by Wright,Lulu
I take a second to ogle in appreciation—perfectly muscled chest, Ken doll thick legs. Mm, yes please.
Then he turns toward me, and I nearly drop the zucchini in shock.
Fuck balls.
It’s Jack.
He looks so different when he’s not suited up in black wool and a silk tie. Free and in his element, and—shit, is he smiling again? It always throws me off when I see him actually happy-looking. It doesn’t seem to go with his savage haircut and Superman jawline. Yet, it’s somehow even sexier than his scowl (which, I must admit, is pretty hot).
He stops running as I hand the farmer a crisp Lincoln in exchange for my sack of veggies. I hardly even glance at my change, I’m so entranced by Jack’s appearance. He walks in circles to catch his breath, just a few feet from me, and then he darts into a vendor’s booth to buy a bottle of water. Dude drinks it all in one gulp.
“Must have been a hell of a work out,” I say as I saddle up beside him.
His eyes actually light up when he spots me. Like he’s actually pleased to see me. “Hello, Miss Brook.” His formal greeting is softened by his smile.
I’m caught off-guard by the open friendliness. Um, wasn’t it just yesterday he was trying to get rid of me?
Plus, I can’t drag my gaze from his abdomen long enough to concentrate on words. “Why aren’t you working today?” I ask without thinking. Fuck. Will he take that as me being bitchy? Accusing him of slacking?
To be fair, I have done that before.
Yet Jack just sighs. “I already worked 6 days this week.” He taps my arm and then my shopping bag. “What are you doing in the park? I mean, it looks like you’re dressed for yoga but …”
I pull the zucchini out of my bag. “Taking up cooking.”
“That’s quite a specimen.” He raises his eyebrow. “Are you sure you can handle it, Miss Brook?”
I narrow my eyes. “I got a super big knife to slice it up.”
He winces but laughs. “What are you cooking anyway?”
“Ratatouille,” I try to say. But I have no French. I stumble over the pronunciation and say something like Ratat too you ill ee.
“Ratatouille Nicoise?” he asks. “C’est un plat savoureux.”
“You speak French?” Somehow I had not pictured him speaking anything else but English and evil retail owner.
“Mais, Oui,” he says and then spouts out several sentences that for all I know could be Martian.
“Show off.” I laugh.
“Apologies, madame.” He pushes his sunglasses on top of his head and all I see are those green eyes. “I don’t get much opportunity to use my French in men’s basics.”
“Well, there’s always ooh la la.”
He laughs. “There’s that I guess.”
He shakes out his right leg and then his left leg. He grabs his left foot behind his back to stretch his thigh. I should not be staring at his thighs right now, but I don’t look away. “That’s one of my favorite dishes,” he’s saying, though I’m too busy watching him drop his left foot and grab his right. Mm, more thigh action. “Simple, yet delicious. Are you going to add more root vegetable to adjust the recipe for fall? Maybe go the fennel route?”
He might as well have been speaking more French for all I understood. “Er, it was just the first veggie recipe I looked up online. But I’m not the best cook, so it might end up just being Flaming Zucchini.”
“You know, we still need to draw up a solid plan for the floor move before Mr. Hamilton’s visit,” he says out of nowhere.
I bob my head stupidly, as he releases his leg and shakes out his arms. It stretches his ab muscles, and I watch the V cut leading into the tops of his workout shorts in a mesmerized stare. “Uh, yeah. I can draft one and send you the image, or …”
“Or, we could draw it up together. You free now?”
I blink at him for a second, utterly lost. Last I knew, we’d been talking about zucchini and French. Now we’re suddenly discussing work. Does he want me to come in on our day off? I’m lost as to the connection here.
Then he meets my eye with a significant stare. “I live a couple blocks away. We can work on the plans, and I can cook that Ratatouille for you. If you want.”
His hair is sticking to the sides of his face from his sweaty jog. Not to mention his glistening abs. And that smile. Okay, so I am kinda dying right now.
But no, no, no. I should not be alone with him. Not after yesterday, after that almost kiss, and him practically fleeing. Not to mention the hurt expression in his eye.
