CHAPTER 1 #2
A sudden wave of heat rushed up Jayla’s neck, blooming bright across her olive cheeks. She did not pull her hand back from his grip immediately. Instead, she let her thumb slide just an eighth of an inch against the side of his knuckles, feeling the dense, hard muscle beneath his skin.
"Why, thank you, Drew," she said, her voice dropping an octave, losing its professional edge and catching on a soft, trailing breath. "You’re certainly not too hard on the eyes yourself."
They sat. The small wrought-iron table seemed entirely too small for the three of them, especially with Drew sitting directly across from her.
Every time he shifted his weight, his knee—sheathed in dark, crisp denim—brushed against the side of her leg.
The contact was brief, but it acted like a small electric spark every single time.
A waitress dropped off three coffees—a black Americano for Drew, an iced latte for Tamara, and a hot cappuccino with oat milk for Jayla.
The white steam curled slowly off the rim of Jayla’s cup, mingling with the heavy scent of roasted espresso and the sweet smell of the surrounding jasmine blossoms.
Jayla took a slow sip, her dark eyes tracking the movement of Drew’s right arm as he picked up his black mug.
The sleeve of his fitted shirt pulled taut over a bicep that looked thick enough to crush cedar.
The sheer physical density of him was intoxicating.
Gray was lean, built like a runner with narrow shoulders and smooth skin; Drew was built like a force of nature, heavy and solid in a way that made her feel instantly small, fragile, and intensely female.
Tamara sat back, her legs crossed, watching the two of them like a cat that had just delivered a prized mouse to the doorstep.
"So tell me, Drew," Jayla began, leaning forward on her elbows, resting her chin in her hands to hide the slight tremor in her posture. "What does a man like you actually do when you're not out making local women nervous?"
Drew chuckled, the sound deep and quiet, rolling out from his broad chest. He set his cup down with a soft click against the saucer.
"I’m a chemical engineer," he said smoothly, his eyes locking onto hers with an unwavering, direct intensity. "I design process flows and thermal management systems for industrial plants downtown."
Jayla let out a low, appreciative hum, her eyebrows arching high. "Hmm. Smart, capable, and built like a linebacker. That is a dangerous combination, Mr. Chemical Engineer."
"I try to keep things balanced," he said, his lips curling into that quiet, knowing smile. "I hear you're the artistic type. Tamara says you take portraits."
"I frame moments," Jayla corrected softly, her fingers sliding down the warm ceramic of her coffee cup. "I look for the things people try to hide, or the things they don't know they're showing, and I capture them before they disappear."
Drew leaned his broad forearms on the table, reducing the space between them to less than a foot. "Is that so? Maybe you ought to bring that big camera of yours over sometime and take a few shots of me. See what you can capture."
Jayla didn't blink. The thrill of the flirtation was running through her blood like high-proof alcohol, hot and reckless. "Only if the shirt comes off," she said, her voice dropping to a teasing, sultry purr.
Tamara let out a loud, delighted laugh, snapping her fingers. Drew didn't flinch. His eyes sparkled with a dark, appreciative mischief. "I can handle that. But the pants stay on. I’m a respectable man, Jayla."
Jayla tilted her head, her tongue flicking out briefly to wet her bottom lip, catching his gaze as she did. "And what if I don't want the pants to stay on?"
Tamara cleared her throat loudly, though her eyes were dancing with joy. "Alright, children, keep it PG-thirteen for at least five minutes. People are trying to enjoy their croissants."
Drew laughed again, a rich, full-bodied sound that drew a quick glance from a couple sitting two tables over.
He ignored them entirely, his dark gaze dropping slowly down to the swallow-wing tattoo peeking out from the V of Jayla’s blouse.
He didn't pretend to look away; he admired her openly, with the quiet, effortless confidence of a man who knew precisely what he was capable of offering.
"I like her already, Tam," Drew murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register again. "She knows what she wants."
"I definitely know what I want," Jayla agreed, her heart thumping wildly against her ribs. She took a deep breath, letting her gaze rest on his wide chest, then moving down to the thick trunk of his waist. "So I’m assuming Tamara already explained the situation to you? She told you what I’m looking for? "
Drew set his hands flat on the table. His fingers were long, his dark knuckles broad. "She gave me the outline. She said you were looking for something special. Something high quality, quiet, and completely off the record."
