His puzzled frown only made him look more gorgeous, and I groaned inwardly at my weakness. He surrounded me with both arms as he slowly, but resolutely, shut the fridge. My heart hammered wildly as his deliciously close proximity forced me to turn back to face him.
“Sweetheart,” he said. “What did she say to you?”
His term of endearment made me stiffen. Is that what he used to call her, too? I wanted to throw in his face every nasty accusation she had sneered, but I refused to give that obnoxious bitch the satisfaction of knowing that I had tattled to him. Regardless of her cattiness, I didn’t want our personal relationship to interfere with his professional life. I didn’t know the specifics, but I would never want to jeopardize his career or his relationship with his colleagues.
“There’s nothing wrong. We just talked about the menu.” I made myself stare back up at him, keeping a level gaze.
“Baby—”
“No,” I interjected, ducking out from beneath his arms. He tried to grab my hands, but stopped when I stiffened.
“Sweetheart, what the hell is going on?”
“Look,” I said, crossing my arms, as if that would help me contain myself the fragments of my crumbling heart. “You don’t have to spell out your personal life to me. I might be new at this, but I understand the rules. We’re both adults, and this was just a physical thing. Let’s not turn this into something more involved than it is.” I was so relieved that my voice didn’t waver, but I let my gaze fall to the floor so that he wouldn’t see the strain in my eyes.
“You have to let me explain—”
“Please, Mr. Cochran,” I said, stiffly. “Technically, I’m on the clock right now. I need to prep for tomorrow.” I turned back to the grocery bags on the counter and fiddled with the produce, willing him to give me space to lick my indignant wounds and bruised heart.
“Fine.” With that brusque concession, I heard him stalk out the kitchen. I flinched at the slam of his office door. Sagging heavily against the pantry, I buried my face into my hands and groaned. I still had my pride, but then why did I feel so shitty?
I rolled up my sleeves, pulled out the cutting boards and began prepping. There was nothing left to do but fulfill my contract. I could do it—and then I’d walk away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I woke up extra early the next morning. Exhausted, I slathered on concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes. Visions of Jake and Helena taunting me kept me awake all night. Reading one of my erotica stories didn’t help; I had hoped to lull myself to sleep with an orgasm, but all it did was give me nightmares of them screwing on a yacht, their perfect bodies intertwined and glistening under the French Riviera sun.
With my hair pulled back into a tight bun, I threw on my most serviceable black slacks and crisp white button-down shirt, I figured that I could change into something less severe before serving dinner.
I tiptoed down the stairs to avoid disturbing him. I both dreaded and yearned to see his gorgeous face, but found that my worries were unnecessary when I found his empty cereal bowl in the sink. He must have left early to go on a run. Feeling like a coward, I was relieved that I didn’t have to face him just yet.
Feeling too anxious to eat breakfast, I sipped on some coffee and nibbled on a bowl of strawberries. The house felt too quiet without his presence. I was grateful that we wouldn’t be alone when I left tonight for the final time. He could focus on his guests and I could just slip away, my resignation letter tucked his laptop in his office.
After clearing away my pitiful breakfast, I pulled up my favorite playlist on my laptop, turned up the volume, and focused on singing along as I pulled out my ingredients. The menu I selected tonight could be thrown together quickly as long as I had everything ready. He had insisted on something basic, which I was happy to oblige, but I also wanted to serve a light, summery menu.
For a starter, there would be a caprese salad with thick slices of juicy heirloom tomatoes, creamy mozzarella, and vibrant ribbons of fresh basil, all drizzled with fruity olive oil, a tart balsamic vinegar reduction, and plenty of salt and pepper. It was simple, but refreshing. I could plate this as the guests chatted over drinks.
