by Kelly Rimmer
My stomach drops. I stop bouncing my knee, but now my hands start to shake, so I fold them together and hide them on my lap.
Jake Winton strides into the room wearing jeans and a very simple gray T-shirt that stretches over the bulky muscles of his arms and his chest. Goddammit, I hate how good he looks. Unlike his brother, Jake is very broad and very tall—far too large for my tastes, really. I like a man I can look eye to eye in my heels, and Jake is six foot six.
I’m good, but even I couldn’t manage thirteen-inch heels. Jake is just a veritable giant in every way. Yes, including that one. Men spend a lot of time worrying about size, but frankly, I’d take a skilled guy with a sensibly sized appendage over a horse like Jake any day. I want a man who can get in there, get the job done, then walk away—leaving me able to walk away too...as opposed to limping away. Maybe it’s just me, but I like to enjoy a guy’s company and not need an epidural if I want to go to spin class the next day.
Not that I was complaining all that much when Jake and I were together. Probably because he was a skilled guy. In fact, I do remember relishing that sometimes-morning-after tenderness because it reminded me of the hours I’d spent with him. I was so lust-addled at the time that I actually thought that was a good thing.
But sex is better without complications like that—delicious memories, emotions, huge dicks. So yes, in hindsight, his is definitely too big. And he’s definitely too tall and broad. And too compassionate. And too... Argh... These days he’s just too West Coast. He looks so relaxed, and I can’t miss the light tan on his skin and the way that his muddy-blond hair has brightened up several tones. Then again, Jake always loved surfing and hiking. Even when he lived here in Manhattan he was forever planning trips away to commune with nature or some shit. When his job gets too much, he heads to the outdoors to decompress.
Yes, Jake Winton was and is all wrong for me, in pretty much every way.
I look away, and I plan to continue looking away—but my eyes are drawn back to him and I find myself staring again immediately. I’ve just missed him so much, and it’s been two and a half years since I saw him—apparently that separation has left me weak and hungry. I note the smattering of gray at his temples and just for a moment I wonder if I put it there. Then I do the calculation and realize he’d be thirty-nine now, so I guess a hint of silver makes sense. Also, I’m really not into salt-and-pepper guys, so that’s excellent.
Except that it suits him. He is a doctor, after all... A specialist at that, and there’s something about the hint of gray that makes him look even more distinguished. And the horn-rimmed glasses? They’re new too. He used to make fun of my reading glasses in that flirty, melt-my-panties way of his. He always said they made me look like a sexy librarian.
Seriously, who has sexy librarian fantasies?
Me.
Right now.
I’m fantasizing about a very broad, very tall, very sexy male librarian who’s actually a doctor with a huge dick and horn-rimmed frames on his brand-new glasses.
“...glad to be here. Marcus, congratulations on the engagement and the twins and—Oh! Hey there, Abby! Wow, you look amazing. When are you due?” Jake’s going around the table greeting everyone, and by the time I check back into the conversation, he’s already up to me. His gaze lands on me, and after a split second of panic I force my brightest smile. “And Jessica,” he says, then he returns my smile with a very tight smile of his own.
There’s barely disguised antagonism in his gaze, and it seems I’ve made a critical error here. I knew I was at real risk of throwing myself at him like some kind of lust-sick idiot tonight, but I figured he’d be on his best behavior. I mean, come on—Jake’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met. It really didn’t occur to me that he’d ever look at me like...this.
It seems that in all of my wasted hours over the last few weeks worrying about seeing Jake again, I have neglected to consider one very important thing: I’m the villain here. It was my idea to hide our relationship from our friends. My idea to end things. My idea to “give one another some space” after we broke up.
It was his idea to pack up and move to California to get away from me, and I probably should have given a little more thought to the level of hurt that might have been behind that decision. I just told myself the job offer at Stanford must have been too good to be true, and that he was probably ready for a change after living his whole life in New York. It was easier to believe my own lies than it was to really interrogate what might actually have been going on for him.
“Hello,” he says now.
