by Jane Porter
Jenny smiled. “I definitely eat carbs. I love pizza, and pasta and garlic bread and garlic cheese bread… the more cheese the better.”
“Can’t believe that. You’re tiny.”
“I run, and work out, but I also like to eat.” Her gaze dropped back down to her menu, shy again. “I know you just got home. I feel bad taking you away from your family.”
“Don’t. We were just eating takeout tonight,” he said, ignoring his menu. “And when I come home, I like to visit my favorite places, and Rocco’s is one of my personal favorites. Came here with two other couples for my senior prom.”
“I bet it was fun.”
He nodded. “Where did you go?”
She reached for her water glass, took a quick sip. “I didn’t go to the prom.”
“I can’t believe you weren’t asked.”
She sighed. “I was.”
He waited.
She shrugged. “It wasn’t… realistic. To go.” She shrugged again. “So I didn’t.”
“Why wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t have the money for a dress and boutonniere and hair and all that stuff. And it wasn’t a big deal, either,” Jenny added quickly, before he could say something that would make her feel even more awkward. “He was a nice guy but we weren’t dating, and it just was too much money for something that wasn’t all that special.”
“You don’t think your senior prom is special?”
“I don’t think being frivolous with money is smart.” She looked up, their gazes colliding and holding. “I am actually quite cautious, and frugal.” Her lips pursed and she made a soft rough mocking sound. “Not that you’d know it today. That wedding cost a fortune.”
“Are your parents upset with you?”
She hesitated a little longer this time. “No. I’m lucky that way. They’ve never pushed me. Never had high expectations for me.” Her lips curved wistfully. “I’m the one that puts pressure on me. I can be really hard on myself. I’m far too driven for my own good.”
“Ambition isn’t a bad thing.”
“Not if you’re Colton Thorpe and a national champion. But if you’re just a secretary…” She shook her head, struggled to smile. “I hated being a secretary. But apparently I was good at it. Men loved my efficiency. My commitment. My ability to sacrifice my personal life for their professional life.”
“You did that?”
“Daily. It was the job.”
“Why would you?”
“Because eventually you get paid good money for being a valuable asset.” Her smile turned mocking. “There are even bonuses when you become invaluable. So that’s what I was determined to become, Charles Monmouth’s invaluable executive assistant.”
“I gather from what he was saying at Grey’s, you succeeded.”
“Yes.”
“He wants you to return to Chicago with him,” Colton added.
“But I won’t. Even if I return to Chicago, I’d never work for him again. That part of my life is over.” Her eyes suddenly stung and her chest ached again, a lump filling her throat making it hard to swallow. “Sorry,” she said huskily, blinking to dry the tears. “I don’t want to cry again. I can’t stand crying. Makes me hate myself when I do it.”
“You hate yourself for crying?”
She nodded. “Crying doesn’t solve problems. And it’s a sign of weakness. It’s one of my rules of conduct—”
“You have rules of conduct?” he interrupted, creases fanning from his eyes, his deep voice tinged with laughter.
“Of course. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Oh, probably a few. But it sounds funny for a pretty little girl like you to say she does.”
Jenny ignored the pretty little girl part. “What are your rules?”
He leaned back against the booth, lips twitching, blue eyes warm. “Don’t drink and drive. Don’t hook up with married chicks. And don’t piss off cops or any other law enforcement official. Jail’s not fun.”
She laughed. “You’ve been to jail?”
“Couple times.”
“For what? Drinking, driving too fast, fighting?”
“Pretty much. But it’s been ten years since I last got in trouble like that.”
“What happened?”
“I got booked in Shreveport for public intoxication. Jail sobered me up real quick. Haven’t been stupid that way since.”
“You’re not a big drinker?”
“I like a couple of beers. I don’t like losing control.”
That part certainly resonated with her. “I don’t either. Which is why I hate crying.”
His smile was easy. “I’m okay with women crying, but not a fan of a man crying, not unless his dog has died, and then I expect some tears.”
Jenny laughed.
His eyes glimmered warm. “You have a pretty laugh. You should laugh more.”
They stopped talking long enough to order dinner, and then kept conversation light while they shared bruschetta and a Caprese salad before their entrees arrived.
They each had a glass of red wine with dinner, just one, but the wine seemed to go straight to Jenny’s head despite her plate of pumpkin raviolis in the most delicious sage and brown butter sauce she’d ever had.
Colton was right. The food was delicious here and she’d eaten a lot, but even with a full belly, she felt light-headed and breathless.
She was just too aware of Colton.
Too aware of the way the candlelight accented his high hard cheekbone and the little scar curving across the bone.
Too aware of his firm mouth and the press of his lips.
Too aware of the bronze of his skin at his throat and the taut planes of his chest beneath the thin knit t-shirt.
She’d never cared about Charles’ appearance. She’d told herself she liked slender men, intellectual men. She’d convinced herself that looks didn’t matter.
But suddenly she couldn’t stop focusing on Colton’s face and body and the way he moved, and the curl of his strong fingers as they held his fork, or reached for his wine glass.