I don’t trust myself. The desire is too strong. And he’s made it clear he doesn’t want anything to happen here. There will be awful consequences if I bang him—my boss would fire me if she found out, he has a nutty ex-girlfriend who hates me enough already. It’s not worth it.
As I form the words ‘No Thanks’ with my mouth, he takes the pause in conversation as an opportunity to dump the remainder of his waterbottle down his neck. It spills down his perfect chest, the water tracing his muscles down a trail and into his shorts. Without even consciously deciding, I hear my own voice say, “Yes.”
Shit.
He takes my shopping bag off my shoulder and slings it on his back. “Great. This way,” he says and heads towards the river.
Following him like a zombie, I check out his backside. He could have been sculpted out of Greek marble. We are talking museum quality shoulders. I didn’t even know a man’s back could have this many muscles.
My hormones are making all the decisions now, and I’ve given up on resisting.
12
Lily
The doorman of Jack’s building could be mistaken for a 19th century monarch. Gold coils and ribbons hang from his long jacket; his boots are polished and formal. He’s not wearing a hat, it’s a helmet which gives me the urge to salute him. “Sir,” he nods at us and opens the door.
“Thank you, Doug,” Jack says as we duck into the lobby.
Doug. Ha.
With black marble floor, mahogany wall panels and plush red velvet couches, the lobby is the poshest place I have set foot. Massive and cool like a tomb, a chandelier hangs low from the ceiling and bronze abstract sculptures line the walls. I wanna say holy shit, but sense that that kinda language would not match the environment.
I had no idea Hamilton paid their managers so much. Shit, I should seriously consider looking into their executive training program. I live in a walk up above a Chinese takeout place. My hot water is iffy and the heater either makes my small one-bedroom feel like Antarctica or Africa.
A twinge of uneasiness hits my stomach. I don’t belong here.
“Impressive,” I murmur and I know my tone sounds off because I can’t hide the fact I am intimidated.
Jack catches my eye and leans toward me with a conspiratorial grin. “I moved in the day after the market crashed. Don’t tell the other residents though.” He winks.
“Oh.” I feel naked and weird. Desperate for something to do, I reach for the elevator button and our fingers touch. I pull my hand back like I’ve been shocked.
Yet Jack just smiles. “I got it.” He pushes the button without breaking eye contact.
The elevator takes forever to arrive. Nervous, I fold my arms across my chest and then drop them again.
The elevator door slides open and he steps aside to let me in first. When the door closes, we are alone. Just me, Jack, and the post-workout pheromones that I can smell from here, all heated masculine energy. Fuck, he smells amazing. The rise of the elevator tugs me at my core and I feel more naked than he is. I lean back on the elevator wall and jolt at the coolness of it on my skin. My nipples are hard enough to poke through my bra, so I cross my arms higher to cover them.
What am I doing? I should make an excuse to bail and say I forgot about mani pedi appointment or a lunch date. But I don’t want to leave. Trouble is addictive for a reason. There’s so much adrenaline surging through my body right now, you’d think I was about to bungee jump.<
br />
We trade smiles as the elevator doors slide open. Then I really do just gape.
This is the most beautiful apartment I have ever seen in real life. It’s straight out of Architectural Digest or a movie set or my dreams.
The whole apartment is light and airy with blonde wood floors and white furniture. Above the black leather couch, I see an abstract painting of geometric shapes in red, black and white. Its modernity contrasts sharply with the watercolor next to it, a rustic scene with a red barn and horses feeding in the distance. It reminds me of my hometown. I notice the south wall is dominated by a black and white photograph of the Philly skyline, and the windows on the opposite side show the real thing. My eyes dart around to the smatterings of decorative pieces like elaborate hand blown glass and other delicate objets d’art that exist to look pretty and collect dust.
“Admit it,” I finally say when I’ve recovered my voice, “You just moved into an empty art gallery didn’t you? Where’s my free wine and cubed cheese?”
