“So you let them think it was you? They must hate you.”
He nodded with a sigh. “I’m not very popular with them, but I could never do something to drive a wedge between her and her parents.” He ran his fingers through his hair, puffing out a large breath.
His words spilled out, one on top of the other. “The divorce is almost final. I was as close with her brother as with my own sisters, and even though Gretchen and I separated, he still wanted me to be in his wedding. It was probably a bad idea.”
“You’re in your ex-wife’s brother’s wedding? Sounds . . . It sounds a little hard to believe. You didn’t even tell me you’d been married.” My voice was small, smaller than I wanted it to be because rage and shame tangled in my chest.
He rubbed his palms to his eyes. “Ugh, yes.” He shook his head. “It sounds like a lie, but it’s true. I swear. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” He spoke fast, his expression pinched and his brow wrinkling. “I should have. I just . . . We met at a bar. I didn’t want to be that guy, the guy with baggage. I didn’t think it mattered. It was only a drink, then just one night, and now . . .”
We sat in silence for a minute or two, and I thought about baggage.
He nudged my foot with his. “Are you kicking me out?”
“Not yet.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “It’s not like we’re . . . I mean it’s just a few days.”
He took my hands in his, and I dared a glance at his face. He was staring at me again. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“I thought about you all day, too. I mean, I was furious, but still . . .”
He didn’t respond immediately, and we sat in silence. “Sounds fair.” His long fingers stroked up my back, rubbing the nape of my neck. “Are you still furious?”
“I’m breaking so many rules with you. I want to be furious.”
He nodded, the hint of a smile curving on his lips. “But . . . ?”
“I have no reason to believe you . . . except that I do.” I wasn’t sure if I was a pushover destined to be lied to or if he was special. Maybe both.
He’d said he didn’t want to be the guy with baggage, and I was hiding a full set behind my walls.
“In the last few days,” he said, his voice still low and solemn, “I’ve been more myself with you than I have with anyone in a long time. Can we still have one more night?”
I wanted to tell him not to lie to me again, but what kind of unreal hypocrisy was that? I nodded, lifting my chin to meet his eyes. “One more night.”
Twenty-two
The faint smell of sandalwood filled my nostrils, and I pressed my face into the soft surface of my pillow. Slowly, awareness knitted together around me, and I smiled before my eyes opened. Jake’s face was inches from mine, and the heat from his body made me crave more contact with his skin. He gazed at me from under impossibly thick eyelashes. How long had he been watching me sleep? God, those eyes. The window behind him showed a flat gray sky, no trace of sunshine on our last hours together. Fitting.
“Good morning.”
At the sound of his gravelly morning voice, heat rose on my cheeks and spread across my chest as the memories from the night before flooded back. The feel of his hands and mouth, and how he’d looked at me like a crystal clear deluge.
I rubbed my eyes, stifling a yawn. “What time is it?”
“It’s after eight.” His voice was raspy and just above a whisper. “I woke up maybe an hour ago.”
Under the blanket, his finger touched mine. It was a tiny, soft gesture, the smallest point of contact—a sweet reconnection. “But I didn’t want to leave you yet,” he added.
When he spoke, images of squirming toddlers and reading the paper together in bed ran unbidden through my mind. Pull it together, heart.
I admired the line of his biceps cradled beneath his head and changed the subject. “Was I interesting while I slept?”
“Very.” A second finger met mine under the blankets.
“Talking? Something sultry and mysterious?”
“No.” He grinned. “Just snoring.”
My expression must have been one of horror, because he laughed.
“Don’t make that face. It was cute.”
“Oh, God. Really?” I raised my hands to cover my face. “That’s so embarrassing.” Maybe my next career move will be writing a book titled How to Fail at Flirting and Still Get Laid.
“No,” he reassured me, a smile in his voice. “It was sweet. A sexy snore, even.” He touched my arm, trying to tug my fingers from over my face.