Chapter 13
13
Kit
It’s been a week. Well, six days. Tomorrow will be a week since I masturbated in a hotel room and waited in the dark for a man to come and fuck me.
And not just any man. That man, over there. Jake Brand. The guy my brother referred to as one of the best people he’s ever known. Hands down.
He’d trust Jake with his life, Franco said.
Loves him like a brother.
I can’t think about that right now.
I’m pretty deep in denial these days. Not exactly the best place to be, but certainly better than facing facts head-on.
Facts , as he reminded me the other night. Cold, hard facts, like the way his body felt inside mine. How he sounds when he comes, more animal than man.
They didn’t feel like facts when he said them in the dark, his voice rich and rough, wrapping right around my throat, leading me into a midnight dream of desire and a heap of other things I’m not allowed to have.
I cringe right here in the kitchen, thinking about how hard I came, how tense I got fighting it, how hopeless it was even trying. The man managed to do with words and that one bodily connection what no one has ever accomplished.
I never stood a chance against Jake Brand, with his filthy mouth and talented body and the way he looks at me even now across the line.
“How we doing on the shrimp?” I ask, as coolly as I can in an attempt to douse the flames eating me up inside.
“Two minutes,” he replies, his gaze snagging mine for a perfectly acceptable interval. He could look at anyone here for that long and it would seem normal. Yet, in that brief span, he manages to share something so raw, so explicit, that I can’t possibly be the only one who sees it.
Except, I realize when he turns to bark something to Frida about table twelve, it’s all one-sided. Me, imagining things that aren’t there.
Yeah. My imagination’s gone absolutely hog wild this week.
Reality? Totally normal. Like none of it ever happened.
The first day back, I was sure he’d do or say something at work, but he’s been nothing but professional. Hellos and goodbyes and order ups and behind yous and eighty-six the fried trout and all the other shit you say at work and none of the things my body’s geared up for. None of the phrases I think about over and over, like Filled your warm cunt with my come and Using this little hole the way you’re using me .
Using me.
Using me.
Oh god. What am I doing? I can’t stand back here staring at him. I turn and shove through the door into the dining room, where service is starting to slow down. Cora walks up to the bar and tells me she needs an Irish for twelve. With relief, I swing away, happy for something to do with my hands. I grab one of the cute insulated glass mugs I purchased for just this occasion and start pouring.
“One spicy shrimp.” Startled, I turn toward the voice I can’t stop thinking about.
“Oh.” I sound out of breath. “Great, thanks.”
“And a slice of cake.”
I look at his hands.
“I didn’t order cake.”
“No. But you looked like you needed some.”
“I did?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at my cake.” With a wink, he leans in, hands me the plate, and looks around. “Where’s the shrimp going? I’ll take it.”
“Oh, you don’t have to?—”
“Don’t mind. Everything’s gone out.”
“It’s for Taylor, right over there.” I indicate one of my regulars at the far end of the bar. She’s a gorgeous twenty-something blonde who brings her laptop and has dinner nearly every week. Writing a book, apparently. I’ve watched her get chatted up by the businessman beside her for the last few minutes, wondering if and when I’ll need to step in and run interference.
I take a bite of a ridiculously delicious pistachio cake Jake made this afternoon and catch his eyes on me. The second I look his way, he grabs a roll-up and circles the bar.
Oh my God, this is good . Caught in a weird sort of ecstasy consuming another one of his gorgeous creations—the man makes a lot of good cake—I watch him set the cutlery and plate down. Taylor gives him a smile brighter than any expression she’s shown her neighbor. She says something and Jake responds, leaning between her and the businessman.
I put the plate down on the bar, the cake suddenly too sweet in my mouth, too cloying. I turn and grab a rack of glasses and a clean towel and start polishing, my back to the room.
Taylor’s closer to Jake in age than I am. She’s twenty-eight, I think? Younger? And she’s interesting. Writes books and articles, travels for work. She’s creative and talented and gorgeous, with the kind of long, lean body I always wished I had instead of this overblown hourglass I was gifted with at adolescence.
They’d be perfect together. He’s big and tall and dark and she’s slender, strong. Smart as hell. And sweet, too. I mean, I really like her and I’m not easy to please.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out.
There’s a text from an unknown number. I open it and read.
Kitty. This is Clark. I’ve had to resort to going through someone else’s phone, since you’ve apparently blocked me. I wanted to do this amicably, but you’re making it impossible. I’ve talked it over with Lily and the lawyer and everyone agrees that we can’t settle as is. The restaurant’s too valuable and we’re not finished here until the assets are re-evaluated. Please, let’s have a chat. That’s all I’m asking. Call me on this number.
I shove the phone away. Asshole. Asshole .
