“You know what your problem is, Jake? You’ve never had to clean up after yourself.” She pointed at the basket, which spilled out a cornucopia of cheeses Ryan couldn’t pronounce and probably would never eat. “Even the twins have to help me put their toys away when they’re done with them. Pick it up and carry it to the car.”
“But that’s why I got us a chauffeur. So we could walk instead of washing dishes.”
Amy turned to Ryan, sure he’d be on her side for this. Honestly—Jake expected everyone to do exactly what he wanted, just because he wanted it. He said stop, and the world held itself suspended to see what happened next. He said jump, and all women under the age of forty pulled out their trampolines and best bikinis before asking how high. “Ryan, please explain to my date how, in the real world, we pick up after ourselves. We vacuum our carpets and wash our socks and live to tell the tale.”
“Don’t look at me. I have a housekeeper. She comes once a week.”
Amy’s mouth fell open just as Jake barked with laughter. “See?” Jake said. “Even the help has help.”
“I’m sure he does his own dishes.”
“Nope,” Ryan interjected easily. “He exists almost entirely on takeout and Pop-Tarts. There’s never so much as a dirty fork in the place.”
“Laundry?”
“Biweekly delivery service.”
She caught the glint in his eye and bit her lip to keep from giggling and losing what remained of her moral high ground. Ryan was being obtuse on purpose—she’d seen several dirty forks in his sink, along with an impressive collection of cooking pots. “He washes his own car at least.”
Ryan tilted his head in acknowledgment of her blow. “She has me there. My hands are work-worn from all the bubbles. I’ll never model again.”
“Fine.” Jake looked back and forth between Amy and Ryan, his glance sharp. “The chauffeur can go for our romantic sunset walk. You and I will clean up.”
“Excellent.” She clapped her hands, much as she did when Lily and Evan managed to make it to the bathroom in time. Her triumph felt similar too. For all Jake was a gorgeous scrap of a man who knew his way around a good Prosecco, he had quite a bit of growing up to do. It was starting to seem as though there was yet one more Montgomery for her to rear. “You pack up the remaining food. I’ll clean the plates off.”
With a wide-eyed nudge at Ryan, she ushered him in the direction of the river. Even though she didn’t mind having Ryan around—enjoyed his company much more than was good for her, in fact—Jake wasn’t going to be the least bit pliable if he felt he needed to perform in front of the chauffeur. He was too used to putting on an act, playing for an audience.
And she would know. She’d watched his sex tapes—all twelve of them. The man knew how to work a camera angle as if he’d been born in the spotlight.
“Should we stop by the soup kitchen with all our leftovers on the way home?” Jake asked as he wrapped up a huge wheel of Brie they’d barely had a chance to dent. “Maybe volunteer to serve dinner while we’re there?”
“I’m surprised you even know what a soup kitchen is.”
He looked up, a flash of dark emotion crossing his face so quickly she might have imagined it. “Oh, you know how it is. I saw it in a Dickens production once. Don’t forget I used to date that Broadway actress.”
“You assume I follow your personal life that closely?” Sex tape number nine. Brunette. Incredible vocal range. The internet was a dangerous playground, and she knew all the best hiding spots. “I do have a life outside the Montgomerys. I wasn’t just sitting around all that time I was gone, pining for home.”
“Ah, yes. How could I forget? Dancing.”
She bit her lip and looked away, sure he could see the lie on her face. Technically, there had been dancing. And costumes. And a rapt audience. Some days, there had even been lines hours’ long to see her perform. But not in the way everyone believed.
She mumbled an incoherent sound that could have been taken either as a confirmation or the onset of pneumonia.
It must have worked, because Jake gave up the pretense of industriousness and lifted a hand to her neck. As her hair was swirled up in a semi-fancy knot, all that separated the softness of his palm and her heat-flushed skin were a few wispy strands.
“In all that time, I never did date a dancer.” His grip on her neck tightened, and he brought his face closer. No—his lips. He was bringing his lips closer. “I’m dying to know, Amy. Just how flexible are you?”
