There was still one question left to ask. Something that had been gnawing at me. “Sophia…” I said hesitantly. “Did you ask her to marry you because you loved her, or were you trying to upset your father?”
Jimmy pulled back and stiffened. His hands ceased coasting along my spine. “Why would you ask that?”
“It’s just, I don’t—”
“Forget I asked,” he said, cutting me off. His cheeks hollowed, shadows darkening his face. “Sophia is in the past. We’re over. What happened is done.”
Like after the grocery store incident, he was shutting down, unable to relive that time of his life. It was unhealthy, and if I had to guess, I’d say aggravating his father had had something to do with that relationship. I’d walked the “provoke your parents” path. Dating Gabe had intrigued me, but he was more of a symbol. A way to prove my independence. If my father hadn’t died, if I hadn’t spent the last five years living the life I believed he and my mother had wanted, I’d probably look a lot more like Jimmy—riding a motorcycle, piercings hidden under my clothes.
Bad Boy and I were more similar than I’d realized.
He would need to face what had happened eventually, maybe own some part of the disaster. A mountain we’d climb another day. Our night had been intense enough, and I still had apologizing to do. With my body.
I shifted my hips, a subtle rocking that had him gripping my sides and pulling me closer. He thickened between my legs, and air hissed through his teeth. We lost ourselves in each other. Our fight, my job stress, his family drama, and all he couldn’t face—everything faded, the only tangible feelings being our connection. And desire. And a pinch of ohmyfuckingGod.
Nineteen
Rachel
I was a new woman. Well, not new, new. I still had my wash-and-wear wardrobe. My straight hair hadn’t gained unexpected volume. There was still no career on the horizon. But my hips swayed when I walked, a perma-smile plastered on my face. I was sickeningly happy.
The treadmill pushed me into a slow jog, my arms pumping at my sides. Ainsley and Gwen were finishing their yoga class, and I was humming along to One Direction (because I was twenty-seven going on sixteen), my mind on the man responsible for my current state of bliss, Jimmy Bad Boy Giannopoulos.
It had been two weeks to the day since we’d fought and kissed in the rain and gotten dirty in his shower. Two weeks of (holy hot) sex and (heart melting) talks and (delicious) sleepovers. We flirted openly at the contest sessions now and held hands on the street. The more time we spent together, the more I craved, never questioning my feelings, never caring if I slipped from proper to wild. I hung out with him at Rudy’s Tavern; he picked me up on his motorcycle from the gym. We’d effortlessly slotted into each other’s lives.
“The boy situation, looks like things are good.”
I started at the gruff voice and gripped the handrails. “George. I didn’t notice you.”
911 was on the treadmill beside mine, a common occurrence these days. We’d built a friendship of sorts. I’d berate him for not dieting, and he’d ask me about my “boy.” Never pushing his opinion on me, only passing the time. I had a tendency to overshare. I’d told him about Jimmy’s love of wine and how we could talk for hours or not talk, and how Jimmy surprised me with another picnic last week—that one on my apartment floor, blanket down, fresh pasta made by his strong hands. I didn’t share how my bad boy had pushed up my skirt and used his talented tongue until I was incoherent, but George had become an unlikely confidant.
“What makes you think things are good?” I asked.
He started the machine himself, even using the incline. He increased his speed. “The look in your eyes. That is the look of love.”
I couldn’t fight my giddy smile. “Maybe,” I said, unwilling to analyze the extent of my happiness. I hadn’t even told the girls how hard I’d fallen for Jimmy. My feelings were intense, but something kept me from sharing those three words with him. Fear, maybe, that the second I let it all flood out, it would drown me.
George marched, his focus on the windows in front of us. Pedestrians strolled by. “Nonsense. I may be old, but I know love. Thirty-two years ago today, I married the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Reverence coated his voice, love for his wife evident in his husky tone. “It’s your anniversary, then?”
