My gaze hardens on her. “So what if I do?”
“How old are you anyway? You’re a little young for her, don’t you think?” she snaps.
I shake my arm lose. “What are you saying?”
After a quick glance at the door, she lowers her voice. “What I’m saying is if you decide to pursue her, make sure it’s her you want and not her money.”
My head jerks back like I’ve been slapped.
Jenny locks her arms across her chest and glares at me. “She deserves someone who’s going to be there for her for the long haul. Not that I’m judging you, but she deserves more than some eye candy young enough to be her son with not much to offer other than some hot sex.”
My hands clench, and heat blazes in my cheeks. “That sounds pretty fucking judgmental to me. You don’t know a thing about me. How would you know what I have to offer? That’s not who I am at all. So back the fuck off.”
She’s struck a tender nerve with pinpoint accuracy, drilling straight into my self-esteem issues—the ones created by my asshole father—with her insinuations. The memory I hate comes rushing back.
I’m fifteen again. My father has come home early from a business trip while my mother’s at a gallery opening, and catches me having sex with Angie Doyle in my bedroom. He’s got me pinned by the neck, lying naked on the floor, his knee grinding into my groin as he chokes me. Red hot pain shoots straight from my balls through my body, ripping the breath from my lungs. “Your mother said you got a C in English. Maybe you’ll be good for something after all, you worthless little prick.”
On top of being my most humiliating moment, it was the first time he ever hit me with a closed fist.
Shame and feelings of unworthiness rage in my gut as I remember.
Her face softens, and she looks me up and down. “Let’s hope not. I love my aunt, so don’t hurt her. That’s all I’m saying.” She walks to the driver’s side of her car and gets in.
I yank my door open, toss my backpack onto the floor next to my duffel, and start the engine. Is that how people really see me? As some loser with nothing to offer? An attractive guy only good for a quick lay? Jenny’s words sting. She’s as wrong as my father was, and that pisses me off.
Maybe I shouldn’t come back tomorrow. Maybe it would be better to run. Never see Jillian again.
I’m not some man-whore. But I can’t deny that I need the money . . . or that I enjoyed the feel of Jillian in my arms.
Chapter 8
Jillian
“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?” I ask, rubbing my hands together, unable to hide my smile.
Raine and I sit at my work table, hovering over the pictures from yesterday’s shoot. His jaw hangs slightly open next to me. I know the feeling. It’s exactly the same reaction I had after I laid them out earlier. They blew me away.
That is . . . after I got up the courage to actually look at them. Two full glasses of Cabernet were required to calm my nerves after Raine and Jenny left yesterday afternoon. Determined to push Raine away after I left him in the studio to get Jenny, my plans were undone the moment I landed in his arms at the photo shoot. The sensation of his body against mine was . . . intoxicating. But it’s more than that. If only I could separate the ghost of Drew from my attraction to Raine.
He glances at me with a look of disbelief. “I can’t believe these are all me.”
I touch his arm. “Believe it. The camera loves you. I think you missed your calling.” In the early years when I did fashion photography, I rarely had this much of a yield with a short photo shoot. So much so that I think we’re done.
I plant my elbows on the table and lean forward, trying to take them all in again. I already have too many pictures to choose from: Raine seducing the camera with and without his shirt; side shots that give him an ethereal look; and many that catch a subtle look or feeling.
“This one is fun.” I point to a picture of him laughing with Jenny in his arms.
He chuckles, and gives me a sideways glance. “She told me I looked constipated.”
“She didn’t! Did she?”
“Yeah.” His smile fades momentarily, looking like he’s tasted something unpleasant before he points to another shot, one with me. “If you’re looking for a picture of both your characters, I like this one.”
I blink. Some of the best shots are the few Jenny took of Raine with me. Though she’s done me proud—I put a camera in her hands at ten years old—it’s slightly ego bruising to know her pictures are better than mine. She caught me at my best, and the expressions she’s captured on Raine’s face are breathtaking. They cover the range from tender and loving to downright sensual and hungry. I’m almost afraid to speak. “That’s my favorite,” I say softly.
