“I told you that night I’d be better off without you.” She winced.
“No, you didn’t. You said we’d be better off apart. Where we couldn’t hurt each other any longer. That was my opportunity to promise you I wouldn’t hurt you again. Instead, I refused to back down.”
He’d agreed with her. Said that if she wanted a divorce, that was fine by him. He’d been hurt, his pride bruised. His ego had taken a beating. “I thought I couldn’t please you.”
“In your defense, I can be difficult,” she said now, but with a kind smile.
“You were being you. Which is exactly why I fell in love with you in the first place.” He reached for her hand and intertwined their fingers. As he’d realized previously, vulnerability wasn’t his strong suit—or hers. The inability for them to let their guard down with each other was probably to blame for their splitting more than anything. “It’d be so easy to lean in and kiss you.”
She licked her lips and dipped her chin. Not a nod exactly, but she leaned the slightest bit closer and peered up at him. Tenderly, he stroked her jaw with his thumb. Once he saw his future in those deep brown eyes. Now he only saw his past.
A past littered with failure and regret. A past he couldn’t undo.
“But I promised no funny stuff,” he murmured.
Time to stop doing what he wanted, or what he decided was right for her. Gia had gone on not one date but two in order to put distance between them. It was time for him to stop pushing so damn hard.
Pulling his hand away, he stood. She watched him, longing emanating from her like heat off the desert floor. Then she armored up.
“Drive safe.” She plucked up the bottle as she stood. “Thank you for the champagne.”
That’s my girl.
“You’re welcome.”
He walked inside and she followed, abandoning the bottle in the kitchen to see him to the door. He fought the urge to turn and kiss her one last time. That would’ve felt too final. Like admitting he couldn’t live without her.
And he could.
He’d been doing it for years.
Twenty-One
Saturday afternoon came and he showed up at the house, apron in hand. No, really. The black canvas apron read “Pasta la Vista, baby” in bold stencil print.
Gia bought it for him last Christmas. Got a big kick out of herself for being so clever. But amidst the joking and ribbing, she also went on and on about how he’d made the best homemade pasta she’d ever eaten. And that even the best local Italian place in River Grove, Garlíc, couldn’t best his skills. It’d made him proud, truth be told.
He’d gone home that night and made pasta by hand, no pasta maker to be seen since he’d left that piece of equipment with Gia. He’d made enough to feed an army but hadn’t taken her any of the leftovers. It seemed too personal. Too much of a throwback to the last time he’d made her pasta—on their wedding anniversary. And after they’d nearly slept together at Addison and Brannon’s wedding, he hadn’t wanted to risk sending the wrong message.
He found said pasta maker now, an item his ex-wife had insisted having on the gift registry, exactly where they’d put it after they moved in. Bottom cabinet on the island and all the way in the back. As he wrestled it from behind baking dishes and a large stand mixer, he wondered if she’d forgotten about it or if she kept it on purpose. If she’d been planning on learning to make pasta herself—unlikely—or if she couldn’t part with the piece of machinery because it reminded her of him.
That seemed even more unlikely.
He’d ask her why she kept it, but she wasn’t home. She’d told him to let himself in, that she had errands to run.
The last time she’d left him on his own, she’d gone on a date with a billionaire yacht owner. It still chapped Jayson’s ass, even though he supposed it shouldn’t. She was as single as he was and allowed to date whomever she chose. Lately that’d been a bitter pill to swallow.
She didn’t disclose where she was going or who she was going with so those feelings of jealousy threatened to rise. He ignored them as he piled flour and dug a well, hand mixed in eggs and slowly folded that into a dough.
He was beginning to see that letting go was an art. One he hadn’t mastered yet, but he hadn’t been trying until now. Not really.
Over the last eighteen months he’d seen and talked to Gia almost every day. She was part of the fabric of his existence. That he no longer climbed into bed with her was a disappointment he’d managed because he had to. Then the morning after Royce’s and Taylor’s wedding, he’d realized something important.
Gia wanted him, too.
In the heat of the moment, they’d been caught up, time traveling back to their very first encounter, in the same damn bathroom. Which wasn’t that surprising given how lackluster their wedding dates had been. But expecting to be able to continue forward without repercussions or emotions was a fool’s dream.
When he’d brought the champagne over, he’d learned just how much of that baggage existed for both of them. The memories, the arguments. Sex—even really great sex twice—wasn’t going to be the magic wand that erased their past.
He’d admitted his faults to her, but that was also too little too late. If he’d been a man who’d recognized in the moment what she needed, maybe they’d still be together.
He punched the dough, more frustrated with himself for being a dumbass than anything and decided that while he couldn’t change the past, he could change the future.
Jayson and Gia weren’t going to live happily-ever-after, but they could find joy together right now. Even briefly.
“Hey, Siri,” he called to his phone. She answered, in an Australian accent, because why not, and he requested what he’d nicknamed his “Badass” playlist. His favorite song, and Gia’s for that matter, was the theme song for Rocky.