He’s “giving” me the restaurant in the negotiations. Big quotation marks there, since I’m the one who built the place from the ground up. He’ll be demanding half my grandmother’s house next. I put him through fucking grad school, supported him through the PhD, and his lawyer’s still fighting for more.
Clark was so mad back when I got pregnant. He accused me of all kinds of things I’d never consider doing. The miscarriage, for me, was hell. Clark, though? The bastard was relieved.
Now here he is, all excited to be a daddy.
God, god , why did I stay with him?
Despite myself, I let my eyes lift to the antiqued mirror behind the bar. Unerringly, I seek Jake out. He’s still there, bent toward Taylor. Gorgeous, young, easy-going Taylor. Her body language is a full 360 from what it was with the disappointed-looking tech bro. She’s got a hand in her gleaming hair, her lips half pursed, half smiling, eyes wide as she stares up at him. And who can blame her? Jake looks almost unreal with how big he is, how wide and solid, striking with all that ink crawling out from under his chef’s coat. And then there’s that face. A living challenge. A fascinating map of too many years packed into too little time.
I’ll bet she wouldn’t make him do it in the dark.
He turns slightly and, like the coward I am, I immediately look down at the champagne glass I’ve now polished to within an inch of its life. But the glimpse of his profile I caught in the split second before I looked away has given me something close to heart palpitations. How can he be so beautiful?
Which is not a word I use lightly. The man’s looks are soul-crushing, gut twisting. And I don’t mean his frame or all that strength. The way I feel after that millisecond’s glimpse is the way I remember feeling when Clark and I went to Yellowstone on our one and only vacation—planned, organized, and paid for by yours truly. I woke up one morning in time to see the sun rise over the misty mountains and I remember crying tears, actual tears, at how wrenching a sight it was.
Jake, like that landscape, is made up of contrasts. Towering mountains and lush greenery, harsh boulders swathed in silken mist. Only he’s warm flesh and thick, rounded muscle, built on a framework of cartilage, tendons, and bone. He’s human, but…is he really, with how gorgeous he is?
Oh my god, what am I doing? Why am I thinking like this when there’s clearly nothing between us?
I’m just a mess with Clark breathing down my throat, as if I’m the one who owes him something. That’s all this is.
Frantic, I look up again, straight into the mirror, where I see my own face, broken up, the smudged eye makeup only highlighting the bags I can’t seem to get rid of, my lipstick too bright against my haggard skin. Unerringly, I glance his way.
Our gazes clash with somehow a million times more impact in the mirror than they would have had real life. I feel the jolt like lightning down my spine. My body’s in instant battle between taut and liquid.
In the glass, I watch, helplessly ensnared by his gaze, as Taylor’s hand lands on his forearm. It’s a casual move that could be interpreted any number of ways, but I’m familiar enough with the woman at this point to get that she’s interested.
In Jake.
He turns to respond to her, releasing me from his hold, and I’m left boneless behind my bar. The one place where I’m in charge and know my power. Only, right now, I don’t feel any of that. I feel awful. Weak. Sad.
Just as I put the glass I’ve been polishing away, Cora walks up. “Mind handing me the whip?”
“Oh, yeah.” I grab it and head over to finish her drink.
“What’s this? Cake?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Grab a fork. Jake made it for us.”
“Yum, god, why’s he so good at this?”
I concentrate on pouring coffee and topping the drink with whipped cream and a dash of cinnamon.
Mouth full, Cora leans close. “Think she’ll finally get him to go home with her this time?”
“What?”
She rolls her eyes. “Taylor. She’s been working Jake for a while now. I mean look.” She nudges my arm, lifting her chin to the other end of the bar. “Seriously, people, get a room.”
Swallowing back the nervy wave of nausea trying to work its way into my throat, I do my best to put a smile on my face and shake my head. It’s all I can manage.
Cora shovels more cake into her mouth. “Oh my God. Is she going to kiss him? Hol-y shit. Werk, girl.”
I won’t turn. I won’t look.
He’s not mine. What we have is the farthest possible thing from a relationship. He owes me nothing. Nothing. Taylor’s perfect for him. Right age. Right looks. Right situation in life.
“I um…”
“Christ, they’re gonna go at it right there? I can’t tell if she’s whispering in his ear or, like, licking it. Man, you might want to shut that?—”
“Sorry, I have to go to the…” I head out from behind the bar, straight to the back hall and bathroom. No. No, there’s someone in it. My office. Crap. I need keys. Scrabbling at my pocket, I pull out my set, shaking so hard it jangles like bells, shove the key in and stumble my way inside. I shut the door behind me and sink onto the sofa, hands over my face.
What am I doing? I keep thinking, over and over and over. What I am doing? What am I doing?
I don’t know. I just have no earthly idea. And no matter how many times I ask myself, I can’t come up with an answer that makes sense.