She could already feel her memory failing her with Jack.
As soon as she’d tasted the cellophane-clear apple pie, she’d known that her promise to Sasha—the one about not sleeping with Jack tonight—was done for. And it wasn’t that she could be bought with an expensive meal, either. It was the way he’d looked at her as she’d been enjoying it, as though her pleasure in eating the food was just as important as his.
When he’d stared at her as she’d licked the last of the translucent pastry off the custom-designed pie plate, she’d felt it all the way from her toes to her scalp. Even as he ushered her through the lobby of his building toward the elevator, there was searing heat where his palm touched hers and an excitement flowing through her veins that she hadn’t felt for a very long time—maybe ever.
She definitely hadn’t felt like this with Noah. Even though their breakup had hurt so badly that she felt it through her entire body, had cried almost every day for six months thereafter, she hadn’t felt the same kind of need for him as she did for Jack.
With Noah, they’d kind of floated at the edges of the same social circle for a few months, edging toward each other during group outings until the group didn’t have to be there. And they’d definitely had sex on their first official date. Of course, in his Noah way, he’d made her feel like she’d made a bad decision by sleeping with him right away.
They’d had quite a bit of wine at dinner, and he’d kept saying, “You started this.”
She’d forgotten all about it until much later, when Noah’d said he couldn’t see a future with her. Even though they’d mutually floated together, he’d found her too overtly sexual and not the kind of woman he could truly depend on to be a good wife and mother. And not black enough to be half of the power couple he desperately wanted to be a part of.
Just remembering those cutting words made her hesitate and her steps falter.
Jack stopped beside her and looked down at her, his forehead creasing with concern that she wanted to drink up like springwater. “What’s wrong?”
She couldn’t tell him the truth—that she was afraid that she’d climb on top of him at the first opportunity and scare him off with her extreme horniness. So she settled for a partial version of the real story.
“I know that if we have sex tonight, you’re never going to call me again because you’ll think I’m just after you for the D. And I’d really like it if you’d call me again.”
Her words were louder than she’d intended them to be, and he looked around before cupping her jaw with both hands and pulling her close, until their foreheads touched. “I never promise something and don’t deliver.” His deep voice resonated inside her, and that was before he took the swoon factor and dialed it up to about eleven. “And I promise that no matter what happens or doesn’t happen when we get up to my place, I’m going to call you.”
Even though she had no reason to believe him and she half expected a camera crew to pop out and tell her that this was all some sort of elaborate prank designed to make her look foolish on some obscure streaming channel aimed at incels wanting to humiliate feminists, she believed him.
“Let’s go upstairs, then.” His smile made her shine from the inside out as he led her the rest of the way to the elevator. Her guard was pretty far down at this point, so after she took in the luxe finishes in the common areas of the building, she asked, “How do you afford this place on a reporter’s salary?”
When he grimaced, she tried to cover. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me. That was so nosy.”
The door dinged, and he squeezed her hand. “I’d have been a little surprised if you hadn’t asked, honestly.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I mean, I couldn’t afford this on my own,” he said. “My dad owns the contracting company that built the place, and he got a unit in the deal closing because the development company didn’t have enough cash to pay him.”
For some reason, she felt relieved to hear that he didn’t come from crazy-big money. “And dinner tonight?”
He grimaced again before looking down and reaching into his pocket, presumably for his keys. “The sous chef really did owe me a favor.”
She felt bad then for allowing her nosiness to almost ruin the best date ever, in addition to feeling kind of mercenary for leading the guy on. Not knowing exactly what to do—when she always knew the right move in her professional life—made her feel vulnerable. After spending so long trying to push away any hints of vulnerability, she was unaccustomed to the sensation. It almost felt as though her chest gaped open and he could see all the broken, gross insides of her. “Big favor.”
He gave her a sly grin that told her he knew she was feeling awkward, opened the door, and put his hand on her lower back again, moving her into his space and reassuring her at the same time. Some of the anxious, edgy, almost-naked feeling receded.
“I’m glad I got to share it with you.” Crap, did he always know what to say?
“Me too.” She looked down, not wanting to meet his gaze. “I had a really good time with you.” She said that twice. And she couldn’t seem to stop doing a lot of girly-stupid things around him that she’d thought she’d sworn off forever.
“Can I take your coat?” This gentlemanly bullshit had to stop—immediately. Maybe he thought he was slick and that she hadn’t noticed how he was always pulling out chairs and opening doors and stuff. Or maybe it was all just second nature to him. What she knew for sure was that his good manners seemed to be straight-up hardwired to her clitoris.
Taking her coat and hanging it for her was practically better than getting fingered. From the way his skin had brushed hers while he was removing the trench, she knew that was a lie. If he did anything to her girl parts with his fingers, she was going to know and remember forever exactly what he did to her body.
The manners were just an aphrodisiac.
“What can I get you to drink?” He led her into an open-concept industrial living space. Exactly what she would have expected but for the meticulous cleanliness and touches of smart design. There was the de rigueur bachelor big-screen television, but he also had neutral, tasteful accent pillows and decent furniture. He definitely hadn’t found any of it on the curb or bought it off of Craigslist.
“What do you have?”
He smiled, and his incredibly sexy dimple popped. She could spend years trying to make him smile so hard that his dimple popped out. Then he sauntered over to a cabinet that hugged the exposed brick wall and opened it up. “Whatever you want.”
She knew in her bones that his offer extended to more than liquor, and the ideas running through her brain made her throat dry out. The wine pours with dinner hadn’t been generous—basically enough for a swallow of wine with each dish—so she wasn’t drunk. But she was giddy on the man smiling at her.