Page 22 of Dangerous Devotion

“Serena,” I say. “You have a lover.”

“Is that what you are? What this is? I miss you when we’re not together, and I never thought I could be so happy—and that was before you surprised me with goats.”

“We’re not keeping the goats,” I remind her.

“It was enough to play with them and see them up close. I never imagined this was possible. To fall for you so hard, to fall for you at all. Tell me it’s not in my imagination, because I worry about that sometimes.”

I tip her chin up with my fingers and catch her lips with mine.

“Tell me this isn’t real,” I say into her mouth. Tenderness and lust war for supremacy. I work her lips apart and dip my tongue into her mouth, stroking and tasting her. She melts into my arms. I murmur something about taking her home. I think I wouldn’t mind doing this until my heart gives out, but I don’t say the words. It’s too early for that, and I’ve never said them to anyone before.

11

SERENA

Jack doesn’t tire of me. He doesn’t decide I’m boring or too ordinary. He keeps doing the sweetest things. He has my favorite cereal at his place, spoils me with romantic dates and fiery nights. He even stays and sleeps in with me a couple of times when we wear each other out.

I have a keycard to his elevator, a drawer with my clothes in it. Clothes he picked out for me himself, because he likes doing that sort of thing. I tease him that I’m just his favorite pet, that he pampers me and plays with me but the newness will wear off.

He doesn’t think that’s funny, and tells me that despite my enthusiasm for goats, he has never had a pet and never wants one. He wants me all the time. I can’t hide how much that thrills me.

I’ve spent the night at his apartment a dozen times. I’ve watched three seasons of True Blood with him—the show that he grudgingly admitted is his favorite during some revealing pillow talk. It gets on his nerves that I’m not a Bill fan. I suspect that the Mob boss I’m having an illicit affair with identifies with the world-weary vampire in the show. I tease him about it just to watch him bristle at the suggestion.

To earn my keep, so to speak, I show off my ability to drain an infected suture in the back room at the bar, and I take care of a couple of guys who got into a knife fight over a woman. I dispense ibuprofen and even help an old guy with an ingrown toenail. I like putting my skills to good use, keeping them fresh, and it keeps me from feeling like I’m a charity case at Bettino’s.

Most evenings I’m only there a couple of hours. Then Jack picks me up and we go to dinner or take a walk by the river. I don’t exactly have to worry about being mugged or harassed when I’m with him. I know he has security, the discreet kind, but I can’t imagine him needing it when he’s so alert, so dangerous himself.

He takes me salsa dancing, and he’s good. I’m surprised, but I admit the way he moves his body, the moves I’ve come to know and dream of, make sense with this kind of dancing. I have a hard time remembering which way to turn to go under his arm, and I make mistakes. We laugh together, and I can’t remember ever feeling this joyful, this free of everything.

He rises so early to work out, which I can’t even fathom. I always reach for him with a half-awake groan when he gets up at some ungodly hour. Once I decide I’ll surprise him. I set an alarm that makes me whine and curl up into a ball when it wakes me. I creep to his kitchen and make him breakfast.

By the time gets back from his workout, I’m ready with a plate of only kind of runny scrambled eggs and toast, a glass of orange juice, all on a bamboo tray with a napkin folded into a triangle. I beam at him, and he looks at me, puzzled.

“What’s all this?” he says.

“I wanted to surprise you,” I say sheepishly.

“You made me eggs?” he says, his voice sounding a little dubious as he looks at the plate.

“I did. Isn’t it scary? I never felt like cooking for anybody in my life. Well, other than my dad.”

“You probably shouldn’t bring your dad into the conversation when I can see your nipples through that shirt,” he teases me.

“Right. Afraid to eat the eggs?”

“A little.”

“A big, tough businessman like you?”

“Thank you for making me breakfast. It’s very sweet of you.” He tries so hard to arrange his features into something like a smile that I burst out laughing.

“Do you hate eggs or do they just look that bad?”

“I wouldn’t say I hate them. It’s more that I usually just grab a protein bar after I work out. That doesn’t make this any less thoughtful though. I know how much you love your sleep. You got up early to do this for me and—”

“Stop,” I giggle. “You don’t have to eat it. In fact, watching you try to act like it’s a delightful surprise is almost worth getting up that early to make scrambled eggs,” I confess.

“Are you sure?”

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