The main dish would be lemon pepper shrimp served over creamy avocado pasta. For a decadent, but not too heavy sauce, I only had to toss chunks of perfectly ripe avocado into the food processor, blending it with garlic, fresh basil, lemon juice, salt and pepper. I usually like to add pistachios or almonds for texture, but nixed them for the sake of Jake’s publisher. By cooking the thin spaghetti a smidge past al dente and shocking the slippery noodles in cold water, I could toss it with the freshly made sauce right before serving. The lemon pepper shrimp only needed a quick saute with butter, garlic, and fresh lemon juice. The contrast between the hot shrimp and cool, creamy pasta was going to be delicious.
Instead of Jake’s favorite strawberry shortcake, I went for a tropical twist. I marinated chunks of fresh pineapple, mango, kiwi, and raspberries in brown sugar, fresh lime juice, and rum. While everyone finished their entree, I could pop back into the kitchen, and assemble the shortcakes with cream biscuits, fresh whipped cream, and sweet, boozy fruit. I eyeballed the dark rum bottle, making sure that there would be enough for me to take a healthy swig (or three) at the end of the night if necessary. Judging from the knots twisting through my belly at the thought of facing Jake and that blonde harpy, those swigs were definitely going to come in handy.
After everything was all prepped for a streamlined dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen and set the dining table. It looked so strange with six place settings. My breath hitched at the realization that I was never going to sit at this table again after tonight. I was never going to share my life with Jake, much less share another intimate meal with him.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was already showered and curling my freshly dried hair. As I headed back to my bedroom, I heard the front door slam, making me jump and reflexively clutch at my bathrobe. Chiding myself for acting like such a ninny, I tapped the door shut with my bare foot and headed for the vanity, but something shiny caught my eye.
A sleek black box from Bloomingdales sat at the foot of my bed. I opened the small envelope tucked under the crimson ribbon.
Sweetheart, I know you’re still upset with me, but I bought this awhile ago, in the hopes that this will help you see how beautiful you are. I’ll respect your wishes to stay out of your hair until dinner tonight, but I hope you’ll indulge your tyrant boss yet again.
Oh, Jake. How the hell was I supposed to move forward at this rate? With slightly trembling fingers, I tugged the delicate ribbon free and took off the lid. Brushing aside the layers of tissue, I gasped when I saw the contents. I pulled out a deep purple jersey wrap dress.
It was gorgeous. I nearly dropped it when I saw its tag emblazoned with Armani. My bathrobe sailed across the room in my haste to try on the dress. The cool fabric whispered against my skin as it slid over my head. The deep v-neck gave me tasteful cleavage and the knee-length a-line skirt skimmed my hips. The tiny cap sleeves showed off my toned arms, while the wrap waist emphasized my hourglass silhouette.
Grinning like a nutjob, I turned this way and that, admiring my curves in the mirror. Jake had found the perfect dress for me; it showed off my shapely figure to the best advantage. Was this how he always saw me—beautiful and lush? Once I slipped on some strappy black sandals and finished applying my makeup, I was floored. I felt radiant and confident. This purple dress was like a glamorous suit of armor and I was ready for battle.
By six o’clock, I had already filled the water glasses and set out small platters of briny olives and little peppers stuffed with softened goat cheese. Humming along to Pink Martini as it pumped through the speakers, I gave the placemats a final reassuring pat. There was literally nothing left to do, but to sit and wait to begin my last meal with Jake.
Pushing my chair back away from the dining table, I bent to adjust the too-tight strap on my right ankle, and froze
when I felt a familiar warm hand on my shoulder. For a second, every atom in my body yearned to melt into his touch.
“You wore the dress.”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re exquisite, love.”
His hand trailed down my bare arm, making me shiver. I shut my eyes to concentrate on his electrifying touch, desperate to lock away this memory for the rest of my life.
I couldn’t suppress a throaty moan when his hands found their way to my delicate foot. He slipped off my sandal, his strong fingers gently massaging my reddened flesh. My heart seemed to skip a beat when I opened my eyes and saw him gracefully crouching at my feet. He was so tall that we were still nearly eye to eye. It was almost painful to look at him; he was so goddamn gorgeous. He was wearing his usual dark wash jeans, and his thin cashmere sweater was the exact shade of his brilliant blue eyes.