He nodded, and I slowed my treadmill, matching his speed. Each year on my parents’ anniversary, my father used to book a hotel room. He would buy my mother flowers and treat her to a fancy dinner. She would walk on air for a month afterward. He died a week before their twenty-fifth year. When the hotel emailed to confirm the booking, my mother’s keening could be heard across the city.
I blinked rapidly and steadied my breaths. “What have you planned for the occasion? Flowers? Chocolate? Wine?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I am not an amateur.”
For a grumpy old man, his sweetness was endearing. “What does a professional husband buy his wife to celebrate their love?”
“A weekend away from me.”
I choked on a laugh. “You booked your wife a private getaway for your anniversary?”
Smug, he increased his incline. “Of course.”
He obviously knew the woman. If a pampered weekend alone would make her happy, more power to them. “I’m sure she’ll love the gesture,” I said.
He harrumphed, clearing his throat as though it were lodged with rocks. “I cannot gift her the one thing she wants. It is the next best choice.”
“What does she want?”
He paused briefly. “To reverse time.”
His wife must be one of those obsessive women, fighting age, filling her face with creams and Botox. I caught my reflection in the window, a transparent view of myself. I had my gran’s freckles and her slender build. My straight brown hair was all my father, along with my large eyes. The bend in my nose matched my mother’s, as did my fuller bottom lip. I was a living puzzle, my pieces shaped by my family. Altering even a bit of myself would be unthinkable.
Plus, Jimmy said he couldn’t wait to add laugh lines to my eyes.
As George and I walked in silence, I imagined Jimmy’s reflection next to mine—so different, so rugged. Yesterday, during our contest session, his hotness had distracted me. His hotness always distracted me, but this time I botched the tasting. The basement cellar had felt cavernous, only eight contestants left before the final round next week.
Mr. Master Sommelier was a shoo-in. Jimmy never broke a sweat, the tastings and serving tests like taking candy from a baby for him. I had my money on the Schnozinator for his competition. Although the blond, April, seemed competent, too. She nailed every service exercise, making me feel like I’d sprouted extra thumbs.
The tastings had been my strength, until yesterday. Not just because of how Jimmy’s T-shirt had clung to his biceps. My palate had been off. Glasses of Syrah were lined up before us, a grape I’d always admired. I should have discerned the acidity and earthiness of the old-world wines no problem, noted the fruit-driven qualities of those from Australia and the U.S. Instead the flavors melded, my answers more guesses than fact. It had been worse than my multiple choice psych exam back in college. I’d spent that painful hour circling letters based on the women present, guessing their bra sizes.
Any minute, I expected a termination email in my inbox.
But another impending disaster loomed larger: Jimmy’s meet-and-greet with my mom in a few hours.
My belly churned, the prospect of her horrified face souring my mood further. George and I walked at an even pace, both lost in our thoughts. He grunted in exertion, and I eyed my new friend. He was straightforward and as old-fashioned as they came. Maybe his opinion could prepare me for the worst.
“Can I ask you something, George?” He gave a sharp nod, and I swallowed. “Remember that advice I was after, about approving of your son’s girlfriend?”
His mustache twitched, but he didn’t reply.
“You made your opinion pretty clear. One I don’t agree with, by the way”—I shot him the evil eye—“but I’m taking my boyfriend to meet my mother tonight, and he’s the exact opposite of who she imagined me with.”
“Is there a question?”
I snickered at his snarkiness. “Yes, there is a question. What can I do to soften the blow for my mother? Anything that might help her get past the superficial stuff.”
He continued his soldier march, his paunch practically hitting the machine’s console. “Do you care for this boy?”
“I do,” I said quietly.
“Does he care for you?”
“Yes. I mean, I think he does. He says he does.” A flush crept up my neck, like I was in high school, whispering about a secret crush. “I’ve never felt like this about someone. I’m nervous I’ll mess it up. Worried my mother will scare him off. He’s really special, and he’s estranged from his family. They hurt him badly. So I guess I want my family to love him. Remind him what that’s like. He deserves it.”