"And?" Jayla pushed, leaning in a fraction closer. "Can you deliver?"
Tamara cut in before Drew could speak, leaning over to elbow Jayla gently in the ribs with a wicked grin. "Oh, honey, please. They don't call him Mr. Girth around these parts just to be cute. Trust me, he delivers."
Jayla’s breath caught instantly. A sudden, sharp spike of heat shot straight down her spine, pooling heavily between her thighs. The smooth skin she had shaved an hour ago felt suddenly overly sensitive, resting tight against the seams of her jeans.
"Mr. Girth?" Jayla repeated, her eyes lighting up with an uncensored, hungry fascination. She looked at Drew’s face, then let her gaze fall directly toward his lap beneath the shadow of the umbrella table. "So you’re packing a real problem down there, huh?"
Drew didn't blush. He didn't shift uncomfortably.
He simply leaned back in his chair, resting his large hands on his thighs, his expression filled with an easy, formidable pride.
"I’ve never had any complaints," he said softly.
"I have a strong feeling you’re going to be very satisfied with the results. "
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then down to her lap, sweeping over her tight denim with a slow, heavy appreciation that made her feel entirely exposed.
"Tell me about your husband," Drew said suddenly, his tone shifting from playful to quietly observational. "Tamara mentioned you’re married."
The mention of Gray brought a temporary, faint chill to Jayla’s chest, but the heat between her legs burned it away almost immediately. She traced a circle in the condensation on her table.
"His name is Gray," she said quietly. "He’s a good man. Really. He looks incredible on paper—polite, stable, sweet. Our wedding was gorgeous. We bought a house. We built a life that looks completely perfect from the outside."
She paused, taking a slow breath, looking up to meet Drew’s heavy dark eyes.
"But the bedroom is a ghost town, Drew. It’s a ten-minute routine.
A couple of kisses, two minutes of work, he gets what he needs, and then he’s snoring.
He leaves me standing at the edge of a cliff every single time.
I love him—I really do. But love doesn't fill you up when you’re starving for something real.
I need to be taken apart. I need to be stretched, held down, and worked until I can't breathe. I’ve been living in an orderly little box for three years, and I am dying for a little bit of chaos. "
Drew listened to every word without interrupting. His dark face remained calm, his expression lacking any judgment or smug triumph. He simply held her gaze, processing her words with cool, measured focus.
"If you wanted wild," Drew asked quietly, "why get married to a safe man in the first place?"
"Because I thought safe was what I was supposed to want," Jayla admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"I thought safe would be enough to keep me quiet.
It isn't. I have needs that are getting louder every single day, and I can't keep pretending they aren't there. That’s where you come in. If you’re up for it. "
Before Drew could respond, Tamara’s phone chimed loudly on the metal table, vibrating against her coffee saucer. She checked the screen, rolled her eyes with an affectionate sigh, and grabbed her small designer handbag.
"Duty calls," Tamara said, sliding out of her chair.
"David’s flight got moved up. I have to go pretend I missed him.
" She leaned down, kissed Drew on his dark cheek, and then pulled Jayla into a quick squeeze.
"Be good, children. Or, better yet, don't be good at all. Text me the details later, Jayla."
With a click of her high heels, Tamara glided across the patio toward her white Range Rover, leaving behind a silence that felt suddenly twice as heavy as before.
***
Now alone, the space between Jayla and Drew seemed to condense instantly. The ambient noise of the street—the passing cars, the clinking of coffee cups, the morning chatter of strangers—faded into a dull background hum.
Jayla didn't hesitate. She felt a sudden, electric surge of bravery—a liberation born from having already crossed the boundary in her mind the moment she told her lie that morning. She shifted her wrought-iron chair three inches closer to his side of the table.
She reached out her right hand, her fingers dark with intricate floral ink, and rested her fingertips against his forearm.
The skin was remarkably warm, smooth over dense, heavy muscle.
She let her fingers slowly slide upward, tracing the hard, thick cord of his forearm, moving over the flexed bicep, feeling the sheer weight of his arm.
"So, Mr. Girth," she purred, her eyes dark and completely unblinking as she looked at him. "Am I allowed to see what we're working with here?"
Drew didn't pull away. He didn't glance around to see if anyone was watching. He simply leaned back slightly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intense, burning stillness.