His gaze finds mine and holds it. “Then you should use that one.”
I shuffle the photos into a stack, and shake my head. “I don’t look anything like Becca.”
He shrugs. “Does it matter? It’s your profile. You could be anyone there.”
He has a point. I glance back at the photo. The way he’s looking at me in the photograph, not to mention the memory of his arms around me and the feel of his body against mine, makes my pulse race. He felt so good, too good—dangerously addictive.
And I’m aware of him now, sitting next to me. I keep reminding myself he’s someone I couldn’t and shouldn’t have, but it doesn’t stop the hunger growing inside of me. Being in the same room as him stirs something within me and makes me feel alive. I notice he’s wearing a scent today that he wasn’t wearing yesterday—fresh and citrusy with a hint of spice. It fits his undeniable masculine presence while providing a hint of vulnerability. I catch his chiseled profile from the corner of my eye. I’d bet he has Nordic roots somewhere in his family tree.
“Do you have the photo files? I can get my laptop and we can have some fun,” he says with sudden eagerness as we hunch over the work table. Then, as if struck by a thought, he turns to me. “Unless you think you need more pictures.”
“Get your laptop. You gave me plenty to choose from.”
Wearing a pleased smile, he slips off the stool and crosses the room.
“Meet me at the table by my desk. It’ll be more comfortable.” I go retrieve my laptop and sit down.
He settles in next to me and fires up his Apple.
“Just choose my Wi-Fi network: Writergirl,” I tell him.
His fingers fly over the keyboard, and his lip curls up. “Cute,” he says, his eyes glued to the screen. “Pick three of your favorites and email them to me. We’ll create some covers.”
“What’s your address?” I ask with my fingers poised over the keys.
“Hot-guy-with-a-brain at Gmail dot com.”
I arch a brow and look at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
He laughs; it warms his features. “Yeah, of course I’m kidding. What tool would actually use that as an email address? No, it’s RMac at Gmail dot com.”
I type it in. “What does that stand for?” I sort through the files, already knowing which pictures I like best. The only problem is there are many more than three. I reluctantly limit my choices and include the one we both like of us.
His fingers stay in motion. “It’s my name. R for Raine, and my nickname, Mac. Short for MacDonald.”
“Scottish? I would’ve guessed you had some Nordic blood in you.”
His lips turn up in a smile. “I’m Swedish on my mother’s side.” He squints and his eyebrows lift. “I see you’re just as creative, JGrant152.”
Sheepishly, I shrug. “I’m creative in other ways.”
“Other than writing, any others that I should know about?”
“Not at this point,” I say, and realize I sound like I’m flirting.
“We’ll see about that,” he murmurs, and continues to stare at his screen. He stops typing and looks at me. “What concepts do you want for the cover beyond the photo?”
I slip into business mode and decide to work this like a session I’d do with
a real cover designer. “Here’s what I’m thinking. The images we’ve taken provide the romantic element, so capturing how Drew feels—or how we think he feels—about Becca is important. Since this is a suspense novel and there’s a dark theme underlying the book, I’d like to reflect the mystery through the color scheme. I’m also thinking since it takes place in an urban setting, maybe use a cityscape in the background.”
Raine nods and his face pinches in concentration. “That’s good. I have some ideas.” He pulls out his phone and sets the alarm. “Give me thirty minutes to work something up. What’s the name of your book?”
“I’m going with Twisted Up in Drew right now. What time do you need to leave for class?” When he texted me earlier to arrange today’s time, he mentioned he had class again tonight.
He presses his lips together and glances at the time on his phone. “In a little over an hour.”
I move to get up. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure, as long as it’s not a bottle of wine. I’d like to save that for when we have more time,” he says. Despite the cocky grin, I see his shoulders stiffen like he’s bracing himself.
