“Doug!”
Mr. California snickered and leaned back against a plaster boulder. Phil, though he didn’t seem any more interested in Cheryl’s skirt than in Gabe’s jeans, gave him a shove that sent him scrambling into the sand trap.
“Hey!”
“Let the poor woman putt already.”
Cheryl shot him a blinding smile. “Thank you, Phil.”
As she bent again to putt, Gabe moved to stand at Jack’s side and leaned up to whisper. “She has a better chance of landing Keanu Reeves. Phil’s nuts over a girl at work.”
“Ah. I wondered why such flashy charm was going unnoticed. Does she really like him, or is she just flirting to be flirting?”
“Can’t tell. I think she’s just flirting.”
“Good.”
“Though I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if he suddenly paid attention.”
He smiled as she leaned against him, though she didn’t put her arm around him as she might have at home. The omission didn’t bother him, though. She was far more comfortable with her friends this time around, and he enjoyed watching her interact. He’d had her to himself long enough, he supposed.
Plus, the group seemed relaxed with him this time. They all knew what he did—or what he used to do, anyway—but no one held it against him here. Even Phil, who had outright told him to leave on first acquaintance, seemed to hold no grudge.
He only wished he had friends as willing to forgive and forget.
“Finally! God, I hate this hole.”
Cheryl shot Doug a glare, almost daring him to comment, but Mr. California declined with a smug smirk. Phil had already sunk his ball at one under par, as had Jack. That left only Gabe and Doug, the two worst mini golfers Jack had ever known. He couldn’t decide who was worse.
Gabe took a stance, her gaze fixed on the ever-shifting tentacles writhing over the four feet of green between her ball and the hole. He grinned and leaned against a handy crate to watch. Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. She waited. Waited some more. Her putter drew back.
“Gonna putt any time soon?”
The shot went wide and bounced off the squid’s body. A frisky tentacle scooted it farther aside, and he had to swallow a laugh as her ball plopped into the water hazard.
“Damn it, Douglas!”
Doug tried to look innocent. “Hey, what’d I do to warrant the full name treatment?”
She shot him a glare and fished her ball out of the pool. “Jerk. My score is bad enough without your help, you know.”
“Can we hurry this up?” Phil jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “They’re starting to pile up back at the giant clam.”
“I’m trying.”
Taking pity, Jack shoved away from his crate. “Need some help?”
Her glare would have knocked him down if she’d really meant it. “Absolutely not. Last time, I ended up straddling a pile of loot. No thanks.”
“Besides, it’s my turn.” A cocky grin on his face, Doug strode over to his ball and bent to the task. “It’s all in the timing.”
He swung too hard, as usual, and the ball pinged off of a tentacle. It went airborne for a moment before downing in the same water hazard Gabe had just vacated. Laughter ensued—not the least of which was from Doug himself—and everyone finally agreed to call the entire spectacle a mulligan before a riot broke out in the party behind them.
They headed for the next hole, Gabe grumbling and drying her ball on her shirt. Jack stepped up behind her and gave her a quick squeeze.
“What are we doing after mini golf?”
She shrugged. “It’s your birthday. What do you want?”
“Is everyone coming along?”
“Probably. It’s your turn.”
The hole wasn’t complicated—after a sharp corner in the lane, a skeletal pirate crouched over the hole with a long, swinging cutlass—so he took his shot quickly and very nearly landed another hole in one. The cutlass pendulum ticked his ball wide at the last moment, though, so he shrugged and returned to Gabe’s side with a grin.
“Smug bastard. Why is everything so easy for you?”
Oh, the irony. “Probably because I don’t care about it much. It’s only the stuff I really want that I have trouble getting.”
She shot him a glance, and he kept his face as neutral as he could. “I guess it’s that way for everyone.”
“I imagine. So, what’s for dinner?”
“Your decision, birthday boy.”
He considered, but not for long. After all, he really only knew one restaurant in Joplin. “Think anyone would object to Japanese?”
