Page 14 of The Wrong Guy

This is a bad idea. I shouldn’t have come. I’m playing with fire here. The only problem is, where Jesse’s concerned, I might as well be an arsonist. I think I’d happily set my world ablaze for him, burn myself to ashes, and while I’d be a shadow of my former self, he’d simply move on like nothing happened. It’s who he is—casual, fun, carefree. At least about his women, of which I’m just one of many.

“I ... don’t ... know ...,” I stammer. I glance down to my boots, the toes right at the threshold of the door.

Jesse moves closer, and I look up to find him scanning me from toes to head, not paying nearly as much attention to my boots as I was. No, his eyes are locked on my legs, hips, boobs, and then his eyes meet mine. He licks his lips, and for a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me. But instead, he inhales deeply. I wonder if he can smell me from there. He used to love burying his face in my hair—“breathing me in,” he called it.

“Well, if you’re gonna yell at me some more, could you do it in here so Mrs. Capshaw doesn’t complain to the police? I can’t afford another ‘disturbing the peace’ call.” As he says it, he drops a bottle onto the coffee table. “Peace offering.”

It’s a small bottle of my favorite Naked Mighty Mango juice, set right on the edge of the table like it’s going to lure me inside. “Why do you have that?” I demand. “I know you don’t drink them. Or do you think every woman you bring here will want some postcoital fruity drink? I’m surprised you don’t offer them a beer or water and be done with it.”

I never decided, but I’ve entered his home, scooping the bottle from the table and holding it out accusingly like it’s proof of his sleeping with any woman who’ll follow him home. And I know there are dozens. He can’t help it when he looks like a work-hardened sex god and can actually back it up by being amazing in bed.

Jesse holds up his hands, protecting himself from my rage that I refuse to call jealousy. Jesse can do anything or anyone he wants. It’s none of my business. And if you believe that, I’ve got some oceanfront property to sell you. It’s right in the middle of Arizona.

“Jesus, Wren. What the hell?” Jesse asks, sounding genuinely surprised and maybe a little hurt at my uncharacteristic outburst. “I keep them because you like them.”

Shocked, my mouth drops open and I stare at him, waiting for the punch line where he says gotcha or some shit like that, because there is no way he has this because I drink them. I haven’t been here in months.

He runs his fingers through his hair and explains, “I dunno, I guess I got used to getting them with my groceries, so I just ... never stopped. If they get close to expiring, I give ’em to the food pantry and restock the fridge.”

He’s trying really hard to make that sound like no big deal, but it is. It’s a Big Deal with capital letters and little glittery sparkles. Nobody does stuff like that for me. Not even my friends and family. Not because they’re not awesome people, but because I’m the one who doesn’t need to be taken care of. I’m too independent and strong, preferring to handle things on my own to prove myself.

Needing to see with my own eyes, I push past him to the kitchen and pull open the fridge door. Right there on the top shelf are five more of my favorite juices.

I really thought he was fucking with me, because there’s no way he’s done that this long. But the proof is staring me in the face.

Jesse’s followed me, his presence at my back feeling like a physical touch. I’m a shorter woman, and sometimes tall guys can be intimidating, especially when they loom over me. But Jesse’s presence has always felt protective, not dangerous. Or at least not dangerous to me physically.

Emotionally is another story altogether.

“These are expensive, Jesse,” I say quietly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Though I can’t see it, I can feel the air disturbance when he shrugs. “I can afford it. And the food-pantry people appreciate them.”

I’m quiet for a moment, relishing the feel of him behind me. So close, but so far away.

I could lean back. It’d be so easy. I know he’d catch me. He’d pick me up and take me down the hall, fuck me hard until I’m a mess of bliss and cum. And then I’d leave, and we’d go back to not talking because nothing’s changed.

I still want what he doesn’t have to give. And if I go back, I’ll only be hurt again. It’s taken a while to get my guards back up, and I can’t let a moment of weakness shatter them. Even if it would feel so good.

“What was that tonight?” I finally ask, spinning in place. Jesse puts one hand on the counter and one on the refrigerator door, effectively trapping me.

It’s what I came here to yell about, but now, I’m more curious than angry. Jesse has barely talked to me for ages and then tonight, he’s barging in like some overly protective big brother.

But that’s not it and I know it.

He interrupted like a jealous boyfriend. But he’s not my boyfriend. Hell, he’s not even a boy. Jesse’s all man. From the top of his head, which is covered with dark hair that gets too long and flops down in his eyes, to his bare feet, and everywhere in between.

“I was checking on you,” he answers, but he can’t look me in the eye as he lies. He’s trying to downplay the scene tonight, but it wasn’t some casual check-in with a friend you happened to see out.

I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that. I’m fine.”

Arguably, I might need to see a doctor about my body’s temperature regulation because while my ass is colder than a winter’s morning from the open refrigerator blasting over it, my body is burning up. That might have something to do with how close Jesse is to me, though. He’s always a furnace—a warm, cozy one I want to curl up beside.

“I do when you’re having dinner with douchey guys right in the middle of Puss N Boots,” he growls, taking a step closer. I duck under his arm to escape, and he turns to keep me in his sight. “Wren—”

I hold up a finger and shake my head vehemently. “No, you’re making a business dinner sound like I was on a date. Or basically screwing the guy on the table.” I choose to ignore the way his breathing has increased, his chest rising and falling as though he’s barely holding himself back from the mere suggestion of me with another man. “I needed that dinner to go well. This case is a big deal for me and for Cold Springs. I hoped to get Oliver to relax and share some intel on what Chrissy’s strategy is. But instead, now he’s going to be on alert and tight-lipped. Thanks for that,” I finish sarcastically.

As I’ve spoken, my anger has returned full force, and I’m digging my nail into his chest, stepping him backward toward the living room. I know he’s letting me push him, but that he does is important. He doesn’t fight back when he easily could, but rather, lets me have my moment, even though he flinched when I said Oliver’s name.

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