The Lineup

by Quinn, Meghan

  “Oh, I’m sure you did.”

  I move on to the next potato, picking up my pace. “What about you, are you close with your parents?”

  “Yup, my whole family actually. Natalie is my sister, she helps me run my foundation, The Lineup. She’s actually the CEO, and I’m just the pretty face.” He flashes me his best smile. Pretty face indeed. “And of course, Joseph, my twin brother who has cerebral palsy, is my best friend. We’re really tight-knit, and I think it all stems from wanting to give Joseph the best life possible. Natalie and I became super protective of him and my parents encouraged it.”

  “That’s really amazing. I admire that. Other people could have been resentful about having to take care of a sibling their whole life, catering to their daily activities, but you weren’t. You embraced it.”

  Jason shrugs. “He’s my brother. We shared a womb together. I would do anything for him.”

  He sets the measured-out ingredients to the side and props his hip on the counter, facing me.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “You know how you said I was a sob baby?”

  “Yes, how you cry about everything.”

  “Yup.” He chuckles. “Well, the last time I full-on bawled was when I finally realized that Joseph would be able to go to all my games again. Well, at least all my home games. In my contract, I made a stipulation that he would have a permanent handicap seat dedicated to him and his guest so no matter what, he always had a seat at my game. When they said yes to it and made it happen, I lost it.”

  I finish up the last potato and then turn to Jason. Talk about one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever seen, ever met. Jason is the winner. He has a heart you don’t see very often, one that’s genuine, positive, and so addicting that all you want to do is be surrounded by it.

  And I not only want to be surrounded by his heart and his personality, I want to be consumed by it, and quite frankly? That fucking terrifies me. I feel this pull within me, warning me about getting too close, not to trust his pretty façade, not to fall for possible hypocrisy. To deny my want. But then I consider how he stepped back when he believed he’d pushed me too far. How he squeezed himself into my life despite my often-bitchy charade, content to be my friend. Because what man does that voluntarily? It’s not him that has a hidden agenda, although I know without a doubt now that it’s not the stupid deal that’s driving my actions. My heart. After being very anti-relationship, very cynical that men had something I wanted, my heart is being lured in. Jason Orson is hypnotic. And I’m not sure I can deny that for myself. I want him to know how incredible I believe he is.

  I reach out and take his hand in mine. Staring into his eyes, I say with full conviction and not an ounce of sarcasm, “You are one of the best men I know.”

  “Thank you.” He smiles sheepishly. “Uh, we kind of got off course. Want to continue with this gnocchi?”

  “Of course.” I pull my hand away and face the counter. Jason moves the ingredients closer and then stands behind me again, his chest to my back, his arms wrapped around me, his head next to mine.

  Talking softly he says, “Okay, we’re going to mix all these ingredients together with our hands.” He takes mine in his and starts pouring the ingredients together directly onto the countertop. His lips practically kissing my ear, he continues, “Now we don’t want to overmix, just enough, and then we form a hole, a little nest for our egg.”

  “Like this?” I ask, forming a “nest” like he said.

  “Perfect,” he answers, his breath sending goosebumps down my body. “Mix it all together until it’s a dough-like consistency.” Together, we mix, and mix, and mix. Clumps form on our fingers, then fall off in disgusting chunks, but I’m comforted from the closeness of Jason and the way he seems to not back away but rather keeps his body as close to mine as possible. “Clumping is the worst,” he says, pulling at the dough clumps on my fingers. “But look, see how it’s forming a good consistency?” He picks up a pinch of flour and dusts the countertop, making it less sticky.

  Once the dough is formed, he says, “Here comes the fun part. We have to roll it out and cut it up.”

  He slides his dough-covered fingers up my forearms and spreads them out with a slight suggestion. He picks up a piece of dough and starts rolling it on the counter. Once it resembles a snake, he takes my hands and I roll with him.

  “Isn’t this fun?”