Everything he did looked strong and smooth and beautiful.
Jenny swallowed hard and knotted her napkin in her lap, thinking if she didn’t get home soon she’d get herself into some serious trouble. “That was lovely,” she said. “And when the bill comes, I’ll figure out my part. I think it’s around forty dollars or so.”
Colton’s head lifted and he gave her a strange look. “Your part?”
“Yes. My half of the bruschetta and salad, the ravioli and the wine.”
“I asked you to dinner.”
“I know but it’s not a date and I’m not going to let you pay—”
“I asked you to dinner,” he repeated quietly.
“Yes, but—”
“This was my treat.”
“You don’t need to treat me.”
“Are you trying to insult me?”
“No.” She went hot, then cold. Her brow creased. “No. Not at all. I was simply trying to be fair.”
“Fair,” he repeated thoughtfully, studying her from across the table. “Speaking of fair, I’m going to ask you something and it might ruin what’s been a very nice dinner, but I need to ask. So I can be fair to you. But did you love Charles? Deeply love him?”
An icy wave swept through her, suddenly sick, stomach churning. “I… loved… him. But I’m not sure what you mean by deeply love.”
“Did you ever feel like you’d die without him?”
Jenny held her breath a moment, as the queasiness increased. She needed a moment to settle her nerves. “I loved that he was intelligent and ambitious. I loved that he was a risk-taker. I understood it. I thought I could be a good wife for him.”
“Forgive me darlin’, but that doesn’t sound very romantic.”
“I’m not—” she sucked her lip in, chewed it for courage, “—romantic. Never have been. Don’t think I ever will be.”
He gave her a long look.
Heart
pounding, she forced a casual shrug. “Romance is overrated, Colton.”
He gave her an even longer look, his expression revealing disbelief.
She felt as if she’d swallowed a bucket of nails. Her stomach hurt. Everything inside her hurt. Even her eyes felt gritty and dry, stinging from all the emotion she was suppressing, emotion that no one else would understand.
Colton would never understand what it’d been like…. the way people had looked at her, and her sisters. The pity. The sympathy. The judgment. The little girls were always dressed in clothes purchased at the thrift store on Front Street and they’d wear them until gray and threadbare. They’d wear their jackets until they were too tight on their shoulders and their wrists jutted out pale and knobby, little skeleton arms poking out of puffy winter coats. Coats were expensive. You didn’t get a new one because you wanted a new one. You got a new one when there was absolutely nothing else you could wear.
She was marrying Charles because he was smart and successful and showed up for work, clean and sober. She admired his work ethic. She respected his ethic. His ethic resonated with her. She had the same drive. Becoming his partner had made sense to her. They could work together to accomplish shared goals. They wouldn’t just survive. They’d flourish, and thrive.
By marrying Charles she could give her children everything she’d never had… parents who shared the same work ethic, parents who complimented each other’s skills, parents who knew how to provide.
It hadn’t seemed mercenary. It’d been practical. And practical was important. It was the thing missing in her childhood. There had been love, but there hadn’t been enough of essentials like bread and milk, beef, chicken, and fresh vegetables.
“Marrying Charles meant that I could be a different woman than my mom,” she said quietly, ending the uneasy silence. “It meant that my children would have a different life than I did. And that was—and still is—important to me. It would kill me if I had children and they had to go through what I went through. It was hard. Really hard.”
“And yet it made you who you are today.”
“Yes. Practical. Pragmatic. Unromantic.” She struggled to smile but failed. “I know how it sounds. I’ve heard people whisper… she’s just marrying Charles Monmouth for his money… but those people don’t know him, or me. They don’t know that I work twelve, thirteen hour days to make sure he succeeds. I wasn’t marrying him to be on Easy Street. I was marrying him to be his partner. To help protect his career, and grow his business, and take it to the next level. I liked being instrumental to his success. I was an essential part of his team. It felt good to be needed, and rewarded. It felt good to finally be someone.”
“You’ve always been someone.”
“But it wasn’t until I worked for Charles’s company that I could do something for my family. My parents would have lost their house four years ago if I hadn’t taken on their mortgage. My sisters were able to go to college because I took care of their tuition and books. And I didn’t mind doing it. I was glad to do it. I was glad I could help. It made me proud.”
“I don’t disagree with anything you’re saying. But who is taking care of you, Jenny?”
She lifted her chin. “I take care of myself.”
“And what about love? True love? Mad, passionate love? You don’t want that, either?”
She closed her eyes a moment, overwhelmed by pain. He was touching on old wounds and scars, pressing on bruises that suddenly were tender all over again. “I don’t believe in it,” she said faintly. “I don’t believe that kind of love exists.”
“Because you don’t want to feel it?”
“Because I’ve never felt it.”
“Not for anyone? Ever?”
He was staring hard at her, searching her face, and their eyes met, held, holding for so long that spots danced before her eyes.
Breathe, she told herself. Breathe.
She exhaled hard, eyes burning, stinging, heart aching.
She’d always had a crush on him, but it’d been immature and sweet, adolescent dreams fueled by a feverish imagination that had no relationship to reality.