My newfound fears lodged in my stomach. I’d gone from being afraid of rocking my familial boat to worried my mother would be so awful Jimmy would have second thoughts. Even if she hated him and couldn’t see past his tough exterior, I’d stand by my man. Shoulders back, head high, I’d prove how happy he made me. Still, the prospect of dealing with her dramatics was daunting. She would never cut me off like his parents—not permanently, at least—but her superpower was just as scary: Maternal Guilt.
Which meant Jimmy could face more parental rejection.
George slowed his treadmill until it stopped. I followed suit, waiting on his wisdom. The man could have nothing but wrinkles to show for his age, but I’d bet each line represented knowledge earned.
“Love is beautiful,” he said. “It is the heart of life. Show your mother your heart, and she will understand.” His eyes were a light blue, clouded with age, a red rim often at the edges. Today they glistened, as though he were choked up. Discussing my love life probably reminded him of his wife.
I also didn’t contradict him and claim I was still waffling in the maybe love column. It would have felt like a lie.
“This man,” he added, “he is lucky to have you, and my wife was right to send me here.” He stepped off his treadmill and patted my arm, a sweet gesture I hadn’t expected.
“Thank you,” I said.
He offered a thin smile and left. I had no idea how his wife sending him to exercise figured into anything, but his touch eased my churning stomach, as did his words.
Until Ainsley bounded over and smacked my butt. “Two hours until D-day. You ready to puke yet?”
I rubbed my backside. “I was doing fine until a second ago. And is that sweat on your forehead? Did you actually work out?”
She rubbed her towel over her face. “Emmett was in the class, behind me, so I had to show him I’m into those stupid breathing exercises, and that I can bend.” She winked.
“Did you ask him out?”
She tossed her towel around her neck and held each end. “Sadly, I did not. He left before I had the chance.”
Gwen snuck up behind her and tugged her ponytail. “He rolled his mat in record time and bolted, to avoid her.”
“Says you,” Ainsley huffed.
“Honestly, you need glasses. Emmett is gay with a capital G, and Ainsley here”—she poked our friend in the side—“is in denial.”
Ainsley scrunched her button nose. “I still think you’re wrong.”
“I am not wrong. Have you seen him eye other dudes? Totally scopes them.”
“Whatever. Gay or not, drooling over him helps pass the time.”
Gwen ran a hand up the back of her neck. “I’ll give you that. Gay, straight, or bi, the man is fine. Speaking of fine men, have you prepped Jimmy for the interrogation he’s about to face?”
The girls knew how to ratchet up my stress levels. “As much as I can.”
“I’d love to be a fly on the wall when your mother sees him,” Ainsley said.
“A video would be awesome.” Gwen’s heartfelt contribution.
“You two suck at pep talks, and if I don’t get home soon, we’ll be late. I need to start this night on the right foot.”
As I pushed past them, Gwen said, “Tell him to wear a tie.”
The image of Jimmy in a tie was ridiculous. And hot. Especially if he were shirtless. I fanned my face.
“Have him wear a cup,” Ainsley added. “Your mother is skilled with her kitchen knife. One look at his tats, and she could ‘accidentally’ circumcise him.”
My cackle exploded, a blast of sound that had all heads swiveling our way. “I’ll keep that in mind.” But my man was circumcised, and if I told them about his jewelry, they’d ask for photos and a life-sized sketch.
* * *
Jimmy threaded our fingers as we neared my mother’s front steps. “I’ve always loved these houses. The Painted Ladies, right?”
I nodded. “My father admired them for years. It was a big deal when he bought it.” The street was quiet, the pastels of the row houses blanching under the setting sun. My father had loved the nickname attributed to the Victorian homes. The day he’d bought our yellow and red slice of real estate, he’d popped a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and offered me my first sip of Champagne. It had tasted like sunshine.
We paused on the top step and Jimmy spun me to face him. “You ready for this?”
With his unshaven face and motorcycle boots, Jimmy was still Jimmy. But his jeans weren’t ripped, and his black T-shirt didn’t have band logos or sayings splashed across the front. He wanted to make a good first impression. The effort swelled my heart.