A tingle dances down my spine when I hear my offer from yesterday. I get the feeling he’s testing me. “Um . . . that wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. How’s soda, bottled water, or a cup of coffee?”
“Bottled water,” he says and I head for the door.
“Jillian?”
I turn and his face is solemn. “Were you serious yesterday? You know . . . about the wine?”
I wonder how much it cost him to ask. I sense he’s reaching out, hoping I’ll meet him halfway. I see it in his eyes. Indulging in my private fantasies is easier than thinking about stepping across the line into actual reality. For better or for worse, I want to know him better. I don’t want him to walk out my front door an hour from now, never to return.
“Yes.” I duck out to hide my spreading blush.
When I come back, I set the water next to him as he works and peer over his shoulder. He shuts the lid on the laptop. “No peeking until I’m done,” he teases.
I throw my hands up, and blurt a Jenny-ism. “My bad.” Walking over to my desk, I spot the colorful folder.
Crap! I remove the release form and sit down next to him while he continues to tap away.
“I need you to sign this before you go, and I have cash for you.”
He nods but doesn’t look up. “No problem and thanks. I need to buy some books tonight.”
The alarm on his phone chimes. “I’m almost done,” he says and resets it. “Come on. Move your chair over.”
I scoot it around so that I’m sitting right next to him. His thigh brushes mine, sending a warm ripple through me. The subtle scent of his cologne wafts over to greet me.
His screen fills with images—book covers—and I draw in a quick breath. They are stunning. He hits a button, and they queue up so that I can examine them one at a time. The first one has the two of us against a dark-blue color palette and a ghosted image of a city behind us. My name is in big lettering on the bottom, and a caption including my #1 New York Times Best-Selling Author status at the top.
I point at it. “How did you know about this?”
He looks at me like I’m less than smart.
“What?” I ask.
“There’s this little company called Google.”
I smile and give him a gentle elbow in the side.
“Hey, don’t abuse the talent.” He chuckles and flinches away.
My eyes gravitate to his lips. The thought of abusing him would never enter my mind. Kissing him . . . now that was a problem.
He spins me through the rest of the covers he’s designed.
“So, do you like any of them?” he asks. His eyes search mine, wide and blue. Again he gives me the impression he’s preparing for rejection of some kind.
Without thinking, I take his hand and squeeze it. “These are unbelievably good,” I say sincerely. “I love them all. I’d be honored it you’d let me use one of them.”
He shakes his head and smiles. It lights up his face. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
His cell phone chimes again. He lets it ring for a second before he removes his hand from mine and shuts it off. “I gotta go.”
“Okay,” I lean back and reach for the envelope on my desk and hand it to him. “Thanks. You did an amazing job. But I need you to sign the release form.” I feel like a broken record, asking again.
“Let me pack up first.” He takes the envelope and powers down his laptop. “Just a sec.” He heads over to get his backpack, and puts his stuff away including the envelope. He stares at the blank form.
“Do you have a pen?”
I grab one off my desk, and my heart trips in my chest. I’m serious about the bottle of wine, but I don’t feel right taking it further. The thought of not seeing him again guts me. But having this flirtation is silly. I need to move on to real life. Where I can find a man my own age to date and possibly marry.
He fills out the form, except his signature, and stands.
I frown. “You need to sign it.”
He slings his backpack over his shoulder, snatches the release form off the table, and gives me a crooked smile. “I realize that.”
My eyes widen as I imagine him slipping out the door without giving me the right to use his photographs, and my blood pressure rises. “Then why aren’t you signing it?”
His meets my gaze. “Because if I take it with me, I know I’ll see you again. Say you’ll have dinner with me, Jillian.”
My heart nearly stops and my mouth drops open. I’m not sure I know why I’m so shocked other than I never really believed he’d be interested beyond a friendly chat. The look in his eyes tells me there’s desire behind his request, and frankly, I’m stunned.
