by Lindsey Hart
She studied herself there, the features that she knew so well. The wide, cerulean blue eyes. The honeyed, brown hair that spilled over her shoulders, a darker color when it was wet. Thick eyelashes, full lips, high cheekbones.
Her mom once told her, when she was fourteen, that she’d never make a good wife. That she was wild and flighty and couldn’t settle down into anything. That she was just like her.
She’d taken it to heart, even though it was said as a joke, a compliment even. Her mom wanted her to realize that being a strong, independent woman was okay. Fast forward nearly two decades and the joke wasn’t funny at all. She’d stayed at a job she hated for the past ten years, just to prove she could. She didn’t bother with advancing up the corporate ladder, because she didn’t really give a shit about it. And now her mom, her mom, was overjoyed at the prospect of her getting engaged and producing grandbabies, of being less independent.
Sydney gave her head a shake. “Not going to happen,” she muttered under her breath. “Stay strong, Syd. It’s only for three days.”
Three days of hell.
Three more days to haunt her for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER 11
Jesse
“How was your shower?” he couldn’t resist asking, even though judging by Syd’s flushed cheeks and her sparkling eyes, she felt a lot better.
“Good.” She cocked a brow as she strode into the kitchen. “But then again, you should know. You probably have cameras set up in there, watching me like a perv.”
“Cameras?” He laughed. “No way. That’s a lot of trouble to go to when it’s not anything I haven’t seen before.”
He watched the burn creep up her neck and flood her cheeks with more than a little satisfaction. Two could play at being an asshole, that was for sure.
Never one to admit defeat, Sydney swallowed hard. “It was just a shower. Why so fancy? Who needs more than one showerhead? And three sinks. That’s just excessive.”
He shrugged, expecting her to find fault with as much as possible. “Maybe. My parents picked it out. I wanted to buy them a new house, now that I have the money to do it, but they flat out refused. They’re still living in the same house we grew up in. I made them a deal. Told them since they’re retired now, that they can live in their house until I’m done with this one and then they can have it. I plan to have it good and broke in by then so that they don’t feel bad about taking me up on my offer.”
Syd swallowed hard and glanced around the kitchen. “All of it’s a bit much for someone who wants to save the world. Why didn’t you just choose something normal and donate the rest of the money that you obviously spent on this place to charity, if you care so much.”
Jesse didn’t miss a beat. He went right on putting the finishing touches on their dinner, pretty much the only thing he could make- chicken alfredo with steamed green beans. His hands flew over the plates, sprinkling lemon pepper seasoning onto the beans and grating cheese onto the pasta.
He was well aware that Syd’s eyes were burning into him, watching every single movement. She wouldn’t be watching if she didn’t give a shit, he reasoned. That line creasing her brow and the slight pout at her lips wasn’t just because she said she didn’t want to be there. She cared. He knew she did. He just had to wear away at the walls she’d built up around herself, find a chink in her armor.
“I thought about it,” he confessed. “It was a good investment. I can make more money in equity than I could just by donating it straight off. I’m trying to make a difference in other ways. If my parents don’t want the house in a few years, I’ll sell it and donate the equity.”
“Jesus,” Syd grumbled as she pulled out a bar stool at the massive island. He’d set the table in the open dining area beside that, with massive windows overlooking a huge yard and a manmade lake beyond that, with place settings, but she pointedly ignored it. He’d even lit a candle. Yeah. Wishful thinking. “Is there a single part of you that isn’t ridiculously good?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He tried very hard not to look at her wearing his t-shirt and sweats, or how they were way too big on her. How the shirt sucked in when she sat down, tugged tight across her beautiful, perky breasts. He concentrated instead, on how her hair was frizzy at the top, but even that was cute.
Damn it! A grown man thinking frizz is cute? Get a grip here.
He had it bad and he knew it. Unlike her, he wasn’t above admitting it.
When he set her plate in front of her, she started at the food like there was a good chance he’d poisoned it. Her stomach growled, loudly, betraying her. She picked up the fork he set in front of her and toyed with it as he took a seat a few feet away from her, far enough to give her space, but not quite far enough that she was comfortable with it.
“You probably had this delivered. It looks too good to be anything you made. You were always a terrible cook. You just about burned your parent’s house down twice making macaroni. The second time it was eggs. Easy things that no one should ever, ever, light on fire.”
“I might not have cameras in the bathrooms, but I do have security footage outside. I swear, I made it. You can review the tapes if you like.”
Sydney’s nose wrinkled adorably when she frowned. It was so like the old Syd, to literally turn her nose up at him, that he nearly laughed. Instead, he picked up his fork and dug into his food.
“You probably had your Jeeves butler dude fly it in on your private jet, land on the roof, and lower it down on ropes into the kitchen, spy style, just to evade any and all cameras you might have at ground level.”
He couldn’t hold back his laugh. “That’s a lot of work to go to. And I don’t have a landing pad. Not one you could put a jet on. Not even a helicopter.”
“How disappointing. You should have got it included with the house.”