“Hi, Jake,” I say. My gaze lands on the almost-empty bottle of champagne in the middle of the table. “We need some more bubbles!” My voice is a little too light and a little too high. I glance toward the kitchen, where Marcus’s brother-in-law and a pair of apprentice chefs are preparing our meal as part of Marcus and Abby’s wedding gift to Paul and Izzy. “I’ll just—”
“Sit down, Jess,” Isabel says, laughing. She waves at me, playfully dismissive as she rises. “I’ll get it. You guys can all catch up before we talk through the plan for tomorrow.”
“I need to walk a bit,” Abby says, and she stands with some difficulty. Didn’t she just get back from the bathroom? I move to rise, but Marcus is right beside her, and before I’m even on my feet, his arm is around her waist and he’s leading her away from the table.
“Let me come, Abs,” he says softly. “Want to go outside for some fresh air? How’s the heartburn?”
“All good.” She flashes a smile that looks just a little too bright. “Fresh air sounds great.”
That leaves me, Jake and Paul. I mentally beg Paul to stay, but because the universe hates me, he stands immediately.
“Sorry,” he says, then he gives us a cheeky grin, “I’ve been waiting all night for Isabel to get distracted. I’ve organized a surprise for the honeymoon and I just need to check in on it.”
They’re going to New Zealand for their honeymoon. I’m pretty sure the “surprise” is a trip to a rugby match, because Isabel is sports-mad. In any case, Paul leaves the room, and...now I’m alone with his brother.
I down the last of my champagne in one gulp, then glance hesitantly at Jake. He’s staring at me, his gaze hard, and I try to force myself to be polite and to make an attempt at small talk.
“How have you been? It’s been too long,” I say. It’s possibly the stupidest possible thing I could ever have said to Jake Winton. Jesus. I don’t know even why I said it. It’s just what people say, isn’t it? My voice is all wobbly. Where’s my supposedly endless confidence when I need it? Where are those “balls of steel” lovers and business rivals have accused me of having? Oh, God. I want the earth to open up and swallow me whole.
Jake sits. He leans back in his chair and surveys me for a moment, then he sighs impatiently.
“We have to play games when the others are around because that’s how you wanted it to be. But when we’re alone, let’s not pretend this isn’t uncomfortable.”
Even as I nod in agreement, I feel my heart sink. There’s no mistaking the disdain in his tone. I usually don’t give a flying fuck what other people think about me, and I’m still not sure what makes Jake so different...but he is different. And I hate the idea that he might hate me.
I’m saved by the return of Izzy with the champagne, and she immediately launches herself into rapid-fire chitchat about the meal. Everyone else returns soon enough too, and at first, I figure the tension between Jake and me will dilute, at least a little, as we settle into the company of our friends.
But I’m wrong about that too. Jake is polite enough to ignore me in conversation, but tense enough to narrow his gaze at me every time our eyes meet.
CHAPTER TWO
Jake
HERE’S THE THING: I’m a nice guy. I’m a healer by trade—an oncologist, actually, which is a pretty unsexy profession and not one you
choose unless you genuinely care about people. I do care about people. I donate money to charity. I help little old ladies cross the street. I rescued a dog last year. Her name is Clara and she’s the ugliest fucking thing you’ve ever seen—as far as I can tell, a cross between a pug, a Brussels griffon and that ball of hair and gunk that clogs up the bathroom sink after a while. I found myself at the shelter just before closing time on what happened to be the very last day before Clara was due to be “put to sleep.” She looked up at me with her one remaining eye and for some reason I just couldn’t bear the thought of the shelter staff putting such a young dog down.
Well, Clara may be young, but she’s not exactly healthy or even cute. In addition to that missing eye, she has a terrifying overbite, she’s an odd shape, her fur is patchy and the shelter staff told me they suspected she was abused by a previous owner because she has severe anxiety. I pay more for her monthly medication than I did to adopt her, and I let her sleep not just in my bed but on my pillow. Sometimes I wake up and she’s actually lying on my face. No matter what I do, her endlessly dirty ears always wind up smelling awful, and whenever I have guests, they always say the same thing—some variation on “Holy shit! What is that smell? Argh! Is that a dog?”