I shook out my silk tank top, hoping to staunch the gathering sweat. “Ready as I’ll ever be. I mean, it’s not like it’ll change anything, right? You won’t get freaked out and realize my family is nuts and decide you’re not into me and erase my number from your phone and never—”
His lips landed on mine, a deep kiss following. He always kissed me like this. Like I was his oxygen. He nipped my bottom lip. “No matter what, nothing will change. I’m here for you.”
Still, my nerves lingered.
Stanley was the first to greet us. She slammed into my legs and wagged her tail, grinning.
Jimmy sat on his heels and rubbed her cropped sides. “What’s your name?” he cooed as he stroked her. His attractiveness jumped ten notches.
“Stanley,” I said, although she looked like an imposter. She normally had crimped brown fur, like an eighties rock star, all of it a few inches long. My mother must have taken her to the groomers. Aside from her head, the rest of her was clipped so short, her skin shone.
He scratched her ears. “You’re a cute boy, Stanley, even though your haircut is dog ugly.”
Stanley wagged her tail, unconcerned by Jimmy’s insult. “You just told my dog she was a boy and called her ugly. Great first impression.”
He looked up at me, eyebrows raised. “You named your girl dog Stanley?”
On cue, Stanley shoved her nose in Jimmy’s crotch. He grabbed her collar. “Hey, there, Stan. Maybe leave the boys alone.”
Stanley liked what she smelled and dug her nose in farther. Smart puppy. “Did you put bacon in your pants? Because Stanley loves bacon and if you shoved some down there, she’ll be glued to your nuts.”
With one hand, he held Stanley at a distance. His other crept under my gray skirt, between my thighs. “You want to check?”
Did I ever. My passion for Bad Boy had only grown. One look, one touch, and I was one hot flash from mauling him. Unfortunately my mother’s front hall was neither the time nor the place. Especially when she chose that precise moment to greet us.
“Rachel, I didn’t hear you…”
Jimmy yanked his hand from under my skirt and stood. Stanley rubbed against his leg. I nearly fainted. My mother pursed her lips.
“Am I interrupting?” Her eyes danced the length of Jimmy, taking in his tattooed arms. He
r expression soured, as though she’d chugged expired milk. Not a good start.
“Ma, this is Jimmy—my boyfriend. Jimmy, this is my mother, Lydia Kates.”
He dragged his palm down the side of his jeans and stepped forward, extending his hand. “Mrs. Kates, it’s a pleasure.”
Her attention darted from his hand to his face to me, returning for another circuit. Color rose to her cheeks. “It’s lovely to meet you.” She offered him a limp handshake. “Rachel, do you mind helping me in the kitchen? Jimmy can join Mitchell and Cora in the living room.”
The woman didn’t waste time. I pointed Jimmy through the archway. He squeezed my hip as he passed—a gesture of solidarity. A bulletproof vest would have been preferable.
My mother strutted down the hallway, each slap of her ballet flats punctuating her distaste. I followed, steeling my nerves.
She’d renovated the kitchen last year, a project that had kept her occupied. Large windows filtered light onto the new seating area. She’d updated the appliances and had added gray subway tiles, the all-white cabinetry trimmed to match the crown moldings. My father would have loved it.
What he would not have loved was the tension hanging between us.
My mother gripped the center island with one hand. She pressed the back of her other to her forehead, as though she’d sprung a fever. “What was that?”
Before answering, I closed the sliding pocket door to the dining/living area. I crossed my arms and faced her. “What was what?”
“That.” She gestured wildly. “That man. When you said you’d met someone and wanted to bring him home, I was thrilled. Pleased you were moving forward in one area of your life. Then you show up with…him? Does he even have a job? Is he one of those street performers?”
My limbs locked, my teeth clamped so roughly my jaw hurt. “His name is Jimmy, not him, and yes, he has a job. He’s a bartender.”
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 18