Another suspicious glance. “You do know that if we go back together, everyone there will make the natural assumption.”
Careful. Oh, so careful. “And what’s so bad about that?” He felt her pulling away despite her recent, more casual attitude, so he hurried on before she could respond. “You said yourself that there, I’m just a guy with a girl who’s been there on too many blind dates. Would it be so bad for you to have someone to dangle in their faces? Wouldn’t they lay off you a bit?”
Her mouth opened, then closed.
“And don’t tell me you didn’t get a kick out of those old ladies on your street thinking you have a new man.”
Some of the suspicion thawed, so he went for the master stroke.
“Besides, we’ll all be there. Who’s to say I’m not just another friend in a group? If they give you any guff about me, I’ll set them straight.”
“Geez, why don’t you two get a room?”
“Why don’t you learn how to putt, Douglas?” But she was smiling again, so he guessed he hadn’t been too incautious.
“Really, what are you two so serious about over there? It’s Gabe’s turn.”
While she bent over another laborious putt, Jack grinned and explained. “Does anyone have any objection to hitting the Japanese steak house for dinner?”
Cheryl beamed. “I love that place, and I haven’t been there in an age.” Her eyes slid over to rest assessingly on Phil. “Are you going?”
Shrugging, Phil kept his attention on Gabe. “I guess. They have good seafood. Doug?”
“I’ll eat anything.”
“I guess that’s where we’re going, then.”
Gabe swung, and her ball careened off of the rocks lining the lane, bounced off the skeleton’s femur, and finally came to rest a good ten feet from the hole. At least it was still on the green. Barely. Jack hid his chuckle with his hand, but neither Doug nor Cheryl were so successful.
She took it in stride, though. Her scowl lasted only so long as it took her to slump down on a treasure chest next to him.
“God, I suck.”
He elbowed her. “And I appreciate it.”
Her blush was monumental. “Good Lord, Jack.”
“You don’t have to call me Lord Jack, but I am good.”
The blush deepened. “Cut it out! What’s gotten into you?”
“Practicing for the restaurant.”
“How so?”
For the moment, he was glad she couldn’t seem to look up from her shoes. He was pretty sure his smile wouldn’t pass muster. “Wouldn’t want anyone thinking we were sweet on each other.”
She did look up then, and her expression was inscrutable under the blush. He forgot his own latent discontent in the face of that intent, indecipherable look.
“It might be fun. Just to see what people say.”
One eyebrow shot up. “Really?”
“If you’re game.”
Hesitant, he eyed her for a long moment. “I’m game if you are.”
The strangeness faded, and she quirked the crooked grin he’d walk over needles to see.
“It’s on.”
She shouldn’t be so greedy. It’d likely bite her right in the ass, and she'd deserve every moment of discomfort later for purposely deluding herself into thinking a relationship with Jack could ever work out.
But for now, she would enjoy the feel of h
is arm around her in public, the occasional brush of his lips at her temple, and the surprised and pleased glances from her favorite servers and the few acquaintances walking by. Besides, Doug’s theatrically rolling eyes and Cheryl’s arch looks were almost worth their weight in gold.
Only Phil’s reaction worried her, mostly because he didn’t seem to react at all. All of her friends were in on the joke, of course, but her oldest one didn’t seem to want to join in. She elbowed him and tried a smile. To her relief, he grinned back.
“Thinking deep thoughts?”
He wasn’t fooled. “He’s not what I expected, Gabe. Leave it at that.”
“Is that good or bad?”
He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You just can’t leave well enough alone, can you?”
“Nope. Give.”
“It’s good. He surprises me. I should have known when he told me—” But he cut himself off, his mouth snapping shut.
She frowned. “Told you what?” What on earth could make the ever-cool Phil squirm in his seat?
He swallowed hard and fiddled with his chopsticks. “Uh…that he enjoys spending time down here. And that he didn’t want you on the outs with your friends.”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Phiiiil…”
“What?”