She’d liked the teenage Colton—the tall, lanky boy body, his dark blonde hair, the blue eyes, the broad shoulders, his endless cocky confidence.
She still liked his hair, his face, his impressive male body with all the muscles and taut hard planes.
But there was more.
She wanted more.
She wanted to feel the weight of his hard muscular body, wanted the feel of his hands on her skin, his fingers against her breasts, his hips bearing down on hers.
She’d never craved sex before but she craved it now. Craved him, craving the things she’d never felt but believed he could make her feel. Pleasure. Satisfaction.
Maybe even peace.
Or maybe not.
But she was almost thirty and she’d been a hard worker and a dutiful daughter and an exceptional employee.
Now she wanted to feel like a woman. She wanted to feel as if she mattered, and her body mattered, and she wanted him to be the one to seduce her, satiate her.
He, with his big hard body and piercing blue eyes and deep raspy voice.
She wanted his hands and his mouth exploring her, his hard body filling her.
She wanted him. She wanted to be taken and pleasured.
Taken and satiated.
Taken.
Known.
*
Colton felt the moment the energy changed between them, the air suddenly electric, charged with interest, crackling with awareness. Desire.
The desire wasn’t one-sided. He’d wanted Jenny Wright from the moment he spotted her on the street corner in her fancy wedding gown.
But the desire now was sharper, harder, heavier.
His body felt heavy and hungry. He felt fierce, almost predatory and knew he wasn’t what Jenny needed, particularly not hours after being jilted.
She needed a kind man, a gentle man, a man who would spoil her and treat her like a princess.
Colton didn’t know how to do that.
His expertise was in the bedroom, and yeah, he had solid technique, but he knew Jenny didn’t need a mind-blowing orgasm as much as she needed TLC.
Colt didn’t have a clue how to give TLC.
“I should get you home,” he said, fishing into his pocket for a wad of bills and peeling off four twenties and tucking them into the leather billfold.
She nodded and got to her feet. She rubbed her hands against the front of her thighs, as though she were nervous. Or excited. Probably both.
It would be so easy to kiss her right now. To slide his hands into her hair and wrap the silken strands around his fingers and hold her head back so he could take her mouth, exploring the softness and warmth as he molded her slim body to his.
He hardened all over again. He’d been in a state of arousal all night. It was ridiculous, being hard for hours, his aching erection straining against the denim.
They left Rocco’s in silence. As they approach his truck, Jenny misjudged the curb and would have fallen if he hadn’t reached for her, and held her up.
“Thanks for the save,” she said, her voice pitched low. “Now I feel like Charles.”
“You’re not drunk,” he answered, putting his arm around her to steady her. “You’re just tired.”
“I am,” she agreed.
Colton kept his arm around her as he walked her to his truck. He could feel her warmth with her slender body tucked up against his side, and smell the scent of her shampoo. Her hair smelled good, she smelled good, and felt good.
He was sure she would taste just as good, too.
Just like that he went hot and hard all over again, and the heat surging through him tested his temper, testing his control.
He shouldn’t want her this much. He shouldn’t want anybody this much.
He was glad when they reached his truck. He opened the passenger door for her and stepped back to let her climb in.
They were standing so close he could feel her breath and see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath her thin black sweater.
“I wish you were still a bad boy,” she said quietly, her face tilted up to his, her wide brown eyes meeting his and holding.
“Why?” he asked, his fingers itching to push her long blonde hair back from her face so he could caress the sweep of her high cheekbone, and the beautiful line of her jaw.
“Because then you could make me forget today.”
Colton swallowed hard, and counted to five before trusting himself to speak. “I’m not even going to go there, darlin’. It’s bad enough you’ll wake up with a headache. You don’t need to wake up with a bunch of regrets.”
“My only regret is that I’ve never had what I always wanted to have.” Her lips curved but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You.”
“You don’t want me, babe.”
She reached out and placed a light hand on his chest, her fingers shaking. Her voice shook, too. “I’ve wanted you my whole life.”
He didn’t remember moving. He didn’t mean to move toward her. He certainly didn’t intend to kiss her. But suddenly his head dipped, blocking the moon, and his lips covered hers.
She shuddered as the touch of his mouth and something wild and fierce swept through him, and he drew her against him, close, so close, that he could feel the soft crush of her breasts against his chest and her tremulous breath as she inhaled.
“Easy,” he murmured as her breath hitched, and then unable to help himself, he wrapped an arm around her, his hand low on her hips, his palm cupping her butt, urging her even closer because he couldn’t remember the last time a woman felt this right in his arms, or a kiss made him feel this good.
When he finally let her go a few minutes later, they were both breathing hard and Jenny’s brown eyes were huge, and her lips were soft, and almost bruised.
“Wow,” she whispered, blinking at him, expression dazed.
He swallowed hard. God help him, but he felt the exact same way.
“I better get you home,” he said gruffly, aware that if he didn’t take her home now, she wouldn’t be going home tonight. He’d be taking her somewhere private, somewhere that had a big bed and a door that locked, and a Do Not Disturb sign for the door.