Right at this very moment, I’m paying a dog behaviorist to act as dog-sitter, which is costing me a stupid amount of money. The woman actually has to sleep at my house with Clara because my dog can’t go to a kennel and she has a very bad habit of shredding everything in sight if she’s left alone overnight.
And despite all of that, I love Clara, because that’s the kind of guy I am.
A nice guy. A tolerant guy.
And yet, I’m sitting here staring at Jessica Cohen, and I’m struggling to find any goodwill toward her whatsoever.
I’ve had a lot of time to think in the two and a half years since our breakup, and I’ve come to a few hard realizations about our relationship. I desperately want to confront Jess, and I plan to do just that—after the reception. I’m due to fly out for a hiking trip on Sunday night, and I’m pretty sure Paul and Izzy aren’t going to fuck this marriage business up again, so there’s a very good chance tomorrow night will be the last time I’ll see Jess in our lifetimes.
I’ll say what I need to say, and then I’ll finally be able to let her go.
Izzy hands me a bottle of champagne and I pop the cork. I pour some for Marcus and myself and then Izzy and Paul. Abby returns to the table, so I offer her some too, although I know she won’t drink it. She points to her water with a sigh, then I flick a glance at Jess. She already has a flute in her hand, but just as I look at her, she avoids my gaze, lifts her glass and drains it.
I should offer her a refill.
I mean, I should. But I can see she desperately wants a refill, so I don’t. Jess has always had a way of drawing out aspects to my personality I didn’t even know were there. It turns out, she can even inspire me to petty childishness.
“How’s things for you?” Paul asks me, when I’ve finished sharing the champagne around. “How’s Clara?”
I feel Jess’s eyes on me, and just for a minute, I let myself enjoy the possibility that she might think Clara is a girlfriend rather than a particularly high-maintenance pet. It was Jess’s decision to end our relationship, so I’m sure she’s not jealous, but I really do like the idea that she might be. It’s ridiculous, and maybe I’m not such a nice guy after all, because I’m deliberately ambiguous as I say, “Clara is great,” then I smile broadly. “Sure makes life better having someone to come home to each night. But I don’t need to tell you lovebirds that—how long have you been back home, Izzy?”
“A few months,” Isabel says, then she just beams at me. I glance at Paul, and he’s wearing the same stupid grin. I chuckle.
“I can’t wait to officially welcome you back to the family tomorrow, Izzy.”
She sighs happily.
“Everything is just perfect, isn’t it? I’m so glad you could be here. I know the timing wasn’t great...”
I wave her apology away.
“Even the timing was perfect. It was easy to push my trip back a few days—much easier than moving patient appointments if I hadn’t been planning a break already.”
“Where are you off to, Jake?” Marcus asks from across the table, where he’s sitting right beside Jess.
“I’m hiking the John Muir Trail—doing an ultralight trip, so taking minimum supplies and walking it as fast as I can. I was originally thinking Paul might join me... I thought he’d want to be distracted when his first postdivorce wedding anniversary rolled around.” I glance at my brother, then wink at him. “Turns out he had a better idea.”
Paul laughs softly.
“I forgot all about that.”
“Well, I decided to do it alone anyway. I’m flying back Monday morning and I’ll start the trail on Wednesday. I expect to finish in about eleven or twelve days, depending on how I’m feeling as I go.”
“How far does this trail go?” Abby asks with visible horror. I laugh at her expression.
“About two hundred and twenty miles. I’ll try to average twenty-two miles a day so I can have a few rest days along the way.”
“You do realize you’re completely insane, right?” Abby shakes her head at me and I grin at her.
“Maybe when the twins arrive, you guys can plan a hike with me. Marcus and I can carry the babies in backpacks.”
“That does sound like fun,” Marcus murmurs playfully.
“You know very well that it sounds like my worst nightmare.” Abby scowls at him, and I laugh again.