  I turn to look at him, his body covering mine, his head inches from mine. “It’s a lot of fun.” Before I turn back to the gnocchi, I give myself a second to stare at him, to hopefully portray in my eyes how quickly he makes my heart beat, how with one flash of his grin, he lights me up inside.

  I swipe my lips with my tongue and he watches, so I do it again, but slower this time, just letting the tip of my tongue peek out. His eyes follow, darkening, narrowing.

  From behind, I can feel his chest grow tighter, thicker with his breath.

  His arms tighten around me and for a split second, when he leans a few inches closer, I think he’s going to kiss me, that he might actually want me. But before I can catch another breath, he clears his throat and steps away, leaving me cold and wanting.

  Embarrassed, I go back to rolling while I hear him digging around in the drawers.

  This is ridiculous. I’ve hit on men before. I’ve made the first move before. Hell, I’ve flashed men just to get them to take me to their room before. I’m no innocent. I’ve been around the block, and yet, for some reason, trying to make something happen with Jason seems next to impossible.

  Is it because he’s too good for me? Subconsciously, I don’t think I deserve him?

  Is it because if he lets me down, hurts me, I’ll lose all faith in men?

  Probably a combination of all three.

  “Sorry,” he says, coming back to the island. This time, he doesn’t get behind me to help, but stands to my side. Well, if that isn’t a clear-cut sign of disinterest, I don’t know what is. After all, it’s exactly what I did to him when we first met. Probably gave him too many lessons in how to give the perfect cold shoulder. Okay. “I was trying to find a knife.” He sets it on the counter. “This one should do. Just start cutting the roll into one-inch chunks and then we’ll set them to the side.”

  “Okay,” I say, cutting up the long dough snake into the signature shape of gnocchi. “Hey, if I forget to say this later, after all is said and done, thank you for teaching me this. You really didn’t have to.”

  “And you really didn’t have to bring me here with you.”

  “It wouldn’t have been the same without you.” I give him a curt smile and then start chopping the dough again, him helping with every piece . . . but from far away.

  * * *

  Dinner was amazing, some of the best pasta I’ve ever eaten. Jason complained about the pasta sauce, wishing he made his own, but I said it was tasty and was very pleased with it.

  Making gnocchi wasn’t too hard. The tricky part was boiling the little pieces and then frying them right after. It took a lot of concentration and timing, but Jason was a huge help. And the garlic bread, there was no burning it. It came out a perfect golden brown and was crispy and buttery and so, so delicious. I may have had a few too many pieces.

  After dinner, I cleaned up the kitchen and made Jason sit at the counter and talk to me while I did the dishes.

  We talked about stupid things like our favorite places to eat in Chicago, who has the best deep-dish pizza, and what our favorite place to visit in the city is. We joked, teased each other, and we undoubtedly kept stealing glances. I would catch him looking at my butt and he would catch me scanning his chest and the way his muscles pulled against the fabric.

  A thick air started to form between us, the desire in our eyes evident, or at least that’s what I thought. Once the dishes were done, Jason retired to the couch and started reading a book.

  That’s where we are now, both on the couch, both with a book in our hand, bu
t unlike him, who keeps flipping through his pages completely captivated by the Stephen King novel perched in his hands, I’ve read the same two sentences for the past thirty minutes. My concentration is shot and my nerves have unraveled.

  Our legs are stretched out on the couch together, his in the front, mine in the back and the only light in the room is coming from the two side tables with tall lights on them. I have this pulsing itch to drop my book to the side and climb on top of his lap; it’s so bold and vibrant in my head I can’t think of anything else. All I can envision is the way he’d grab my hips and hold me still as I situated myself on top of him. I’d quickly remove my shirt with my bra following close behind. I’d show him with my hands how I like my tits to be played with, how I love for my nipples to be pinched. I’d encourage him to touch me, holding my breath the entire time . . .

  “Mmm,” I moan, just in time for my eyes to widen and notice that I said that out loud.