The drumbeats started playing, those initial first few beats reminding him who he was and what he was capable of. He was going to move forward from here, as he was in this moment. He knew how to treat Gia and what she liked, and regardless of the future—whether they had one or not—they had this moment.
And this moment was what mattered.
* * *
After a shopping excursion that had yielded zero shopping bags, Gia walked into her foyer and into a wall of music. Jayson’s singing voice was on point. She’d always admired his ability to carry a tune, her own talent having ended up somewhere between Brannon and Royce. Bran was an abysmal singer and Royce wasn’t half-bad. She guessed that made her about a quarter good.
Jay must not have heard her walk in. Lingering at the mouth of the living room/kitchen area she watched as he shook his ass at the stove. A black apron was tied at his waist—the one she’d bought for him last Christmas, she’d bet.
A drum solo lifted on the air and he raised the wooden spoon in his hand and pounded the invisible drum set. Upon spinning around, presumably for a final cymbal crash, he spotted her.
“Hey.” He dropped his arms, wooden spoon still in hand, steaming pot behind him on the stove. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“You don’t say.” She allowed herself a laugh, because how charmingly taken aback was he, and stepped into the kitchen. Her senses went wild. “Oh my God, it smells incredible in here.”
Looked pretty incredible too: her hunky ex-husband, forearms bared, scruff decorating his jaw, wearing that silly apron.
“Homemade sauce.” He gestured to a pot on the back of the stove, lid on, and then to the pot he’d been stirring. “Pasta’s almost done. Made-from-scratch garlic bread is in the oven.”
“You went all out.” She was touched. The last time he’d done that they were celebrating an anniversary. Their last, as it turned out.
“I lost fair and square. You didn’t expect a jar of Prego sauce and a box of frozen garlic rolls, did you?”
“No. I
didn’t.” His attention to detail was one of the main reasons she’d fallen in love with him. He didn’t miss a thing. And he’d wanted to give her everything. When they were married, his attention felt smothering. Once he’d moved out, she thought she’d feel free. Instead she found herself struggling to befriend the man she’d vowed to love until the end of time.
Since that thought was a touch heavy for this homey scene, she decided to lighten the mood. “You know if you’d have cooked like this more often...”
“Don’t say it,” he warned, pointing at her with the wooden spoon before giving his pasta another swirl.
“I was going to say I’d be a lot fatter.”
“That is not what you were going to say.” Sliding her a glance, his mouth hitched into a half smile, he set the spoon aside. He grabbed an open bottle of red wine and the empty glass next to his half-full one, and sloshed in a few inches of wine before handing it to her. “Unless you’d rather chug it out of the bottle.”
“Us being apart certainly didn’t make you any funnier.”
He grinned—full out—and she thought to herself that while he hadn’t become funnier, he’d somehow become sexier. She eyed his backside as she sipped the fruity, deep-colored wine, recognizing it the moment the flavors burst onto her tongue.
“Is this—”
“One and the same. I wasn’t going to, but then I remembered that whenever I made pasta we had this vintage.”
The same wine they’d drunk on their anniversary, and their favorite from their trip to wine country that first Christmas they’d spent together. She hadn’t had it in too long, fearing bad memories. But here they were, and the wine was delicious, her ex-husband was in her house shaking his great ass, and she didn’t have any bad memories. Only good ones.
She’d been overthinking the night he’d delivered her champagne. She should have leaned in and kissed him—even if they’d ended up in bed together, it would have been better than soaking in the tub by herself, wishing he was there.
Regardless of the consequences.
It wasn’t as if they’d end up accidentally remarried. They each knew the score. Their marriage didn’t work because of their needs to guard their own space. They couldn’t be together while also being apart.
She’d loved him, but that hadn’t made them bulletproof. Admiration, friendship and sexual compatibility was one thing. Wedded bliss? Another altogether.
He lifted a noodle from the pot with a pair of tongs and gingerly ate it. Nodding, he lifted his eyebrows before slurping the rest of the noodle down and Gia pressed her thighs together. Soooo. Sexy.
“Done,” he announced with a nod.
“I’ll go change.”
“Why? You look great.”
She supposed her dark blue skirt and red-striped tank and flats were suitable for a dinner at home, but she wanted to honor his efforts by stepping it up.
“I just want to. You’re dressed up.” she told him.
“Am I?” He glanced down at his charcoal gray pants and short-sleeved gray utility shirt—the one she’d always liked, with the black buttons.
“Give me five minutes.”
“Okay.” He held her eyes for a prolonged beat. His gaze was a touch daring, more playful than aloof, almost... tender. Open.
Shutting out thoughts about how she wished he would have been this open and irresistible when they were married, she climbed the stairs to change for her dinner date.
Twenty-Two
Jayson wished she wouldn’t have changed. Seeing her in the low-cut navy blue dress that showcased her gorgeous breasts was torture. Also, incredible. He was gifted an eyeful whenever she bent over her plate.
Plus, she moaned while she ate.
Literally. Moaned.