“There’s nothing like it, Abby. Fresh air. Silence. Disconnecting from all of the noise of modern life is the best way to nurture your soul.”
“Clara doesn’t mind you leaving her, then?” Paul asks, and he’s teasing of course, but this time I have no doubt at all that anyone who hadn’t made my terrifying pet’s acquaintance would hear this and assume he was referring to a partner. I flick a glance at Jess. I’m both delighted and instantly irritated to see that she’s visibly jealous. In fact, she’s close to incandescent green.
“Clara is incredibly loyal,” I say slowly. “It’s one of her best qualities.”
“She’ll greet you at the door when you get back, and she’ll be humping your leg—” Paul says, and I cut him off hastily.
“Classic Clara. So what’s the deal for tomorrow?” I ask Izzy.
“The food is just about ready,” she tells me. “I’ll run you through our plans when we’re done eating.”
* * *
WE SPEND THE next hour gorging ourselves on the incredible four courses the caterers have prepared for us, and just as we finish with dessert, Paul hands me another bottle of champagne. While he and Izzy rise, I quickly top up another round into everyone’s glasses. I studiously ignore Jess, then set the bottle on the table between us, so unlike everyone else, she has to fill her own glass.
Yeah. I might not like Jess anymore, but I definitely do not like the guy I’ve become tonight.
“Firstly, I’d like to thank you all for coming here tonight, especially on such short notice,” Paul says. “I never dreamed that I would get a chance to do this again, and it means the world that you’d all be here again to witness it.”
“Don’t worry,” Isabel assures us all. “Tomorrow is going to be very low-key.”
She gives us the basics in about thirty seconds: Marcus and I are to meet Paul here at his home, Abby, Isabel and Jess will meet at a suite at a hotel for hair and makeup and whatever else it is that women do on wedding days. Truth be told, I tune out of the details after that because I’m pretty sure it’s all I need to know. Instead, I busy myself staring at the roses in the center of the table, just so my eyes are pointed in Jess’s vague vicinity, but my staring contest with the roses doesn’t last long because my gaze drifts automatically toward her. She cat
ches me and we both scowl, then look away, just as Paul and Isabel take their seats again. As best man, it’s only appropriate that I make a toast, so I reach for my glass.
As soon as I’m on my feet, Jess snatches her own glass up and stands too. We stare at each other just as we’ve been doing all night, only this time, the moment is nothing like fleeting. It’s still painfully uncomfortable—but neither one of us looks away.
I’m all too aware of the confused gazes fixed right on us right now.
“I was going to make a toast,” I say carefully. I am Paul’s brother, after all, and the best man, and traditionally a toast would be my responsibility. The polite thing for Jess to do is to sit down, or maybe even to apologize and then sit down.
Jess is anything but polite.
“I was going to make a toast, too,” she says pointedly, and she remains stubbornly standing. Her gaze is pure challenge. I dare you to make a scene.
I try to wait her out, but we end up standing there in an awkward game of chicken. The moment stretches and stretches until I realize that no matter how long I wait there, Jess is not going to be the first to sit down. Given the opportunity, she’d stand and glare at me until the dinner finished, until the wedding happened without us, until we both starved to death and our bones decomposed. And as the earth crashes into the sun in seven or eight billion years, the last thing my ghost would see would be Jess’s ghost, still glaring at me as we dissolved into a ball of fiery doom.
If I don’t sit, either we’re going to stay here literally forever, or one of our friends is going to have to intervene to break the stalemate. This leaves me very little choice but to be the one to say awkwardly, “Well, ladies first, then,” and soon I’m the one taking my seat while Jess makes a very poetic, very touching speech about how wonderful it is to be in their wedding party for the second time, and how glad she is to see them back together.
The whole time I’m staring at my champagne flute, watching the bubbles rise, trying not to admire how eloquent she is, and trying to talk myself out of acting like a spoiled brat. It’s been well over two years since Jess and I split, and we were together for only four fucking months. The woman should have no hold over me whatsoever, and the fact that she still does is actually kind of humiliating.