Page 89 of Jett

“You already thanked me.”

“But I’m so grateful that you did. I felt so … alone in that crowd, and you surprised me.”

“You didn't think I would?”

“I ... uh ... I wasn’t sure. I wanted you to, but these are your people. Your crowd. I hope this doesn't mess your friendship up.”

“Friendship?” he snorts. “Bryce Richards is no friend of mine. He stole from me, backstabbed me in a business deal, and he's a shady piece of shit.”

“I could tell you didn't like him.”

“How?”

“I can read your body language, Jett. I can tell just by looking at you—what you feel, what you’re thinking.”

“You see more than you let on,” he murmurs, his gaze settling on my lips. A light, giddy feeling stirs inside me. I notice that he’s showered and changed into his comfy loungewear.

“A lot of those women think of me like I’m the help. It was just like that time I took Brooke for lunch at one of their houses.”

“I’m sorry.” He sounds weary. “You're not the help, and I despise them for the way they treated you, for the way they made you feel. You aremuchmore to me.”

This quick and direct jump in conversation startles me. I thought we'd do our usual verbal dancing around, talking about anything but the real reason we're meeting at midnight.

“I am?” I muster a smile, because I really am in awe. What he did for me speaks volumes about who he is, and how he sees me.

“You should know that by now. After everything I said to you,”

“Sometimes it feels like a dream,” I whisper.

“And this ...” He takes a step, invading my personal space, making me lean further back against the bookcase behind me. “Does this feel like a dream?” I smell his lemon body wash, and I hate that I’m still hot and sweaty. I really need to shower before we meet, but he catches me off guard, deftly swiping the books I’m holding and sliding them onto a bookshelf.

I can’t even breathe. When his fingers gently stroke my cheek, I swear my heart sinks into my belly. Is this really happening? His breath caresses my cheeks, and if I move my face a little, our lips will brush.

“I’ve dreamed of moments like this,” I confess, because with him almost flush against me, his overpowering presence intoxicating me, there is no space left to think. Or to lie. There is only the truth.

“As have I, my little red-headed shortcake.”

I’m his little red-headed shortcake.

I want to burst with happiness.

“You have?”

“Oh, yes.” His voice is thick, and reverberates deep in my chest. When he cups my face, his thumb trailing down my cheek, I almost mewl with desire. I am so consumed by need for this man, I’m going to do something silly if I’m not careful.

“I-if you don't like that man why did you go to his party?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. “Was it for the ponies? For Brooke?”

His lips purse together, as if he's grinding his teeth. “I'd forgotten about the ponies. I went ...” He pauses, his dark eyes blazing into mine. “I went because I wanted to ruin your plans to see the boy-man.”

“The boy-man?” I’m confused. It takes a while for it to sink in. He’s name-calling Jacques. This thirty-three-year-old man is as jealous as I thought. He hates the guy he thinks I'm interested in. “Why do you hate him so much?” I ask, all innocence.

“Because you like him. Because he likes you. Because he’s young. Because you're seeing him tomorrow.”

“I'm not. I lied.”

Tension seeps out of his face and his features soften, as he rests his forehead against mine. “You lied to me?” His lips brush so lightly, like a feather over mine, that I’m not sure if it happened or if I’ve imagined it.

“I wanted to get back at you for you telling me to leave that night, after I’d worn the dress for you.”

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