There was a little hallway that led to the bar on one end, a small room (closet, more like it) on the other. Mrs. Adamson was talking to someone in the bar and barely flicked an eyelid at Connor.
The dressing room door was slightly ajar. Con opened it a little more.
There she was, face in her hands.
"So rhythm isn't really your thing," Connor said, leaning in the doorway, and she jumped out of her chair like he'd tazed her.
"Shit." She grabbed her jeans and flannel shirt. "What are you doing here?" she asked, pulling on her clothes. She dashed her arm across her eyes.
"I'm a scout for Dancing with the Stars. Sorry, we've had to rule you out." He smiled.
Her eyes flickered, then she shrugged, her face neutral. "I needed some extra money."
"Really? It's not your dream to be a stripper?"
"Shut up." She might've been thinking about smiling. He was almost sure of it.
"So, Jess," Mrs. Adamson said, thundering down the hall. "You're fired. Sorry, kid. Stripping's not for everyone."
"You were quite good, though, Mrs. Adamson," Connor said. He handed her a twenty.
"Oh, Connor O'Rourke! Look at you, all grown up! Thanks, sweetheart." She pinched his cheek and took the cash. "We're closing. Off you go, kids." She strutted back down the hall, the floor trembling under her weight.
Jessica tied her hair into a ponytail with a smooth, quick movement. "So you go to strip clubs a lot?" she said.
"No. This is my second time."
"Why tonight? You stalking me?"
"Not consciously." He looked at her for a long minute, taking in the fact that she was jamming things into her bag, moving as fast as she could. "That was really brave, Jess."
She looked up sharply.
"And I won't tell anyone."
Her gaze dropped back to her bag. "Thanks."
"You want to get a drink?"
"It's almost eleven. Nowhere's open."
"O'Rourke's might be. I know the owner."
She hesitated, then met his eyes. "I could use a drink. Which is probably why I shouldn't have one."
"How about a Coke, then?"
She nodded.
The fresh air was welcome after the beer-scented fog of the club. Connor waited till Jess got into her car. She turned the key, but there was only a click. "This night seems to be cursed. Can you give me a jump?"
"I only have my bike." He gestured to his motorcycle. "I'll give you a ride home, though. After your Coke."
She got out of the car. He took off his leather jacket and handed it to her.
"I'll be fine," she said.
"Put it on. This, too." He gave her the helmet, and after a second, she did what he asked.
Mentally thanking the gods that had chosen this night for her battery to die, Connor got on the bike. Jess climbed on behind him and put her arms around his waist.
Driving through the dark, Jessica pressed against his back, was about the best thing that had happened to Connor in years. The drive had seemed long on the way out; now, it was way too short.
He parked the bike behind O'Rourke's, then unlocked the door. "It's not quite finished yet," he said needlessly, turning on just the light behind the bar.
Jessica slid out of his coat and put the helmet on the bar.
"It's beautiful," she said. She took a long look around, then ran her hand over the bar. "You're gonna put a dent in Hugo's business, that's for sure."
"Well. It's...it's just a pub."
"Looks like a lot more than that to me."
Connor saw it through her eyes--the U-shaped bar, the booths with the carefully chosen lighting and comfortable leather seats, the tables that he'd paid extra for so they wouldn't wobble, unlike 98% of all restaurant tables everywhere. The wide-planked floor and tin ceiling, the amber lights that hung over the bar.
Hopefully, yes, it would be a lot more than a pub.
Jess went to sit down on one of the stools, then stopped. "You live upstairs, right?"
"Right." His residence wasn't a secret, but he was surprised Jess knew.
"Would it be all right if I took a shower?" Her voice was businesslike, but she didn't meet his eyes.
"Yeah, of course. Right this way." He brought her upstairs, abruptly wishing his place didn't look like a dorm room. He got a clean towel and handed it to her, feeling awkward. "Take your time," he said. "I'll be downstairs."
He went back down, trying not to think about the fact that Jessica Dunn was taking off her clothes in his apartment. Stepping into his shower. Naked. Wet. Soap suds streaming down her long, smooth--
"Snap out of it," he muttered to himself.