She shoved him backward, but he didn’t lose the smile that lingered on his face and in his eyes. “Come on. Just a little hint. Are we talking splits here? One leg behind the head? Both legs behind the head?”
“Don’t be gross.”
He pretended to be hurt, his lips in a pout. “The female body is never gross. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“All human bodies are gross.” She wasn’t falling for this schmooze. Not from Jake. If this were an ordinary first date with an ordinary man—say, with Ryan, whose head could be seen bobbing in the distance—she’d have played along for the sake of romance. Cooed a little. Flirted back.
Oh, yes. If Ryan wanted to schmooze her, she’d lie back and patiently await his ministrations.
“I respectfully disagree.”
“You don’t do anything respectfully.” She reluctantly turned her attention back to Jake. “And the things that come out of a woman’s body are just as disgusting as what comes out of a man’s. Even more so if you count childbirth. Have you ever seen pictures of a mucus plug? Can you even imagine what something called a mucus plug looks like?”
Jake crossed his fingers as if staving off a vampire and backed away. Even in retreat he moved gracefully, the perfect breaks in his slacks folding over each foot like origami. “You wouldn’t dare. Don’t sully the majesty of the vagina with your cruel and mocking words.”
She whipped out her phone and did a quick image search. When she found the most grotesque picture she could find, she let out a triumphant laugh and texted it to him. A cheerful chime rose up into the darkening sky, indicating her success.
But Jake just pulled his expensive-looking phone from his pocket, dropped it to the dirt and crushed it under his heel.
“You’re so dramatic sometimes.” She pointed at the mess. “And now you have to pick that up too. You can’t leave broken shards of glass and plastic for the birds. They’ll build nests with them and accidentally stab their young.”
Jake looked as though he wanted to say more, but something about the firm set of her mouth must have convinced him she was serious. She set about finishing her share of the cleanup, uncertain whether or not she should say more. This wasn’t how the evening had unfolded itself in her head. She liked Jake. Heck—she probably loved him if you took into account all those years of childhood friendship and adolescent adoration and unfortunately recent Google stalking.
She’d thought that in coming out here tonight, they could chat about old times and slip back into the friendship that had once been the center of her world. Perhaps they could share a few inside jokes. Maybe they could even walk along the river while she outlined all the ways he might begin redeeming himself.
Not this. Not this slightly oily seduction routine she suspected had seen quite a bit of use in its day. Watching Jake grumble as he picked up his broken thousand-dollar phone was the most real he’d been all evening.
He straightened and stabbed a finger at their now-reassembled picnic. “Am I also supposed to carry that back for us, your majesty?”
“Well, if you don’t think you’re strong enough, I can always call the strapping young chauffeur back to do it for us.”
“He’s hardly strapping.”
“Have you seen his arms? They’re like cannons. Every time he’s around I feel like I just won front-row tickets to t
he gun show.” This sally, said only to provoke Jake, struck her as being rather true. She wouldn’t go so far as to say she’d ogled Ryan’s arms, but the man clearly had a bit of strength in him. It was probably all those lug nuts he yanked around.
“Do you want me to challenge him to a fistfight? Is that it?”
Amy tilted her head and gave the question serious consideration. In theory, she found the concept of two men fighting for fun to be rather grotesque. There was nothing entertaining about purposefully hurting another human being, and shattered teeth weren’t her favorite male attribute.
But in practice? She had to admit the idea wasn’t without merit. There was something about those hard bodies tossed into a cage together, sweating and heaving as they sought handholds in unlikely places, that burned slow and steady in her veins.
She could almost see it now. Jake would fight with his wits, parrying quickly, toying with his opponent. Ryan would barrel in, head down and fully swinging. It would be brutal and bloody and brilliant.
“If I said yes, would you promise to fight him over in that mudpit?” She pointed toward the river’s edge. “Stripped to the waist? Because that would be awesome.”