He laughs. “This,” he says waving his hand around. “Is the work of my mother and sister. I like simple things. Clean lines. Japanese design with tons of negative space. But it makes mom happy to decorate my life.”
“So it’s the Gallerie d’Jack,” I reply, in my best imitation of his French accent. It doesn’t sound nearly as good coming from me.
He only grins in response. Then he points to a painting with a sneering clown with sharp teeth on a huge canvas and I blink in confusion. Talk about not fitting in. With uneven brush strokes and out of proportion features, it looks like an insane child painted this portrait. “It’s called Vampire Bozo.”
I want to laugh, but I detect a note of pride in his voice, so I stifle it.
He puts his hand on my back to nudge me closer to the painting. I startle at his touch and hope he doesn’t notice. “See,” he says, pointing to little dabs of pink and orange in the purple eyes. “That’s supposed to represent man’s effect on nature or something. I should have paid more attention when she talked about it.”
“You know the artist?”
He smiles. “My sister. I have three paintings by her. I haven’t put the others up yet.”
“Aw.” I melt a little at the cuteness of him blindly supporting his sister’s rather questionable painting talent. “It’s great that you encourage her.”
He shrugs, still grinning. “What can I say? She’s my sister. And it’s really kind of attractive, once you get used to the scariness.”
I cringe at the thought of his beautiful penthouse being covered in vampire clowns, but keep my poker face tight. I can kind of see what he means. She did a good job with the eyes. They’re definitely going to haunt my nightmares tonight.
Jack waves me deeper into the apartment. “Back here.”
Jack’s kitchen has everything you’d find on a Food Network show. Stainless steel pans hang on the wall and thousands of spoons and spatulas and other thingies I can’t identify decorate the counters. A mortar and pestle sit near the sink as if to declare “Yeah, I totally actually use these.” My Walmart dish set and dollar store steak knives would make this half-naked Adonis scowl in disapproval.
“So, I’m just going to cut up the vegetables and then pop in the shower while they roast. We can talk over the floor move while we eat. Sound good?”
I nod but my eyes fix on his dual zone wine refrigerator. A glass of vino would calm my nerves, but it’s only noon. Heck, it’s five o’clock somewhere.
“Oh,” he says following my eyes. “Let me open a bottle. I have the perfect thing.”
When he opens the doors, I swoon a little. Jack has more wine than France. He grins as he pulls out a few bottles, scrutinizing each label until he finds the right one. “This is a fantastic cheese wine.”
Keeping his eyes on me, he uncorks the bottle with a device that looks like it could have been used for brain surgery one hundred years ago. Then he raises the cork and fondles it in front of my face. “Close your eyes,” he whispers. My heart races as I follow his instructions, and for several seconds I could swear he milks my anxiety, not doing anything. Finally, he waves the cork under my nose. “What do you think?”
“Wow,” is the best word I can find to describe the wonderful aroma. I open my eyes to find him staring at me with an intensity that makes me aware of every sensation at war in my body. The cool of the air in the penthouse clashes with the red-hot desire flooding my veins. I want to shed my clothes, strip as naked as Jack is—and help him out of those shorts to boot. My pulse hammers, so fast he can probably see it fluttering in my neck.
Does he want me too? Or is he just playing a game?
He takes two big glasses out of his cupboard and pours a finger’s worth into one before siding to me. “Taste.” His voice is deep, commanding. I am intimidated by the penthouse, the wine and him. I don’t know how to taste-test wine, but Oprah Winfrey flashes in my head and rescues me from my lack of sophistication. Swirl and sip, I remember.
But I swirl too hard and splash some on my tank top. Jack grabs a dish towel then dabs it on my chest. His hand presses right over my nipple, and his thumb tweaks the hard little nub. Just as goosebumps break out all over me, he drops his hand. “Oh, sorry,” he says, though the little self-satisfied smirk he’s wearing doesn’t seem sorry at all. “I didn’t mean …”
To what? To turn me on?
Lost for words, I take a sip of the wine. My mouth fills with smoky, plum-rich deliciousness. “Wow,” I say again and cringe. I really need to find my old thesaurus from college. I am smarter than this. Alas, the more turned on I am, the more IQ points I lose.