He went into the kitchen, since the kitchen was where he did his best thinking.
He didn't know too much about what Jess had been doing these past two years. She was still at Hugo's, he knew that. Lived with her brother in a little house over near the factory, at the very edge of the residential part of town, where the houses were covered in sagging vinyl siding and the sidewalks were cracked.
A neighborhood that was far better than the trailer park.
He broke three eggs into a bowl and started whisking. Chopped some parsley and cilantro, hoping Jess wasn't one of those people who hated cilantro. Got out the nonstick frying pan that had cost a fortune, turned on the gas and put a dollop of butter into the pan. As it melted, he opened the cupboard where he'd already arranged his salt collection, chose some Peruvian sea salt and added a few flakes, waiting till they dissolved. Sliced two hearty pieces of the peasant bread he'd bought from the Mennonite market that morning and put them in the toaster.
Above his head, he heard the shower turn off.
He told himself that he shouldn't be so happy that tonight had been an utter failure for her, that her car was a piece of crap.
He could still feel her arms around his waist from the ride here.
He added a quarter cup of heavy cream to the eggs and whisked gently. Poured it into the pan, added the herbs and ground in some Tellicherry black pepper, waited twenty seconds, then began folding the eggs gently. Buttered the toast, plated the eggs, added a sprig of parsley and brought it out, just as she came into the bar.
The makeup from earlier was gone, and her wet hair looked darker, pulled back into its ponytail.
She looked about fifteen years old, except for the way she filled out her clothes.
"You didn't have to do this," she said.
"I know. Would you like a glass of wine instead of that Coke?"
She hesitated. "Okay. Just a small one."
"What kind?"
"I don't care."
"Now, now. You took my class. I expect better from you."
She sat at the bar and smiled a little. "Fine. A fume blanc?"
"An excellent choice." He winked at her and poured her a six-ounce glass. One for himself, too, so she wouldn't be drinking alone, then sat down next to her.
"You're not eating?" she asked.
"Not right now. I'm just a voyeur."
"Pervert." She smiled slightly, then took a bite of the eggs. "Oh, my God, these are incredible," she said, closing her eyes. "Are they really just scrambled eggs?"
Her eyelashes were dark brown and feathery. "Thanks," he managed. "Uh, yeah."
Watching her eat made his chest hurt from happiness. Her hands were efficient and neat, and she savored the food, really tasting it, not like some people, like Colleen, who ate like a starving coyote; not like his mother, who ate with the careful rhythm of a chronic dieter and then binge-ate junk food later.
No. Jessica tasted. She savored. Her tongue slipped out to lick a little crumb of toast from the corner of her pink mouth, and when she swallowed, he had to look away. He took a pull of his wine or beer or orange soda or whatever the hell he was drinking. It was cold. He should probably pour it in his lap.
"So I figured stripping would be easy money," she said, and he looked back. She was talking to her glass, apparently, because she didn't make eye
contact. "There's this new medicine they're trying for kids with fetal alcohol syndrome, and it's expensive, and of course Medicaid doesn't cover it."
"What kind of medicine?"
"It's something to help with impulse control and outbursts. This bread is fantastic, too."
"The Mennonite market."
"Right. Anyway, I figured I could strip for a few months and pay for it. It was harder than I thought." She took the last bite of eggs and wiped her mouth with the napkin. "Those were the best scrambled eggs I've ever had. Thank you."
"You're welcome." He paused. "Jess, I could always--"
"No. But I appreciate the offer."
Sure, he'd been about to offer her money. Who wouldn't? "Do you want to pick up some shifts here?"
"No, but again, thank you. I have a job. And another job, too, actually."
"Okay." If she didn't want to work for him, well...he got that. She'd always been proud.
She sipped her wine, then set the glass down, her movements controlled and precise. Now came the moment that she'd thank him and leave.
She didn't. "How are things with you, Connor?"
The ordinary question sounded extraordinarily intimate, given the amber lighting and the late hour. "Well," he said, "I'm a big brother. My father and his new wife had a baby girl tonight."