“I don’t know how nice you think this is, but I can promise you, this isn’t the neighborhood where people are in the market for that kind of luxury.”
“Still. Should have got it thrown in. Or built it. The house looks brand new.”
“Someone built it and decided to sell. My parents picked it, like I said. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Eat your food. I can tell you’re starving, now that the shower washed away your hangover and the last of your bad intentions.”
“B-bad intentions?” she spluttered.
“Yeah. You obviously didn’t have good intentions in mind, drunk or not, when you put that message out there. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Just eat before all my effort to impress you goes to waste.”
“Impress me?”
“Of course. I’m going to pull out all the stops over the next couple of days.”
“I said we couldn’t go out. Maybe I should have said you couldn’t have anything snuck in either.”
“I don’t need anything snuck in. I have all the skills I need right here.” He waved his hands in the air and grinned.
Syd took that how she took it and ducked her head quickly, her cheeks painted scarlet. She began to literally shovel food into her mouth like if she ate everything in two and a half seconds flat, it would somehow miraculously save her from his obvious nefarious intentions.
“Did you think about me when you were showering?”
Sydney’s fork clattered to her plate. She turned to him, wide-eyed, horrified. “What?” she gasped. “Did I- think of you? In what way?”
“No way in particular. Just that I thought you might have done some thinking about what we’re going to do trapped in here for the next few days. How it could be… fun.”
“No. No, it’s not going to be fun.” She shook her head madly, but he didn’t miss the way her eyes shadowed, and her eyelids dipped just a little. Or the way she bit down on her bottom lip and her breathing changed cadence, coming harder, faster.
He was right. A thrill of triumphant elation shot through him. She was definitely into it. Some part of her remembered that night. Some part of her ran because she was scared that she’d enjoyed
it, and some part of her meant it when she’d put that message out there for him. Just how much of her wanted it, wanted him, he wasn’t sure.
He finally shut his mouth and Sydney devoured her food. Judging by the look of elation on her face, he hadn’t messed up, even with the sauce. He thought that he might have added a little too much butter, maybe too much cream, that it was too rich, so he’d tried to balance it out with pepper and then he was worried that it would be too spicy, but Sydney seemed to think it was just right. Or maybe she was just starved. Period.
Either way, she sat back with a sigh when she was finished. He’d beat her in the eating race, so he cleared away their dishes, placing them in the sink.
“Do you still like your pie with whipped cream?”
Syd’s eyes went wide. Her top teeth sunk deep into her bottom lip and he could tell she was debating about whether she wanted to answer him or not like it was some kind of trick question.
“Y-you made pie too?” she stammered, disbelief edging her tone. “Seriously. You? The guy who burns macaroni so badly that it catches on fire?”
“First of all, to be completely fair here, you were distracting me. We were playing poker if I remember correctly, or at least you thought you knew how and you were trying to teach me. I was trying really hard to figure out what in the actual hell you were talking about because I was pretty sure poker wasn’t supposed to be played that way and then, we started smelling this smell. I didn’t realize that the macaroni had boiled dry and I just thought that maybe some water splashed out on the burner, and it was like two point five seconds after that when you got up and ran into the kitchen and said the pot was on fire.”
“Good thing one of us had a brain.”
“Good thing,” he capitulated easily. “Though you were a shit poker player. For real.”
“I’ll have you know that I’m an excellent poker player. I go out with friends sometimes and play and I actually win money.”
“What? Like one night out of a hundred?”
“Fuck you, Jesse.”
The way she said his name filled up the kitchen. It was oddly gentle and somehow intimate attached to the first two words preceding it.
“Sure,” he winked at her and watched her face go adorably scarlet. “Now, about that whipped cream.”
“Yes. Yes, I still love whipped cream with my pie.” The blush never faded, and Syd dropped her eyes to her hands, which were clutched so tightly in her lap it looked like she’d just shed years of doubt and become suddenly and ridiculous devout. “What kind of pie? It’s probably some sick combination like strawberry rhubarb. Rhubarb. Like whoever puts that stuff in shit should be shot. Whoever invented it should be shot.”
“I’m pretty sure that would be… uh- mother nature?”
A small smile tugged at Syd’s lips and his cock responded to it like it was her hand doing the smiling. Like… wrapped around his cock.
He gave his head a shake as he opened the huge door of the industrial-looking stainless-steel fridge. It really was overkill. And mostly empty, since the bastard could house enough food to literally feed fifty people.
He produced a can of whipped cream and a box of pie, obviously purchased from the store.
Syd let out a squeal as soon as she saw it. “Seriously? You said you made it.”
“I actually didn’t say anything about making it. You were the one who made the assumption. And by the way, I like rhubarb.”
“I know,” Sydney shuddered. “Your mom used to grow it in her backyard right at the end of the garden, where everyone could see that huge abomination. You used to go and pick it and break the leaf off and eat the stem raw.”
“I did dip it in a bowl of sugar. I liked it. I still do. What’s wrong with your teeth and tongue fuzzing up a little? It’s no worse than eating a granny smith apple.”
