. Most people go to Pasqually’s for the overstuffed sandwiches and greasy pizza, but they’re sleeping on the soup.
I let out a pleased sound as I slurp another spoonful. When the throaty, satisfied noise I make hits my ear, I slide my gaze to Jamie beside me. His eyes are wide and his jaw muscles are flexing.
Woops.
I wonder if he’s hard right now.
The question barges into my mind, and just a hint of slickness between my legs accompanies it.
“Conquered that writer’s block yet?” Jamie asks.
“I wish,” I sigh.
“Anything I can do to help? Want to bounce some ideas off me?”
A knot of pressure pulls at the base of my spine. If only he knew the ideas that have floated through my head about how he might help. Those thoughts have involved bouncing—but on him, rather than ideas off him.
“Thanks, but I think I just need to mull it over in my head some more,” I deflect.
He shrugs. “Fair enough. You’re the writer. Not like I know anything about the creative process.”
There’s a beat of silence after we both finish our food.
“Am I the only one who’s still hungry?” I ask.
Jamie laughs. “Are you kidding? I’m starving.”
I push up from the couch. “Let me see what I have in my cabinets. There’s not much, but maybe enough to whip something up.”
Jamie follows me to the kitchen. “Oh, I love trying to make something with whatever random ingredients are lying around. I do it all the time at the house. Since I’m the one who keeps everyone on track with our diets, it’s an important skill to have.
Whenever Felix or Carter whine that we have to order a pizza because we don’t have the ingredients for anything, I can whip up something nutritious and edible from whatever I find. ”
I fling open my cabinet doors and step back. “I’ll give you free rein, then.”
“Wise choice.” He props his hands on his hips authoritatively as he scans the contents. The pose accentuates the breadth of his shoulders. “Hmm … canned tomatoes. Ohh, kidney beans … do you have an onion?”
I grab one from the counter. “Yep.”
“Ground beef?”
I check the pack in the fridge that I haven’t gotten around to using yet. It’s still in date. “Yep again.”
Jamie claps his hands with enthusiasm. “Perfect. We’re making chili.”
He finds a big pan and puts it on the stove, before arranging the ingredients on the counter. “I should text the guys and tell them what’s going on. It hasn’t stopped hailing, has it?”
I find a strange emotion welling up in me when he pulls back the curtains to look outside. I’m hoping that it hasn’t stopped hailing. I don’t want Jamie to leave.
“Shit,” Jamie says, peeking outside. “It looks even worse. Some people’s windshields are probably gonna be smashed tomorrow.”
The news gives me a glad, buoyant feeling. Well, not the smashed windshield news. I am capable of sympathy, after all. But the news that the weather outside is too frightful for Jamie to go home.
“There’s that dirty mouth I was asking for,” I quip.
Jamie turns to me, his expression wry and playful. “You’ve corrupted my innocence.”
I imagine Jamie’s mouth even dirtier, curses dripping from it in low rasps, right next to my ear as he moves between my legs. A quiver ripples through my body. I pull my mind out of the gutter.
“I’ll chop the onion,” I say, reaching for something safer to settle my thoughts on.
There’s tension in my shoulders as Jamie and I prepare the meal. This is all just so unusual. Jamie being in my apartment like this. I’m almost afraid to give in to the feeling nestled in my chest, the feeling of comfort and security at having him here, the enjoyment of this mundane domestic task.
Gradually, the tension melts away. I start to give in. Since I came to Cedar Shade, the only nights I haven’t spent alone have been with Jamie. And, as I reflect, I’ve enjoyed each of them. Even when I’ve tried not to give myself permission to.
When everything is assembled in the pot and the liquid is simmering, there’s nothing to do but wait.
“About an hour should do it,” Jamie says.