The intensity of his heated gaze mesmerized me; my nerve endings felt hypersensitive as his hand roamed further up my calf, grazing the silky curve of the back of my knee, and stroked softly at my trembling inner thigh. Cursing myself for my weakness, I parted my knees ever so slightly, hoping that he’d understand my silent request for something that I couldn’t trust myself to voice.
His dark head dipped under my fluttering hem. I let out a strangled cry when he roughly yanked my tiny white thong aside to bare my hot pussy to his lashing tongue.
“Oh, god!” He sucked hungrily at my swollen lips, as if he was determined to taste every last drop of my sweet nectar. Arching my back, my hips worked feverishly against his searching mouth, desperate for more contact.
Despite the riotous pleasure, a tiny part of my brain nagged at me.
“Your guests,” I protested weakly. “Jake, they’ll be here any second!” Even as I managed to mutter coherently, my thighs tightened harder around his head, desperate to lock him there forever.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” he growled, his voice rough with lust. He plunged two thick fingers inside me as he swirled his tongue around my sensitive clit. Sobbing in ecstasy, I clung to his broad shoulders as he fingerfucked me harder and deeper.
“So good…its’s so good,” I whimpered. “Please, Jake, please!”
“That’s right, little,” he murmured, his thrusting fingers matching each syllable. “You’re my naughty girl, aren’t you? You like me playing with your pretty little pussy—you’re so fucking wet for me.”
His dirty talk and the increasingly urgent threat of getting caught combined for a perfect storm of hedonistic bliss. My thighs trembled violently as an overwhelming orgasm erupted through me, my ragged breaths mingling with the soft jazzy strains. His tongue swept up and down my dripping pussy, the long, luxurious strokes soothing my overheated flesh.
I felt him slip off my thong, but I was too replete with pleasure to care. With a wolfish grin, he stuffed them into his back pocket. Setting my skirts back to rights, he leaned down and possessed my parted lips with a rough, hungry kiss. I could taste myself as our kiss deepened and I moaned into his ravenous mouth.
When he finally pulled away, we were both panting.
“Now that I have your attention,” he said. “We have a conversation that’s been long overdue.”
He straightened to his full height, his demeanor abruptly devoid of his earlier playfulness. Rubbing the back of his neck, he swallowed hard, as if he was searching for the write words.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you this for some time now, love,” he began. “I—”
Ding dong.
The unmistakable clang of the doorbell made me jump, and he swore under his breath.
“Oh, my god!” I rubbed at his lips, frantic to erase any trace of my glistening lip gloss.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he said. “Let them wait.” He reached for me again, but I was occupied with dragging my fingers through his sex-touseled hair.
“Are you crazy?” I hissed. “They can’t see us like this!” I shoved the chair back into place, slipped my sandal back on, and then promptly froze when I felt the evidence of our little tryst trickle down my inner thigh. My knees knocked together as I clamped my thighs in horror.
“It’s fine, really,” he sighed. He grabbed one of the linen napkins, quickly wiped his mouth, and dabbed gently underneath my dress. “Go get the door. I’ll tidy up in here.”
“But—”
“Go!”
I scrambled to the front door in record time. Taking a deep breath, I pasted on a bright smile, and swung open the door.
An older couple beamed back at me, their sweet faces gently lined with age. George was balding, with a slight paunch. With his well-worn elbow patches on his dark brown tweed jacket, he looked like the quintessential kindly college professor. Patty was petite like me, but a little frail. Her wavy, silver curls were pulled into a loose bun, while her light yellow tunic and white capris gave her a classically chic look.
“Good evening,” I said. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Brooks. I apologize for the delay. Please, come in.”
“And you must be Lynn,” said Mr. Brooks, as he guided his wife through the threshold. “We’ve heard so much about you, haven’t we, honey?”
“Oh, yes,” chimed Mrs. Brooks. “But do call us George and Patty, dear. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” I grinned. I took their coats and ushered them into the living room. “Please, make yourselves at home. May I offer you any refreshments? Some wine, perhaps? We have a soft Malbec and a citrusy Riesling.”
