Page 27 of The Dallas Dilemma

“I can open the wine, if you’d like,” I say, and she smiles.

I pull the wine from the fridge while she roots around in a drawer, coming out with a corkscrew. As I twist the device into the cork, she grabs two stemless wine glasses from the cabinet I fixed and sets them down in front of me. I fill the two glasses to the halfway point before pushing the cork back in and putting the bottle of white back into the refrigerator.

When I finish, Josette has two plates topped with bake ziti. She takes them to the table, and I pass her as I carry the wine glasses to our spots. Her scent wafts over me as we pass, something fruity and sweet that makes my skin tingle.

“You sit while I slice the bread,” she says when I set the glasses down and turn back to help.

Nodding, I sit and watch her work, her delicate hands wielding the bread knife in smooth, practiced strokes. Her lips purse before she blows a stream of air, whisking a strand of hair away from her eyes.

God, she’s gorgeous. Fucking ethereal.

I drag my eyes away quickly when she lifts her head to look at me, focusing instead on my glass of wine as I lift it to my lips for a small sip. My gaze pulls back to her as she walks toward me, carrying a plate of sliced bread in one hand and a box of freshly grated parmesan in the other.

I nod when she offers to sprinkle some cheese over my plate, then watch as she does the same to hers. Thenshe picks up her fork, pausing to stare at me expectantly.Oh, right. I’m supposed to be eating.

I pick up my own fork and stab a bite of the steaming cheese, sauce, meat, and noodles, blow on it to cool it a bit, then shovel it into my mouth. My eyes roll back as the flavors hit my tongue, and I couldn’t stop the groan of approval that bellows out of me if I tried. When I finish chewing and swallow, I open my eyes to find Josette staring at me with a happy smile.

“The key is to use Italian sausageandground beef. A lot of recipes call for one or the other, but Mom has always been a meat-lover.”

“It’s delicious,” I reply before taking another bite and groaning just as loudly as I did the first time.

“I’m glad you like it,” she says with a grin before scooping up a bite from her own plate.

We eat in silence for a few beats, my mind unable to focus on anything but the delicious fare. Even the bread is divine, toasted to perfection with just the right amount of butter and garlic. Josette sets her fork down and takes a sip of wine, clearing her throat to get my attention.

I open my mouth to apologize for paying more attention to the food than to her, but she speaks before I can utter a single word. “Are you excited to start work tomorrow with Linc?”

“I am,” I say. “This week or so off has been nice, but I’m itching to get back to work.”

“I don’t know him as well as I know Royal, but he seems nice. I bet he’s a good boss to work for,” she says,then bites into a piece of bread, leaving her lips shiny with butter.

I’d kill to lick it off.

Shaking my head to dislodge the thought, I say, “Yeah, he seems like a cool guy. Like someone who workswithhis employees, not over them, if that makes sense.”

“It does,” she says with a small nod.

“Do you like what you do? The customer service stuff?”

Her cheeks turn pink, and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. I gear up to retract the question, but she opens her mouth to respond before I can.

“I like that I don’t have to help customers in person or even talk to them on the phone. It’s all through the chat feature.”

I nod, and we continue eating in silence until we’re both finished. I set my fork down and pat my stomach happily, but when I look at Josette, she’s staring down at her plate with a pensive expression. Something tells me not to ask her what’s wrong, to let her work through whatever she’s working through in her own time. So, I drink my wine and watch her until she looks up at me with a pained expression.

“I don’t really like being alone.”

I’m confused for a beat, then our conversation from the beach comes back to me. I asked her the questions and told her not to answer. To just think about it.

Do you avoid social situations because you prefer to be alone? Or do you do it because you’re nervous or uncomfortable around other people?

I simply nod, knowing she’s not looking for my commentary on the matter. She’s just stating it out loud. And it’s more for herself than for me.

“Did your friend ever get any better at dealing with it?” she asks, her voice a thin whisper.

I nod. “He did. With therapy and lots of practice.”

Her face pales as she jerks back a few inches. “You think I need therapy? I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with therapy. I just never thought…”

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