“I think you mean, ‘Good evening, roomie. How was your day?’” His disparaging use of the word roomie spoke volumes. “To which I reply, not good because it just so happens, there’s a crafty Goldilocks sleeping in my bed. I want her out, pronto.”
She scoffed, ignoring the butterflies letting loose inside her tummy . . . all because he showed up at her door.
“I own that mattress now, roomie.” She pointed to the lumpy double in the corner. “And I’m not in your bed. Never again,” she lied through her teeth.
Because if he smiled—a genuine, devil-may-care Jameson Maine kind of smile—then never again was about to mean right damn now.
Summoning her resentment took effort, but she found it. His frown helped her cause.
“I’m in the middle of something.” Holding up the bottle, she showed him her priorities, making it clear he wasn’t one.
Punishing him for the non-valentine card. And other things.
In return, he held up a paper bag from her favorite take-out restaurant, the bottom spotted with grease stains.
Holy shit, he brought her dinner.
Okay, that made up for the silly valentine. But not the other things.
“Is there a lobster roll in that bag?” she asked hopefully, daring to believe. “From Seafood Sally’s? For me?”
“Depends,” he said in that graveled voice of his. It gave her the shivers—on top of the butterflies. “You got anything to drink other than wine?”
“Tap water.” When he made a face, she grinned. “Toilet water? You are a dog.”
“You’d rather insult me than eat hot buttered lobster?” His mouth quirked—not a smile but no longer a frown. “You really have changed, cupcake.”
That slow, sexy non-smile, and the offer of a lobster roll, was all it took. She let him back in. Her house. Her life. Her . . . heart.
And if you valued the truth, there was a chance he never left that last location.
Opening the screen door, she stood back to let him in. “You know I’ll do anything for a lobster roll. Including share my alcohol.”
“Good thing I brought my own.” He lifted the six-pack of beer in his other hand, not entering the house. “Let’s eat out here. It’s too hot inside.”
The sun was just setting, but the air was still warm and muggy. Fall had yet to arrive in The Hamptons.
Sitting gingerly on the porch swing, he tested the rusty chain to ensure it would hold his weight, then dropped the bag of food next to him, the six-pack at his bare feet. Grabbing a pale ale, he popped the top, took a long pull, then rested the sweating bottle between his legs.
Chloe watched, mesmerized. In threadbare jeans and a white T-shirt, he was just so . . . male.
A bigger, badder version than any she’d ever encountered, he didn’t seem to give a shit what anybody thought of him. Of course, when you looked like liquid sex, the world sort of stood back and stared in wonder.
Chloe did. Looming in the doorway, contemplating the scene.
Considering her options.
Sit and eat with him and risk her hard-fought independence from a Jameson Maine addiction? Or close and lock the door, denying herself the pleasure of his company in favor of self-preservation? Because lest we forget, he was the man who ruined her life.
But the lobster roll.
And the tattoos.
And the stubble. Goddamn, why did he have the sexiest facial hair in the history of all mankind?
Only because he had lobster rolls, she told herself, hesitantly sitting next to him on the swing. Ensuring there was plenty of space between them should the desire to hop onto his lap, wrap her legs around his waist, and do naked hip thrusters overwhelm her better judgment.
But womanly urges aside, it was shocking he wanted to have dinner with her. That he drove into town and waited in line to buy it, then walked across the yard in his bare feet to share it.
I mean, he hated her. Right?
Sitting cross-legged on the swing, she opened the paper-wrapped lobster roll and inhaled fresh, buttery goodness. Then looked at him suspiciously.
“There’s no rat poison in here, is there?”
He barked out a laugh, pulling two more sandwiches from the bag, along with fries.
“Um, that wasn’t a joke. I need to know.”
“If I wanted to off you, Chloe, I wouldn’t bring you dinner first.”
“Fair point, but . . .” She looked pointedly between the sandwich he handed her and the two he pulled out for himself.
Grumbling, he traded her one.
“Very gentlemanly,” she complimented, then tore open the wrapper, took a messy bite of fresh seafood wrapped in a homemade baguette, and groaned in bliss.
Then ignored his side-eye scowl at her verbal reaction because . . . porno or lobster roll, the moaning sounds were the same.
They ate in silence, but halfway through her sandwich, she again looked at him suspiciously. “Why did you bring me dinner?”
He shrugged, looking out at the lush green lawn spread before them. The Atlantic was to their left, miles of endless blue water meeting a hazy horizon.
“Felt like a lobster roll. Thought it’d be rude not to share.”
“You’re concerned about manners now? You attempted to kick me out of my own house the other night. Naked, I’ll remind you.”
“No need.” He pointed to his head. “That body is etched into my memory forever. I’m gonna think about it right now.”
He tossed a few fries into his mouth, eating while contemplating her T and A—she assumed anyway—before finally shrugging as if unimpressed.
“At least, your timing has improved. My bubble bath was cut short then, but I saved my soak for later tonight. I’m up to my eyeballs in purple penises.”
He raised a dark, naturally perfect brow. “You want me to take my food and leave? Let you get to those dicks?”
“No.” She held the last of her sandwich out of his reach just in case. “Only wondering how you went from hostile this morning to polite tonight.”
“Seafood Sally’s had a buy two, get one free deal. Don’t mistake my cheapness for politeness.”
She snorted at his lame excuse. Chloe didn’t know whether he was cheap or not, but that summer ten years ago, he was generous as hell. The money he sent Jonah every month was generous too.
Yeah, she knew about that. Didn’t agree with how Jonah spent it, but she knew. And was touched by his sweet gesture.
Jameson wouldn’t be.
Jonah’s good deed came with consequences. The loss of Maine Lane.
“Sally never has a sale,” she murmured, prodding him for a better reason. “They overcharge for these lobster rolls, and people still stand in line for hours to get them.”
“Needed to eat.” His tone was indifferent. “Figured you did, too. And Sally let me skip to the front.”
Right. That face afforded him every benefit, especially when it came to the ladies.
“Well, thank you,” she said genuinely, not reading too much into it. “This is way better than what I planned. Cereal and chardonnay.”
He did it then. Gave her that panty-melting smile.
She finished her roll while staring at his perfectly chiseled profile. Held captive by his dark, powerful presence.
He was bigger now. Taller, sure, but bulkier too. A guy you took one look at and knew—he was capable of anything. Yes, he could kill that creepy crawler in the corner near the ceiling, but he could just as easily cup the spider in the palm of his hand and carry it outdoors to safety.