"Wow. Congratulations."
"Yeah. My dad's been divorced from my mom for ten days. Married to Gail for nine."
"Speedy."
"He didn't want the family honor stained by bastardization."
Jess laughed. "Interesting definition of family honor. Not that I'm one to talk."
"I'd say you know quite a bit on the subject."
She swallowed. Took another sip of wine, and put the glass back down exactly in the spot it was in before.
"Are your parents still married?" he asked, more because he was afraid she was going to leave than because it mattered.
"Yep."
"That's good, I guess."
"That's not the word that leaps to mind. At least I got Davey out of there. My father thinks it's funny to get him drunk, and my mom was teaching him to make cocktails."
Jesus. His own father didn't seem so bad, suddenly. "You're an awfully good sister."
She gave him a wry smile. "So I'm brave, I'm honorable, I'm a good sister... Where's my Nobel Prize?"
"You're also incredibly beautiful."
She rolled her eyes. "Freak of genetics."
So mentioning her looks was off-limits. "And smart."
"I almost flunked out of high school, Connor."
"Good grades don't mean much. I was valedictorian, and I'm a cook."
"I thought Jeremy Lyon was valedictorian."
"No. Salutatorian."
"You sure? Jeremy's so perfect. I can't see you beating him out there."
Fucking Jeremy. Every female in town, from Connor's own mother to his three-year-old cousin, was hung up on him. Oh, hang on. Jess was smiling. She was teasing him. Got it.
She was finished with her meal, and had drunk half her wine. But she wasn't making any noises about leaving, either.
Connor had had a few girlfriends in the two years since they'd slept together. Two. He'd had two. One and a half, really. No one who'd really...impacted him, as much as he would've liked that.
Not like Jess.
He looked at her a long minute. "Remember when we, uh...hooked up? When you came to the Institute for that class?"
"No, Connor, you were just another notch on my bedpost." She straightened out her fork and knife to the three o'clock position on the plate. "Yes. Of course I remember."
"I didn't sleep with you because of what you said, you know."
"What did I say?"
"That I slept with you because I could. Because you were Jessica Does."
"But that is the name you used." She cocked an eyebrow at him, still keeping up with the cool-chick-with-an-edge attitude.
"It just...came out." A crap answer, and yet the truth. That stupid name had been given to her young, and it had been liberally used throughout high school. Jess herself had used it.
"So why did we sleep together?" she asked.
"Is 'because we're both red-blooded American heterosexuals' a good enough answer?"
The corner of her mouth hinted at a smile. "I mean, why did you bother? I'm guessing you have to beat the women off with a club."
"Some days, sure. I try not to be too rough."
"So why me, then?"
Was she serious? "I liked the way you ate dessert." No game, he had absolutely no game. "And you smell nice." Proof of his sorry, no-game state.
"Right now I smell like Irish Spring. You're really living the cliche on that one, by the way."
"A present from Colleen."
"Ah. Well, most of the time, I smell like restaurant food and other people's wine and whatever Davey's wiped on me."
"I like food. And wine. Not sure about what Davey's wiping, so I'll have to stay neutral on that. But you and I have a lot in common, Jess. We both work in restaurants--"
"Don't. You're a Culinary Institute-trained chef who has his own restaurant at the age of twenty-three. I'm a waitress."
"So? It's hard to be a good waitress."
"It's really not," she said.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to offend you. I bet you're a horrible waitress."
"Just stop saying nice things."
"Okay. You're a really shitty dancer."
She laughed.
She didn't laugh enough. Or maybe she did, but he didn't get to hear it enough.
"And your outfit had no imagination," he added. "Mrs. Adamson, at least she tried."
Jessica Dunn laughed again.
Before he'd really planned on it, he leaned in, slid his hand around her neck and kissed her as gently as he knew how. Her lips were soft and full, and he was an addict, just like that, not just wanting to kiss her, but needing it like he needed breathing.