He tilts his head. “Say something.”
I blink twice and my lips move but no sound comes out. “Yes,” I finally manage to whisper.
A smile spreads across his face. He signs it and tucks the paper into his bag. “I promise to give it to you when I see you for dinner.”
I plant my hands on my hips. “That’s blackmail.”
He winks. “Yes it is. But, I assure you my intentions are good. Besides, you said you were serious about that discussion over a bottle of wine, and from my perspective, I have more to lose.”
“How’s that?” I ask.
“You’ll just have to find out for yourself. In the meantime, I’ll send you all the book covers as an act of good faith.” He heads toward the door. “Hey, I can’t do dinner until early next week, but do you have plans on Saturday night?”
“Actually I do. Why?” He doesn’t need to know it’s a blind date from Matchup.com.
“I’m bartending at The Grasshopper in Morristown, and there’s a good band playing. If you wanted to stop by and say hi, I could leave your name at the door to get you in and buy you a drink.” He shrugs. “If you’re interested. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch.”
Suddenly the gap in our ages feels as wide as the Atlantic Ocean.
My smile feels strained. “If anything changes, I’ll let you know.”
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.
Chapter 9
Jillian
I SHIMMY INTO A flattering black dress and sit down in front of the mirror. Pushing back my hair, I take my earring and thread the gold wire through my earlobe, then repeat the process on the other side. The diamonds sparkle next to my cheeks.
After artfully applying a layer of makeup, I smile, pleased with what I see. My smile wavers when I think about my Matchup.com date. We’re supposed to meet for dinner in Summit at seven-thirty. I pick up the scrap of paper I’ve written a few notes on. Gerald, forty-seven, six feet tall, lawyer, lives in Westfield, likes traveling and mountain biking. On paper he looks fine, but I’m suddenly wishing he was in his twenties with long blond hair.
I can’t stop thinking about Raine. If I’m being honest
with myself, I haven’t stopped thinking about Raine since he left on Thursday. True to his word, he sent all the book covers to me on Thursday night at almost midnight. A blush spreads across my cheeks when I think about my visit to the spa for a bikini wax earlier today. At the last minute, I went for a full Brazilian, and I can’t say it was for Gerald.
I toy with the idea of ending the date early so that I can drop by The Grasshopper. Then I remind myself: although unconfirmed, Raine’s probably half my age.
Picking up the slip of paper again, I do my best to generate some enthusiasm.
My cell phone rings and I glance at the number. It’s Brigitte. I managed to send her my synopsis on Wednesday morning which should satisfy her professionally for a while. I hope this is just a social call, or better yet, about the book cover.
“Hey, B.”
“Good luck tonight! I can’t wait to hear all the details tomorrow,” she gushes. “What are you wearing?”
I gaze into the mirror at the sleeveless, scoop-neck black dress. Enough but not too much of my cleavage is displayed. A nice diamond necklace that matches my earrings lies subtly at my throat.
“The standard uniform.”
“You don’t sound very excited. What’s the matter?”
I release a breath. “Nothing. He sounds nice over the phone, but you know how these things go. The chemistry could be crap when I get there.”
“True, but try to be positive,” She lowers her voice. “Don’t forget to bring condoms in case you decide to go back to his place.”
“B! Come on, really? No. I may write romance novels, but I don’t believe everything I write.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t had real sex since Robert died, either,” she counters.
I roll my eyes. “Define ‘real.’ It wasn’t like Robert and I had a blazing sex life before that anyway. I’m used to my state of deprivation.”
Brigitte clucks at me. “‘Real’ as defined by a man actually being attached to the penis.”
“That’s highly overrated in my opinion. I’d much rather stick to mechanical means if my last two dates are any indication of my alternative.” I think of Raine and flush. He’s the only temptation I’ve run across since I got married.
Caught Up In Raine Page 5