  I look past my book to where Jason lifts his head to take me in. “Are you okay?”

  “Mm-hmm, yup. Just uh, thinking about that dinner again, it was really good.”

  “It was.” He smiles and goes back to reading.

  Jesus.

  Get it together, Dottie.

  Focus on this book. This . . .

  What the hell am I reading?

  Jason shifts on the couch, his leg brushing against mine, the friction heating me from the tips of my toes to my core as an aching sensation starts to build between my legs.

  It’s been so long since I’ve been with a man, so long since I’ve had that sweet release only a talented guy can give.

  Just looking at Jason, I know he’d be a good lover. Not just good, but exceptional. Probably world-altering. His caring demeanor would make him a giving lover, but the alpha side I’ve seen here and there persuades me that he wouldn’t be polite in the bedroom.

  His toe brushes against mine and I peek over my book to look at him, but all I can see is the book in front of his face. Damn it.

  But then his foot rubs against mine.

  One stroke.

  Two.

  Oh fuck . . . three. Every last nerve ending in my body is starting to tingle from the thought that this could be it, this is the open invitation I’ve been looking for, the—

  “Holy shit.” Jason sits straight up and lowers his book.

  “What?” I ask, being knocked from my fantasies.

  “This book, it’s fucking scary.”

  “Oh.” I chuckle. “Do you need me to hold you?”

  “Yeah, I fucking do.” He shifts on the couch so he leans against the back and he props his feet up on the coffee table in front of him, then he takes my arm and swings me around as well until I’m plastered against his side, his arm draped over my shoulder holding me tight. “There,” he says, while letting out a deep breath. “Are you comfortable?”

  No.

  I’m horny.

  And being next to you, this close, taking in your cologne and being wrapped up by your beefy arm, it’s not helping my libido.

  “Very comfortable, thanks.”

  “Are you liking your book?”

  “Sure, yup. It’s great,” I answer, not knowing one thing about it.

  “Good.” He turns back to his book. The fire crackles in front of us, the mood set for romance, but there isn’t one ounce of romance stirring in this cabin. Just gnocchi-making, high-fiving friends.

  What would he do if I stole his book away from him, tossed it to the side, and straddled his lap? Welcome me? Stick his hand up my shirt? Motorboat me?

  God, I’d love a good motorboating. Scruff rubbing back and forth between my breasts, marring my skin with beard burn. What I wouldn’t give for that right now.

  I guess I can’t be mad, because even though we don’t have our tongues down each other’s throats, at least he’s holding me. I’ve never simply sat like this with a guy, enjoying the quiet, content in his arms. It makes me feel . . . safe. Adored. And that right there should be good enough for me.

  Right?

  * * *

  “I’m tired,” Jason says, startling me from staring at my page. “I’m going to bed.”

  He strokes my arm lightly with his fingers, once again skyrocketing my pulse.

  “What about you? Are you going to stay up a little longer?”

  I shake my head and lift myself out of his embrace, feeling incredibly hot all of a sudden. I stand from the couch and release the straps of the robe I’m wearing, revealing one of the silk nightgowns I brought with me.

  Jason looks up at me, his eyes quickly traveling down my body before he clears his throat and stands as well.

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Yeah . . . me too,” he says awkwardly, setting his book down on the coffee table. He grabs the back of his neck, looking me in the eyes for a brief second before his eyes travel down my body once again, taking longer to observe my breasts. I know my nipples are hard, I can feel them press against the silk of the fabric, and it’s obvious Jason sees them too from the way he tries not to look at them.

  Maybe I was going about this seduction thing entirely the wrong way.

  I let my robe drop all the way off my arms and then toss it over the back of the couch. I run my hand over my chest and say, “I didn’t realize how hot I was until just now. You’re like a furnace.”

  “Yeah, it did get pretty hot in here, huh?” He pulls at his shirt, wafting air inside. “Should I put water on the fire?”