Then she kissed him back, and light seemed to spark through his veins, hot and electric, and God, she felt so good, her slender, vulnerable neck, the silky, damp hairs there. He teased her mouth open and tasted her, and she was suddenly gripping his shirt in both hands.
He probably shouldn't be doing this. Maybe this was...uh...what was the phrase? It was hard to think with his mouth against hers, their tongues sliding...
Oh. Right. Taking advantage.
He pulled back. Ran his fingertips along her jaw, the tender, smooth flesh just below.
Her pupils were dilated, making her eyes look darker, and her mouth was slightly open.
And then, just like that, she was back to the three-feet-away zone. Without so much of a flicker of an eyelash, the wall came down.
Someday, he was going to figure her out.
"Connor," she said calmly, "you don't want to sleep with a stripper."
"You're not a stripper. You got fired." He picked up her hand and kissed it. Twice. The Irish Spring smelled better on her.
She swallowed. "I should get back to Davey." But she didn't leave, either. And she was staring straight ahead, at his chest, not at his face. It was as though she was waiting for him to convince her otherwise.
In fact, it was almost like she was shy.
Jessica Dunn, who'd beaten up boys twice her size in middle school, then slept with most of them in high school, and yet who also seemed like an ice princess, totally untouchable...seemed shy. Even if her tongue had been in his mouth a few seconds ago, even if his shirt had been fisted in her hands.
She liked him. He was almost sure of it.
He wanted to say a hundred things, about taking care of her, and wanting her so much he ached, and how his chest felt punched when she came out onto that runway tonight, and how if he didn't kiss her again, fast, it might kill him, and if he couldn't sleep with her again, it would definitely kill him.
"Who stays with Davey when you're out?" he asked instead, his voice a little hoarse.
"Gerard Chartier. They'
re the same mental age."
"Can Gerard stay a little longer?"
There was a long pause, and Jessica was very still, and Connor's whole being clenched with wanting, with hope, with please say yes.
She nodded.
Connor didn't wait. He stood up, lifted her onto the bar and kissed her, a different kiss this time, hungry and full, his tongue against hers, his hand pulling out her ponytail and sliding his fingers through her long, damp hair.
She wrapped her legs around him and kissed him back, and that thrum of electricity became a lightning storm of white heat, and all that mattered was Jessica, her mouth, her neck, the shoulder blades that shifted under his hands, her long, beautiful spine and perfect ass.
He stopped kissing her for a second. "I live upstairs," he muttered against her neck.
She answered with a little smile, and that smile, it just killed him. "I guess I should walk you home, then."
Rather than let her walk him anywhere, he just lifted her up and carried her up the rickety stairs to his apartment, kissing her as he did. Kicked open his door, set her down and started on the buttons of her shirt, kissing her neck as he worked. His hand seemed to be cupping her breast. She wasn't wearing a bra, and her nipple hardened against his palm, and there it was, that blinding, stunning flash of want.
"Wait," she said. "Wait. Hang on." She pulled back a little, gripping his hands in hers. "This has to be a secret, okay? Because Davey will... He might... You know."
"Okay."
"Really?"
"Yeah." Right now she could've said You have to cut off your right arm before we do this, and he would've answered Hey, not a problem! "Don't worry. We can take it slow." Slow. And fast. And hard. And--
"I don't want your sister to be--"
"Nope. Me neither." Because Colleen would be insufferable if she knew.
Jess looked at him, and for the first time all night, she really looked at him, and Connor got the impression it wasn't easy.
Then she reached up and touched the scar on his cheek, and her fingertips slid down to the place under his jaw that dented in. The scars from Chico, all those years ago.
"Take me to bed," she whispered, and Connor couldn't help thinking that God did exist and was smiling on him for no good reason.
He'd take it. He'd take anything Jessica Dunn and the universe saw fit to give him.
CHAPTER SIX
Eight and a half years before the proposal...
FOR THREE WEEKS--well, twenty days--after her humiliating foray into the world of exotic dancing, Jessica, who wasn't the type to spin out happy fantasies of how wonderful everything would be, was starting to feel kinda happy and wonderful.
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