Page 47 of Love & Rockets

Grace giggled as she reclaimed her pencil as well. “Nerd.”

“Takes one to know one, kid.”

****

Friday evening, they didn’t even bother with dinner before falling into bed. Seemed like a good idea at the time. And despite the loud growl of displeasure from his stomach, Jake remained convinced. Still, keeping up with Darla physically and mentally was lots and lots of work. A man needed to keep his strength up. But he wasn’t inclined to move. Not when he could lie there running his hand down the silky curve of her upper arm as she snuggled into him. Her breasts pillowed against his side. She slipped one leg over his. Graceful fingers rumpled the hair on his chest, then smoothed the trail leading down to his crotch. His stomach gurgled again and Darla snickered softly before pressing a consoling kiss to his chest.

“Poor guy. You need fuel.” She settled into the crook of his arm, clearly not overly concerned about his needs. “I should have brought you some ribs. I think Bubba had a half-rack left when we closed.”

“I find that hard to believe.” And he was serious. Usually, Bubba’s ribs were long gone if you didn’t get to The Pit before the noon rush ended.

She shrugged. “Happens once in a blue moon.”

Jake gave his growling stomach an absent rub. “Makes a fella want to cry.”

“If it makes you feel better, I think they were going to use them to make tacos.”

He frowned. “I love tacos, but something about using Bubba’s ribs to make them seems a little sacrilegious.”

“Zelda Jo is a complete heretic.”

With the mere mention of Zelda Jo, another piece of the Darlington Arnell Kennet puzzle snapped into place. He lifted his head, tucking his chin to his chest as he peered down at her. “Betty Boop.”

Darla groaned and tried to roll away, but he caught her and hauled her back, laughing with the joy of his discovery. “For the longest time, I thought she was calling you ‘Bootsie’ and I couldn’t figure out why. But it’s not. It’s ‘Boopsie’, isn’t it?”

“I hear you read nerd books and listen to Broadway musicals.”

“Broadway musicals?” he asked, his laughter fading into a scoff. “Hardly.”

“Something about Kismet?”

She was baiting him with information gleaned from the conversation she eavesdropped on a few nights before. This time, he put a little space between them and gave her a drop-jawed, pointed glare he hoped conveyed his disbelief. “Were you listening to my conversation with Gracie?”

“The one where you confessed your love of all things Adam Levine? Yes.”

He dropped back onto the pillow with a relieved whoosh. “Obviously, you were listening in on someone else’s conversation. Do you have a different guy come over to tutor your kid every night?”

“Tutor,” she repeated with a derisive snort. “You’re supposed to be some kind of a mentor or something, but as far as I can see, you’re purely decorative.”

He smiled as he turned to look at her. “I think I’ve proven I have my uses.”

She rewarded him with a lazy grin and another one of those maddening strokes that came too close to hitting him in the right spot. His stomach roared this time and she laughed out loud. Giving his tummy a consoling pat, she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “We’re not going to get a moment’s peace, are we?”

“A man has needs, Darlington,” he explained with exaggerated patience.

Her eyebrows winged upward and she murmured, “So she’s a double agent,” almost to herself.

“As long as we don’t put her in the middle, we’ll be okay. Plus, I think she kind of likes being the one with the information,” he mused. Now they’d drilled a hole through the invisible barrier she’d erected between his relationship with her and his interaction with her daughter, and he wanted to test the waters. “Grace said there was some kind of cornbread cook-off going on at Harley’s mom’s tonight,” he said, hoping to drop the line into the conversation with minimal splash.

“Food on the brain.”

With a too-bright smile that screamed avoidance, Darla rolled off the edge of the bed and began to sort through the discarded clothing littering the floor of his otherwise spotless bedroom. She came up with his shirt, and he sucked in a sharp breath as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. Bits and pieces of information began to filter through the blood pounding in his ears. She wasn’t going to bolt. Darla in nothing but his shirt. Leftover pot roast in the fridge. Maybe they could fool around in the kitchen a little bit.

She fastened two buttons on the shirt, then turned back to give his ankle an encouraging pat. “Come on, Hungry Jake. Let’s put something in your belly before it turns on itself.”

She was out the bedroom door before his feet hit hardwood. Grabbing his boxer briefs from the flotsam on the floor, he hurried after her without bothering to pull them on. “I don’t have much. Some eggs. Some leftovers. We could order a pizza or something. Otherwise, I think there’s some macaroni and cheese in the cabinet.”

He rounded the corner to find her bent in front of the open door of the fridge, the plastic container his mother had left in a cooler on his doorstep clutched in her hand. She lifted the lid and gave the contents a delicate sniff before raising an enquiring eyebrow. Leaning against the doorframe, he took a moment to step into his briefs before answering.

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