But man what a difference breaking free from Reid had made.
The women’s magazines might taunt her for “eating away her grief over the end of her marriage,” but Juliet much preferred the way she was now. She felt ownership of her body, enjoyed the way it moved, how it looked. As if she’d grown into those bones, finally hit her stride. The women’s mags could go suck on their fake sympathy. She was going to flaunt her curves and love her life.
Anyone who tried to judge her could go sit on a cactus.
Jacob Esera especially.
“Here.” Jake handed her a flute of champagne.
Sailor was at the front end of the seating area in the limo, pouring sparkling golden liquid into clear flutes held out by his wife. Who he winked at just then, a wicked smile creasing his cheeks.
“Thank you.” Juliet made sure her fingers didn’t brush Jake’s as she took the flute. But it didn’t do much good when the rest of his body was pressing up against the side of hers. The man was a furnace.
“Why the death glare?” Jake raised an eyebrow.
“That’s my resting bitch face.”
The faintest warming of his eyes—and yeah, that was potent—before Molly tapped him on the shoulder to pass him a flute. Taking it, he didn’t seize the opportunity to talk to someone, anyone, else. Instead, he shifted his attention back to Juliet after thanking Molly. “To clarify, is that your only resting face, or am I the recipient of a special one?”
Juliet almost laughed, would’ve probably snorted champagne bubbles up her nose if she’d given in. “I have a repertoire.” She smiled her fakest smile, just to see what he’d do. “But don’t worry, you only have to remember this one—it’s the only one you’ll ever see.”
Wide eyes. “I think you need to consult a doctor, Jules—your face seems to be cracking in the most bizarre way.”
She absolutely would’ve snort-laughed this time if Sailor’s voice hadn’t cut through the limo. “To Gabe and Charlie!” The second-eldest of Jake’s brothers held up the flute in his hand after everyone had a drink—with Esme and Emmaline given soda in lieu of alcohol. But that soda had been poured into “grown-up” glass flutes that each girl held with utmost care.
Heart threatening to go scarily mushy again, Juliet raised her flute along with the others. Jake clinked his flute to hers and they drank. Their eyes locked in silent combat, part of a battle that had been going on since the day Callie tugged Juliet aside at lunchtime and whispered that “Jake invited me to come watch his game!”
Callie had been like a tiny star that day, she’d been so buzzy and bright. Juliet hadn’t understood what her scholarly best friend saw in the gearhead jock who swaggered around the school thinking he was all that and tomato sauce, and seriously, what kind of a date was it to invite Callie to watch a bunch of sweaty boys slamming into one another?
But in the end, she’d had to admit that Jake treated Callie like a goddess.
Like his just-married brother, Jake didn’t hide it when he was into a girl. He used to wait outside Callie’s classes to walk her to the next one. Callie, in turn, had turned up to every one of his rugby matches, Jake’s personal cheer squad. She’d dragged Juliet along despite all of Juliet’s attempts to wriggle out—Juliet liked sports, but standing on a muddy and freezing winter sideline while a bunch of equally muddy jocks chased a slippery oval ball hadn’t been her idea of a good time.
But she’d gone, because Callie had always been her truest friend. It would’ve been easy for the other girl to drop her as they grew and Juliet’s grades began to slip, her suspensions and warnings rising at an inverse rate. Callie’s parents had certainly not liked Juliet and often told Callie she could do better.
But Callie, nonconfrontational but stubborn, had ignored them.
Juliet’s breath stuck in her chest, because in the end, she’d let down her friend. It hadn’t been her fault that she couldn’t attend Callie’s funeral, but it still felt that way. She hadn’t even been able to send flowers, she’d had so little money. Barely enough to pay for a small amount of data on the aged phone a sympathetic teacher had gifted her.
The only thing she’d managed was to send an email to Jake. Not to Callie’s parents; they would’ve deleted it at once. Jake being Jake had replied to tell her that he’d received the email and that he’d read out her words of friendship at the funeral.
Before today, that was the last time they’d spoken.
“Oh damn.” A drop of champagne slid wet and cool down her cleavage. Not thinking about it, she lowered her finger and wiped up, then licked the champagne off the wet tip.
Her eyes collided with Jake’s while her finger was in her mouth. Heat burned her cheekbones. He was looking at her like she’d walked out of a cave wearing nothing but a bearskin and dirt.
Making a face at him, she sucked more deliberately before popping her finger out of her lips, just daring him to say something.
5
Juliet and Her Blowtorch
Jake’s entire body clenched against the raw sexual heat that smashed through him in a tornado that sought to level everything in its path. Setting his jaw, he forced himself to look away from Juliet’s challenging gaze.
What the hell was wrong with him?
This was Juliet.
Constantly in detention, lippy with the teachers, barely scraping by on her grades, burr in his side, Juliet.
Beside him, she laughed in response to something Mei had just said, the hard-nosed detective more smiley than Jake had ever seen her. Juliet’s laugh was big and husky and warm. Before, when she’d been all gangly limbs, it had seemed too big a laugh for her, but now it was just another weapon in her sensual arsenal.
That laugh wrapped around him, as soft and sexy as her thighs.
Because bad-girl Juliet Nelisi had grown into her bones, no more hard edges to her. Ah hell, who was he trying to fool? The woman was a hammer-to-the-head, bottle-of-whiskey knockout, full of dangerous curves that made him want to explore her inch by inch… then do it all over again.
He curled his fingers into his palm, squeezing tight. He was no monk, but he wasn’t exactly a man about town either; Jake took his time, chose his sexual partners with care. He didn’t do one-night stands or give in to lust. Even if he hadn’t been an intensely private man who wanted his daughter to grow up proud of her dad, he had endorsement deals based on his squeaky-clean image.
He couldn’t afford to end up all over the tabloids.
The last woman with whom he’d had a physical affair was a reporter who did long-form hard news pieces. Rachel had been of the same mindset—she had a rising career that was as far from the tabloids as you could get.
Those tabloids as well as the gossipy women’s magazines liked to run the occasional story about how he had a tragic past with “a lost love,” but that was about it. Hard to wring salacious and scandalous from his determinedly uninteresting-to-the-media existence. There were only so many times they could reprint that old photo of him and Callie they’d managed to source from an old classmate.
Jake was the most boring-to-the-tabloids rugby player in the world, and that was exactly how he liked it.