Jake just shook his head and reached for the picnic basket. “And you thought I was gross for asking how flexible you are.”
* * *
Ryan trailed Jake and Amy from a distance, giving them a chance to load up the town car before he rejoined them. He’d heard the sounds of their argument and wouldn’t have interrupted on a dare. It seemed the longer they were alone, the more they descended into adolescence.
Although he was relieved to discover that fact—elated, really—he couldn’t understand it. Amy had to be the nicest, most easygoing woman on the face of the planet. Picking a fight with her would take all of his concentration—and even then, it wasn’t a sure thing. All she’d have to do was smile, and he’d be lost. A man couldn’t argue with the sun.
“Well, you two?” There was a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before, and he did nothing to stifle it. “Are we ready to move out?”
Both of them looked up as he approached, and both of them seemed to focus on his arms—Amy with a laugh and admiration in her eyes, Jake like a man who might want to put those arms on a spit and eat them for dinner. Ryan tried not to let either one of them unsettle him, though Amy was in a fair way to accomplishing it. Her admiration was a heady thing. He could show her a thing or two he wanted to do to her with these arms.
“I hope you enjoyed your walk,” she said politely as she opened her door and slid in. Ryan made a motion to get Jake’s door, but the man seemed to finally realize the futility of being formal around a woman like Amy.
With a skip and a whistle, Ryan made his way to the driver’s seat. He almost wished he’d gone for the hat after all, as it was an ideal time to cock it at a jaunty angle and assert his victory. Unfortunately, Jake didn’t seem to recognize Ryan’s superiority. He just tapped on the front seat and asked him to take the long way home.
“The long way?” They were in the middle of nowhere, a Connecticut outpost he was pretty sure was private property that didn’t belong to the Montgomerys, miles from any road with an actual speed limit posted. They were already on the long way.
Taking his bewilderment as an assent, Jake slapped the leather seat twice and leaned back to place a not-so-subtle arm along the back of Amy’s seat. At least this time she’d chosen to sit all the way to the right. Ryan would take what satisfaction he could from that.
“You can stop sulking now,” Amy commanded, her voice carrying easily up to the front as Ryan pulled onto the road. “I’m sorry I spoiled your picnic with good manners, but I had a lovely time.”
“Do you realize I’ve picnicked with princesses on top of the Eiffel Tower?”
“How very Disney of you. Wasn’t it windy up there?”
“You’re missing the point.” From Ryan’s glance in the rearview mirror, he could see Jake’s hand snaking closer to Amy’s shoulder. He could also see that she didn’t move away. “I can do better than this. You threw me off my regular technique. I wasn’t expecting you to be so...”
“Right?” Amy almost felt bad for Jake. The poor man wasn’t used to being wrong when it came to women, had no framework for what to do when the things he wanted didn’t fall at his feet. Not at all like Ryan, whose scars spoke of a long, hard path where elbow grease and spit polish were simply a way of life.
Mmm. No man should overlook the inherent advantages of spit polish.
“The problem isn’t that you’re right.” Jake leaned in and interrupted her reverie. The hand he’d not-very-cleverly placed over the back of her seat drooped low, his fingers grazing the bare skin of her shoulder. She shivered at the light touch, at the deft hand darting lower. “It’s that you’re irresistible. You were supposed to grow up to be a lot of things, Little Amy Sanders, but irresistible wasn’t one of them.”
He was going to kiss her. She knew it. She felt it all the way down to her toes, which weren’t very romantic, as years of wearing pointe shoes had rendered her feet into grotesquely misshapen and wickedly strong beasts. Common sense warned her to pull away, and she knew the backseat of Ryan’s car was neither the time nor the place for this to happen, but instinct took over and reminded her that it had been a long time since anyone showed an interest in kissing her. One peck wouldn’t hurt things. A light graze, a press of lips, a taste of Jake’s powers, maybe a little jealousy up there in the front seat...
All of a sudden, Jake was on top of her.