“Ah, hello, my friends!”
At the hearty greeting from the chef, Phil looked as relieved as if he’d been spared execution. She debated digging in, but she found herself reluctant to pry too far. If it could make her usually unshakable friend hedge and stumble, it might well ruin the one weekend she’d allowed herself to truly enjoy with no questions. Just because she hated self-delusion didn’t mean she hadn’t allowed it more and more lately. Maybe she only hated it when she didn’t know she was doing it.
Jack leaned close and rested his fingers on the nape of her neck, an oddly possessive gesture that sent a shiver down her spine.
“You sure you’re okay with this? We’re laying it on pretty thick.”
She turned her head and looked up at him. He was so close she could see the flecks of forest shadows in his otherwise emerald green eyes. Beautiful eyes, really. She didn’t want to look away.
“It’s all right with me. You?”
His lips brushed her forehead like a flick of butterfly wings. “Best birthday present ever.”
Her heart stuttered, her breath stopping in her throat for a small eternity. Guilt and near-terror swallowed her whole. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? Had she already ruined everything?
“Gabe?”
The shadows in his eyes deepened, and she forced herself to function. He didn’t mean anything by it. He was just playing along, and he clearly enjoyed spending time with her friends. That’s all he meant.
“Yeah?”
“You kinda faded out on me. Everything okay?”
A smile cracked her face. She had no doubt that it looked as real as a three dollar bill. “Fine. I just…had a weird thought.”
Concern still filled his face. “Must have been a doozy. I’ve never seen you look so pole-axed—”
He broke off as Doug elbowed him in the side. She shook away the worst of her irrational fear and tried to analyze the rest while Jack informed the chef that he wanted his steak medium rare. Just because she wanted to pretend he was hers for a little while didn’t mean he had any such feelings. She really had to stop jumping at shadows and projecting her own stupid conjectures. It wasn’t fair to him.
By the time he turned back to her, his eyes still dark with questions, she’d composed herself enough to grin more realistically. He relaxed and draped an arm over her shoulders. The chef beamed a smile and asked how she wanted her steak.
“Medium rare, thank you.”
Jack grinned. “A woman after my own heart.”
“And just what would I do with your heart?”
His smile widened, and she was glad she could still tease with him. He seemed to enjoy it, and she didn’t want to possibly ruin his birthday with her own insecurities and tendency to think too much.
“I could think of several things, milady. Shall I present it to you on a platter?”
She snorted. “Only if it’s medium rare.”
He laughed, drawing the rest of the group’s attention, but she didn’t mind. With his arm around her and everyone staring at them expectantly, she should’ve felt uncomfortable and exposed. She wasn’t terribly surprised to discover that she didn’t feel strange at all.
Though he knew the sentiment was as cliché as they came, Jack didn’t want this night to end. Gabe had settled into her role with an ease that left him hoping she wouldn’t mind living it instead of playing it. Of course, that could be due to her trying sake for the first time, but he’d take it for now. Her friends treated him like an accepted member of their fold—again, possibly because of the presence of alcohol at the table. The food was excellent, a fact based on his own good taste, as he hadn’t so much as sipped the potent house rice wine. What else could a former escort want out of life?
With his arm around her shoulders, he laughed with the rest of the table when Phil—the only sober person besides Jack himself—was singled out by the hibachi chef to catch flying shrimp pieces at the end of the meal. They all oohed and aahed at the chef’s finale of utensil flinging. And when they all stood to leave—Doug and Cheryl weaving so badly that only leaning against each other kept them walking in something of a straight line—he let himself believe for the barest instant that this wouldn’t go away. This belonging.
He helped a tipsy but not roaring drunk Gabe into her car, laughing when she clung to him because her feet tangled and she couldn’t heft them in behind her. “You know, you didn’t have to drain the whole pitcher by yourself.”