“Also, an abomination, unless dipped in caramel and nuts with a stick shoved up its ass.”
Jesse set the pie and the can of whipped cream down on the counter. “Do apples actually have an asshole?”
“Yeah. Of course. It’s that little weird crusty flowery looking circle thing at the bottom.”
He slid the pie out of the box, which just happened to be peach. It did say that it was made in the store’s bakery, on-site, so that should count for something. Was it really store bought then or did that come down more on the side of homemade?
“Pretty sure that’s not an asshole.”
“It’s definitely an asshole.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“Would you eat it?”
His eyes flicked up and too late, Syd realized what she’d just said. She dropped her eyes to the can of whipped cream. “I see you splurged,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Got the really good expensive stuff.”
“I figured you still liked to eat it straight out of the can. Do your bite of pie, full mouth of whipped cream routine. I always loved watching you do that.”
“You don’t even like whipped cream.”
“No. Still can’t stand it, even the homemade stuff. I think it ruins pie.”
“Just like I hate rhubarb and apple assholes.”
“Pretty much.” He raised a brow. “So… you want the can, or should I squirt it on top?”
Syd grinned. It pretty much split her face in two. And stopped his heart. One second it was pounding away in his chest, ba-bam, ba-bam, ba-bam and the next second, apparently, he was in cardiac arrest because there was no beating going on at all. Like- zero. His hand curled over the can and what do you know? Maybe he wasn’t in danger of dying- at least as long as Syd didn’t mention eating assholes again- because his heart slammed back into action so hard that it hurt.
“Pass that can over here.”
He slid it across the counter, towards Syd’s waiting fingers. They curled around it, perfect and dainty, with blunt square nails, trimmed short like she used to keep them because she hated getting dirt underneath. They weren’t fake and they weren’t polished since Syd literally hated anyone touching her hands and her feet and despised salons. She hated the fussiness of nail polish and never wore it. He was glad to see that hadn’t changed.
“Thanks.”
While he cut into the pie, which looked and smelled amazing, Syd shook up the can of whipped cream. He slid her plate over a minute later. She cracked the seal on the whipped cream, and just for old times’ sakes, bit off a piece of the pie, scraping her teeth along the fork because she knew he hated it. She shook up the can and pointed it at her mouth.
Something must have malfunctioned or maybe she shook the can too enthusiastically, with more strength and force than she realized contained in her small hands because when she pressed the top, the whole thing detonated.
Straight into her face.
CHAPTER 12
Sydney
Holy mother loving fuck me with a kettle. What the hell just happened?
Sydney’s life divided into two parts. Before whipped cream explosion and after whipped cream explosion.
Because it wasn’t just like the can shot out a little stream or even a big stream. Hell no. The whole thing literally burst, like the entire thing, all over her face.
She was pretty sure, even though she couldn’t see it, that it looked like she’d decided to give herself a new face mask. She let out a cautious sounding scream, not too late or overdramatic, and reached up to swipe at her hair. Yup. It was up there too.
She swiped at her eyes frantically, trying to clear the white sticky goo off them, then out of nowhere, something fluffy was pressed into her hand. A towel.
“Holy farfinugan. Just sit there. Let me get you a wet cloth.”
“Don’t take a picture of this,” she pleaded. “And you better not have security cameras in the kitchen recording this, because if any of this footage leaks, I will never forgive you.”
“Look on the bright side. You could get internet famous. You do look pretty funny.”
“I’ll kill you, Jesse.”
<
br /> His deep chuckle filled up the kitchen and holy shit… that laugh hit her in all the wrong places. Unguarded places, where she had no business feeling it. His steps echoed on the kitchen floor as she waited. The whipped cream was that stupid aerosol kind and it wasn’t even melting off her face like the homemade stuff would have.
She reached out blindly when the footsteps came near, expecting to wrap her fingers around a wet cloth, but instead, they landed on something hard. And warm. Yikes!
She pulled her hand back like she’d just put it into a tank filled with angry scorpions and prickly cactuses, like- a torture tank meant to induce the worst finger nightmares ever.
“That wasn’t the cloth,” she moaned. God, could it get any worse?
“Definitely not the cloth,” Jesse agreed.
“Please tell me that was above the belt.”
“It was. Barely. Lucky for you.”
“Lucky for you too.”
“That’s debatable.”
Something warm and wet and squishy was placed into her outstretched hand. She unfolded the cloth and brought it up to her face, attacking her forehead first. Holy crap, there was a lot of whipped cream up there. Enough to fill up the cloth with a few passes.
“When did you start going to the gym? I thought you hated all that.”
“Who says I go to the gym?” Jesse’s voice was dark and rich, and way, way too close. Was he leaning in? Getting a kick out of all of it? Filming her frantic swipes at her gooey forehead with his phone?
“I- you- I just…” She realized how stupid that statement was and cursed herself for blurting out the first thing that came to mind. As usual. She’d never really developed that whole skill set of having a filter. “I felt abs. You never really had abs. I remember in gym class on the fitness test you could do, like, three sit-ups.”