She screamed, that much she would remember later. She screamed and bit down on her own lip so hard she made it bleed and flailed against Jake’s limbs as she struggled to get out from underneath him.
“What the—?” Jake struggled too, and for one panicked moment she thought he was going to hit her. But then the car came to a stop and she realized they were tilted at an angle, her window half-covered with the long wispy grass that banked the side of the road.
“Are you okay?” Ryan materialized as if out of nowhere, his face hovering anxiously over her own. She realized, through the fog of confusion, that he had crawled halfway into the backseat and was tugging anxiously on her seat belt. Next to her, Jake also struggled to right himself. “Amy? Are you hurt? What day of the week is it?”
“I’m fine.” She waved Ryan off and got herself unbuckled. The taste of blood—metallic and sharp—rushed over her tongue, and she lifted the back of her hand to her mouth. It came away streaked with red. “Mostly fine. I hurt my lip.”
Ryan didn’t move, and a look of intense concern clouded his eyes, adding to the turbulent gray color that was always so difficult to read. Worry painted him in strong, handsome angles, and she found herself momentarily awed by the sight.
“What day of the week is it?” he repeated.
“Sunday.” When Ryan’s eyes flashed again, her floundering feeling only increased. “No, it’s Friday. Sorry. I get all flustered when I’m on the spot like that. I’ve always been terrible at tests.”
“Don’t worry.” Jake leaned in, joining them in a trio of too-close faces and breaking whatever spell Ryan had been weaving. “I’m also fine. But what the hell just happened?”
As it was clear a car accident had sent them flying into the ditch, there was no need to elaborate from there. Ryan and Jake got out of the car easily, as their half was tilted upward, and Jake remembered only at the last minute to extend a hand to help her across the backseat.
They surveyed the damage with varied levels of interest. Amy, whose car could have taken a sledgehammer to the hood and been none the worse for wear, couldn’t see anything to get worked up about, but Ryan and Jake took one look at the broken headlight and crumpled hood and shared a manly cringe.
“It’s not that bad,” Amy said, trying to lighten the mood. She tilted her he
ad. “If I squint, I can’t even see the dent.”
“Dents,” Ryan said quietly. “Plural.”
“I hate to say it, Ryan, but you’re done for.” Jake shook his head and moved closer to her side. The non-bloody side, of course. Jake’s reputation for profligacy was second only to his reputation for fastidiousness. Her lip was already beginning to feel fat and puffy in addition to split open. “Dad barely forgave me for a scratch on the door, and I’m his flesh and blood.”
Amy waited for Jake to say something more, but he merely let out a low whistle and kicked the tire. What that was supposed to accomplish, she had no idea. But people were always doing it in the movies, so she kicked too.
“Sorry,” she said when Ryan cast an enquiring look her way. “It seemed to sum the situation up quite nicely.”
“Damn straight.” Ryan gave the tire his own kick—his firmer and with an angry zing to it. That zing worried her. Surely a chauffeur who sat behind the wheel six days out of the week was allowed an accident or two? Wasn’t that what insurance was for?
“Let’s tell him I did it,” she said quickly. “Let’s tell him I saw something swooping toward the window and screamed. A bird. Or a flying squirrel. That sounds exactly like something I’d do.”
“What did cause you to lose control?” Jake asked, looking askance at the pair of them. “I’ve seen your work before. You did an insane sliding parallel park in that art thief/con woman heist movie a few years ago. I don’t see how a backwoods turn could do you in.”
“Did you really do that?” Amy ran through the list of movies she knew Ryan had been a stunt driver for, but she couldn’t remember that one. Action movies weren’t really her thing, so she’d seen only a handful of them. She needed to start visiting the rental kiosk more often. “Could you do it again?”
“Of course I could.” Ryan sounded insulted, but he was avoiding eye contact with both of them, and the tips of his ears had turned red. “And of course you’re not taking the blame. It was an accident. It happens. Believe me—I know.”
If I Stay Page 7