“Red for George and white for me would be just fine,” said Patty. “And we’ll come join you in the kitchen. Can I help with anything?”
Oh, god, please tell me that Jake went over everything with a magnifying glass.
“You’re too kind, Patty,” I said. “Everything is all set. Ja—, I mean, Mr. Cochran should be in there already.”
I followed behind them into the kitchen, dreading each step.
“What’s this ‘Mr. Cochran’ nonsense?” chuckled George. “Does that knucklehead insist on such silly formalities?”
“On the contrary,” drawled Jake, as he dried his hands at the sink. “That’s all her doing.” He caught me sneaking a peek at the place setting and winked. A freshly folded linen napkin rested on the plate, identical to the others; he must have snagged it from the linen closet upstairs.
He gave George a hearty handshake and swept Patty into tight bear hug. I busied myself with pouring their glasses of wine, of which they accepted graciously.
“Listen,” said George. “I know you hate bothering with these flashy Hollywood types, but just give Vince a chance to make his proposal. He’s eager to get his hands on the rights to your new novel and he’s willing to pay a pretty penny.”
Jake’s broad shoulders stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but I noticed the tiny change.
“Pretty penny, or not,” he said. “I’ve been looking into his background. He doesn’t seem to bother much with ethics or respecting artistic integrity.” He frowned, casting his gaze on me. “I’ll bet she’s told him she still has swaying power over me—as if that’s going to land her the female lead.”
“She might be America’s Sweetheart,” grumbled Patty. “But that girl is a nasty piece of work.” She took a few healthy swigs of Riesling, while I was pretty sure I was already in need of my emergency shot of rum.
Quickly grabbing the nearest platter of olives and stuffed peppers, I shoved it towards them. “Gosh, how rude of me,” I said. “You both must be famished. My grandma and I are notorious pre-dinner nibblers.”
“Oh, that’s right,” smiled Patty. “Jake tells us that you live with your grandmother.”
Nodding, I handed them a couple napkins. “Sometimes, we’d pig out on our appetizers and just wrap up dinner for the next night. It used to drive my grandpa crazy,” I laughed. “He was always such a stickler for dinner at exactly six o’clock—not ten ‘til, or heaven forbid, five after. He used to say tha
t it was good for our digestion.”
George chuckled around a bite of pepper. “Knowing Jake’s erratic bouts of inspiration, he must be keeping you up at all hours of the night!”
All hours, indeed. I felt my cheeks flush when Jake silently toasted me with his wine glass, his cheeky grin hidden from their view. “Oh,” I mumbled. “That’s what I’m paid for—I mean, it’s my job to cook around his schedule!”
Ding dong.
“I’ll get that!” Eager to hide my embarrassment, I spun on my heel, trying not to sprint for the door.
In retrospect, I should have realized that I was heading towards a whole new level of mortification.
“Good evening—”
“Move,” hissed America’s Sweetheart.
Stunned, I could only lurch out of her way as she and her stunning one-shouldered mini-dress marched through the door without a backward glance. Skin-tight and icy blue, it fit her willowy figure like a dream.
“Don’t mind her,” said her companion. “Honey, I’d sure like to get acquainted with you.” He grabbed my hand, lifting it up towards his lips, but I hastily yanked it back. He grinned as if I was flirting. “You probably already know me. I’m Vince Panelli.”
He was slightly shorter than average height, but he carried himself as if he was even taller than Jake. His light brown hair was streaked with highlights. He had sharp cheekbones, thin lips, and a sleek blade of a nose. Between his angular features and his toothy smile, he looked like a well-groomed rat. Like Helena’s skimpy designer dress, his gunmetal three piece suit looked ridiculously out of place at this small dinner party, and like her ensemble, it probably cost more than my paycheck, too.
“Uh, yes, Mr. Panelli,” I said. “Please, come in.”
I took his coat and ushered him towards the kitchen.
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