He’d already been distracted by her bare legs and a pair of sexy high-heeled shoes. When she reentered the kitchen he’d nearly fumbled the bread basket. The moaning thing? Not helping matters.
“You should’ve been a chef,” she proclaimed before taking a giant bite out of a wedge of toasted garlic bread. He’d mixed minced garlic and fresh herbs with butter and slathered it onto the bread before baking. The result?
“Ohhhhh, God.” Her eyes slid shut and she tilted her head back.
Orgasmic. That was the result.
He adjusted his pants and drank down more wine. Maybe if he was super drunk he’d pass out and not be tempted to sleep with his ex-wife.
Again.
“If I were a chef, who would run your tech department?” Work. Talking about work wasn’t sexy.
She swiped her mouth with a cloth napkin. “Duh. Me.”
“Then who would run Marketing?” Fork hovering, he waited for her to answer but instead she twisted her lips to one side.
“We’d find someone.” She shrugged one petite bare shoulder. A shoulder he wanted to kiss.
“Someone better than you?”
“I’d rather be in tech, anyway.”
“You were. Before we split.”
“You were there first,” she argued.
She’d left the department—while not physically leaving the department. Her office was the same as it’d been back then. He’d originally given her the space since he felt as if he’d taken the job that should have been hers.
He wound pasta on his fork. “I would have thought you’d jump at the chance to be CEO when your father retired.”
“I was too busy putting out marketing fires to even think about it.”
He knew that. She worked hard.
“And now?” He leaned in, interested to hear her plans.
“I’m happy for Royce. And I’m relieved that the position of CEO didn’t come between him and Brannon.”
“What about you, G? What do you want?”
She blinked at him as if she was stunned that he’d asked. Had he ever asked her? Had anyone?
Damn. He’d been an ass.
“I want world peace.” She gave him a disingenuous smile and then ate a bite of garlic bread. “What’s wrong, do you want me out of your department?”
“You know I don’t.” He liked her there. “I need your brains.”
“Finally, a man who loves me for my brains.” She chuckled before going quiet. Probably because she’d mentioned the L-word. Love seemed to be tangled up between them and whatever they were to each other now. It was easier to compartmentalize before they’d had sex. Before he’d been sleeping over. Before he’d made her pasta and brought anniversary wine.
“I always appreciated how smart you were,” he admitted. “I also appreciate how kind you are. How giving. Admit it, you wanted to kick my ass out of the tech department but you didn’t want me to be exiled.”
“My family never would have let that happen.” A dodge for sure, but he felt justified that he was right.
“But you’re doing well without me,” he said.
“Without you! You won’t leave!”
“You went on a date after we slept together, G. I can take a hint.”
“This again?” She dropped her fork. “Elias and I didn’t connect. He was as boring as plain oatmeal.”
Jayson sat up taller. He liked hearing that.
“Plus you can’t be mad about it since I returned home and had sex with you right away.”
“You were the one who stripped down to a bikini.”
“And you were powerless to stop yourself?” Her smile held and he didn’t look away this time. Despite her trying to be blasé about this entire interaction, sexual tension was strung between them, power cable thick.
“I can stop myself.” His voice was a low growl. “What do you think I’m doing right now?”
“What if...” She lifted and dropped one shoulder and studied her plate. “I don’t want you to stop yourself? What if...” She met his gaze and batted her thick dark eyel
ashes. “I want to cut dinner short and take you upstairs?”
His entire body screamed yes, from his head to his lap. His grip on his fork tightened. He said nothing. Seemed the wisest course of action since he wasn’t sure if he was being pranked.
“What if—” she stood from her chair and reached behind her to unzip her dress “—I want to have sex with you right now? On the kitchen floor.” She dropped the front of her dress and exposed a strapless bra, the cups pushing her breasts up and together. That’s what had been teasing him during dinner. That damn bra.
“I’d say no,” he bit out.
She pushed out her bottom lip into a pout and he nearly let loose the feral grin he’d been hiding. Standing from his chair he reached her in two steps and crushed her body against his. With one hand he gripped the material of her dress and tugged it down until it was on the floor.
“Upstairs. In bed. With the lights on.”
Excitement crowded out the worry in her eyes. “Sounds good to me.”
Wasting no time, he lifted her into the cradle of his arms and carried her upstairs. With every step he ascended he stomped out the warnings in his head. They were crossing a lot of very dangerous lines. This time when she retreated, would she avoid him for good?
He didn’t know.
But if this was their last time, he was going to make sure she never forgot it.
She kissed his neck when he crested the top of the stairs. Softly. Gently. Her lips on his skin caused his blood to heat.
“Which room is it again?” He smiled down at her before kissing her briefly on that beautiful mouth. So precious, his Gia.
No. Not precious. Just satisfy her needs and yours.
He’d make tonight worth it for both of them.
In the room he deposited her not-so-gracefully onto the rumpled blankets.
“Still don’t make your bed?” he asked as he unbuttoned his shirt.
She sat on her knees, those luscious breasts spilling over her bra and giving him a peek of nipple. “Why bother? When I’ll only mess it up again?”
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