  I shake my head. “It’s just embers, and they’ll die down soon.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He glances at my breasts again.

  I step forward and press my hand against his chest as one of the straps to my nightgown falls down my shoulder. His eyes travel with its descent and then find mine again.

  “Thank you for tonight. For today, saving us from the bear, the dinner. It was a lot of fun.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says, his voice growing soft. He lifts his arm and with the slightest touch, he slowly brings the strap of my nightgown back up my shoulder and then he leaves his hand there, in the crook of my shoulder and neck. His thumb travels along my collarbone, back and forth, back and forth as he stares into my eyes. “You did a good job in the kitchen.”

  “You think?” I ask, stepping in a little closer, the moment intensifying, sparking with awareness.

  “Yeah, I do. A few more lessons and you’ll be inviting me over for dinner.”

  “You might be pushing your luck.” I smile at him.

  He smiles back.

  And then we stare.

  Our breaths heavy, our needs evident in our body language, in the grip we have on each other.

  Just do it. Just lean down and kiss me. Please take away this ache I feel in my bones.

  His thumb moves tantalizingly over my collarbone, slower, more deliberate.

  His eyes burn with heat, quietly communicating.

  His chest leans in, brushing against my hard nipples.

  And when my hand climbs to his neck, he sucks in a sharp breath right before stepping away, putting a good two feet between us, and draining all the air from my lungs in defeat.

  “Uh, yeah, bed. I’m going to go to bed.” He walks backward and trips over a side table, falling flat on his ass.

  Thunk.

  The cabin floors shake from the massive male that just fell to the floor, the vibration rocking center.

  He quickly scrambles up, pulling on the table for assistance, only for it to start to tip over, sending the table lamp careening to the floor with a crash.

  “Shit,” he mumbles, while gathering the lamp and its cord. Haphazardly he attempts to wrap the cord around the trunk of the lamp but fails miserably as the trunk is thin, and he has to wrap it multiple times. Finally he gives up, sets it on the table on its side, and then stands.

  With a loud laugh, too loud of a laugh, like he’s trying to use his laugh to erase the memory of him fumbling around from my memory, he claps his hands,
points at me with playful finger guns, and then takes off without another word.

  What the hell was that?

  I’ll tell you what it wasn’t.

  It wasn’t a good-night kiss. Nor was it an invitation back to his room. Instead, his pride is probably bruised and his libido is shot from embarrassment. Perfect.

  But what really is starting to chap my ass, is why he didn’t kiss me in that moment. What held him back? I saw it in his eyes. I saw it in his body. So why the hesitation?

  Maybe because he doesn’t want to start anything with me.

  I don’t sleep well. My mind whirls with what I could have possibly done wrong. What could have turned him off. But the more I think about it, the more I know I did nothing wrong. I was clear in my intentions. I did everything but jump his bones . . . and he still turned away.

  Which only means one thing: he’s not interested.

  I’m totally screwed with this deal.

  And now I’m mad.

  Chapter Eighteen

  JASON

  “I need help,” I whisper, keeping a look out for Dottie through the car window.

  “Jesus . . . Christ,” Knox says through the phone. “What now? I thought I told you to make a move.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t initiate anything.” I was nervous.

  “Will you grow a goddamn pair? Fuck, man. It’s not hard; say, ‘Will you go out with me?’ ”

  “But she’s different. She’s so cold, emotionless at times, and she’s hard to read. And we had a moment last night.”

  “Yeah, please, tell me about this moment. I’m just waiting on pins and needles,” Knox says sarcastically.

  “You know, I could call Carson instead. I don’t have to share my intimate life with you.”

  “I’d prefer it that way.”

  “Well, you’re going to hear it, you insensitive prick,” I seethe, ducking to keep my eye out the window, the phone pressed tightly against my ear. Fuck, the hours I spent listening to his whiny ass over Emory. Years’ worth. Now it’s my turn.