He goes to his Sub Zero fridge and pulls something wrapped in paper. Carefully, he peels back the parchment to reveal a cheese that’s yellowish with blue moldy swirls. I can’t identify it because it’s not American, mozzarella or from a can and I hope he doesn’t quiz me. I watch him slice off a small sliver which he holds to my lips. “Stilton,” he says. My nose crinkles at the terrible smell. “Put it in your mouth.”
Keeping his gaze, I open my trembling mouth to accept the bitter, but delicious cheese. His fingertip brushes my lip as he places the cheese on my tongue. Then he puts the wine glass to my lips and tilts it, spilling wine into my mouth which opens up the flavor of the Stilton. “You like that.” It doesn’t sound like a question, so I don’t answer. I do lift my hand to catch his, where he’s still pressing the wine glass to my mouth.
He drops his arm and turns away before I can return the favor. Then, without another word, he pulls the vegetables out of my bag and starts washing them. I perch on a high chair at the breakfast bar across from him and indulge in his gorgeous bod and wonder where this is going to lead. My lip still tingles from the contact with his finger. My heart hasn’t recovered from him making me close my eyes earlier, either.
As he works, I think that there must be a webcam market for handsome half naked men slicing up zucchini. Jack works his knives like an artist works a brush. The muscles on his arms and back and chest expand and contact with his movements and I fidget in my seat.
Not to mention I get a good look at his tattoo now that we’re up close and personal. It’s a skull and crossbones, not very big, but badass. Jack Stewart is the last person I would expect to have a pirate tat. I want to ask about it, but he turns to dump the veggies into a colander, and I’m distracted again by the flow of his muscles. The wine is starting to hit me with a nice bolt of warmth in my chest. It calms me, but amplifies my arousal. “You really know a lot about cooking,” I say.
He shrugs. “I love cooking. It’s the one place in my life where I can get creative.”
“Your sister got all the artistic genes, huh?”
He tilts his head at me, the look on his face is a little dreamy, a little lost. “Guess so. But between college and my MBA and now this job … I don’t know. I needed some kind of creative outlet.”
“I get that,” I say.
He smirks at me. “Besides stuffing und
erwear on mannequins with shopping bags?”
“Yes,” I scoff. “Besides that.”
“What then? Tell me.”
I squeeze my eyes tight. “Nothing.”
“Oh, so it was the mannequin thing.” Dammit, now he’s really laughing.
I scowl at him. “It is not.”
“Well if you won’t say …”
“It’s personal,” I protest.
“Shouldn’t have mentioned it if you didn’t want me to ask.” He winks.
“Maybe I just like teasing.”
“Maybe you should try following through sometime.” Suddenly he’s closer than I remember. He lifts his fingers to graze my cheek, as he tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “Come on. You can tell me. I won’t laugh.” His smile is sincere and warm and it makes me feel safe.
So I take a deep breath and go for it. “I write Harry Potter fan fiction online.”
He presses his lips together. Those dimples show up, loud and clear. “Harry …” he tries to say, but his laughter explodes. It isn’t regular haha laughter but a full belly laugh so forceful he has to rest a hand on the counter to steady himself.
“It’s not that hysterical,” I huff, pushing off of the stool to march away from him. “Plenty of people write fanfic.”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry.” He’s still laughing. “I’m sorry. But … Is it like Draco Malfoy making passionate love to Professor Minerva McGonagall or …”
I groan and rub my temple. I can’t believe I trusted Jack of all people. “Ugh, forget it.”
“Rather hard to forget.”
“You said you wouldn’t laugh!” I scowl. I’ve never told anyone about that writing, not even Ricky. Now I want to curl up in a ball and die. Or maybe kill Jack instead. His damn fault. I start to storm toward the hallway, but Jack catches my hand and squeezes it gently.
“Look, I am really sorry.” He lifts my chin until I’m forced to meet his eye. “Seriously. Sorry.” His voice is quiet, his face so close to mine. “I have a confession too, OK?”