She sputtered and waved a hand theatrically. “I only had two of those itty bitty cups. Maybe three. I lost count. But Doug’s the one that really hit it hard. I’m surprised he’s even vertical.”
Grinning, he knelt and lifted both her feet over the car’s threshold, then ran a hand up her calf and settled it on her knee. “He may not be for long. I don’t envy Phil having to drag him inside.”
She giggled, and he stared at her, enraptured. He’d never heard her giggle before. It was…adorable.
“I think Cher’s acting more drunk than she is so he’ll have to carry her inside, too.”
Still wide-eyed, he managed a small smile. “Maybe she’ll get what she wants after all.”
“Psht!” She waved her hand again, closing her eyes and tilting her head back against the headrest. “Even if he weren’t over the moon for that Amelia chick, he’d never take advantage of a drunk woman. Not his style. Too classy for that.”
Since he’d reached that conclusion on his own, he only nodded, patted her knee, and stood, making sure all appendages were inside the car before he shut the door. His smile fell back into an easy grin. He was simply too pleased with how the entire day had gone.
Imagine, a birthday party. And one where he didn’t have to jump out of the cake.
He settled into the driver’s seat and scooted it back a bit. Gabe had driven to the restaurant, and her legs, while the perfect length for staring at and caressing, were shorter than his. Supremely aware of his precious, if giggly, cargo, he looked both ways twice before pulling out of the parking lot.
“You know, I’ve never let anyone else drive my car before.” Her head lolled toward him, her dark eyes open and serious. “I’ve never sat in my own passenger seat. Is that weird?”
Surprised but pleased, he shrugged. “Depends on why. Are you worried about someone crashing your car, or is it just that you’re always the designated driver?”
Her forehead furrowed in deeper concentration than the question surely warranted. “I dunno, really. Maybe both. Maybe just the last.”
“I guess I’m honored in either case.”
This time she shrugged, though she nearly fell over with the motion. “I trust you. You haven’t screwed me yet.”
He snickered. She blushed.
“Screwed me over. Over.” When he snickered again, she slumped over the armrests between the seats and elbowed him. “Jerk. You know what I mean.”
Daring to take one hand from the wheel, he leaned just enough to put his arm around her for a short squeeze. When she shifted to lay her cheek down on his armrest, he grinned and let his fingers tangle in the curls at the base of her neck. It seemed so natural, so normal. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so…nonprofessional.
She was all but asleep when he pulled into her driveway, so he went around to her side of the car and lifted her out, cradling her close to his chest and feeling a dangerous case of the warm-fuzzies when she cuddled against him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He thought about lying her down on the couch, but she looked so tuckered out that he didn’t have the heart for it. Instead, he carried her up the stairs, careful not to catch her feet in the wrought iron, and couldn’t resist a tiny brush of lips before putting her down.
Dark eyes opened and blinked up at him, muzzy with sleep and alcohol, and she smiled slowly. His heart turned over in his chest, and he winced against the near-pain. He loved her so much it hurt. Another cliché for the evening.
“Did you know that your eyes change color when you’re happy?”
He blinked. “Change color how?”
“Depends on what kind of happy you are.”
Shaking his head, he tugged off his shirt. He wanted a shower before settling down for the night, and he should probably slip Gabe into something more comfortable to sleep in. But he simply stood looking down at her, his shirt dangling from his fingers. She stared up at him, a little smile flirting with the corners of her mouth.
Finally, she blushed and dropped her gaze to his knees. “Make love to me?”
His body reacted instantly. She’d never used that particular euphemism before, and something about the shy request routed all of his blood to the least reasonable portion of his anatomy. “I should take a shower. And you’re falling asleep with your eyes open.”
Her lower lip pooched out the tiniest bit.
“Gabe, you’re drunk.”
The protruding lower lip wobbled. He really couldn’t think of the slightest reason to resist, other than that she’d asked him to make love to her. Did it mean anything?
My Gigolo: The Care and Feeding of a Male Prostitute Page 21