Page 68 of Tempt Me

“Hard to imagine,” I joked.

“I know, right?” She traced a long line down my thigh. “We were fucking—it was one of those bored fucks, you know? We’d been hanging out, watching some ridiculous old movie.Singin’ in the Rain,I think.”

All the warmth drained out of me and was replaced with ice. She had to be talking about Cooper Fallon. That was his favorite movie.

“Anyway, he said, ‘We’re good together, Mila.’ And I said, ‘Yeah, we’re good friends.’ Then he said, ‘What if we were more,’ and that’s when I started to flip out.

“He started talking about combining our companies, synergies and whatnot—he was an entrepreneur too. I didn’t like that. Jamilow was mine. And Winslow’s, of course. Then while I was still sitting there with my mouth hanging open, he said, ‘We should get married. Then it’s all fifty-fifty, and you’re protected.’”

I blinked my eyes wide. “Protected?”

She pointed at me. “Exactly! So I said, ‘Protected from what, exactly?’ and he started on this bullshit about how we’d share risk and blah blah blah. Looking back on it, I’m sure he had my best interests at heart, but all I heard was that I couldn’t make it on my own. That I needed his protection from failure. That I’d want some kind of old-fashioned marriage of convenience. That I didn’t know what real love was, or want it.” She stared into the distance.

She believed in love. She might present a thick shell, but underneath, she was vulnerable and romantic like I was. Tingles danced across my skin.

“What happened then?” I asked.

She focused back on me. “I kicked him out of my apartment, didn’t speak to him for weeks.”

I remembered that weird time right after they graduated from college when things had been icy with Cooper. Jackson couldn’t invite them both over at the same time. He’d tried to pull the story out of each of them, but they were silent. He tried to force them together, but neither one of them budged.

“He left me about a thousand apology voice mails and texts. Sent me a roomful of flowers. It was before either of us had made any money, so I had no idea where he got the cash.” She paused, remembering.

“And then?” Were they still friends with benefits? No, they couldn’t be. Cooper was engaged now. Still, I held my breath.

“I finally realized how hard it was for him to apologize and how much I missed his friendship. We talked and worked it out, but we never fucked again. And he never said another word about a merger, including the matrimonial kind.”

My chest loosened. At least I didn’t have to compete for her affections with Cooper Fallon, who was smart and confident and everything Jamila had to want in a partner. I’d never measure up to him. I felt magnanimous enough to say, “I’m glad you made up.”

“Me too. I never want anything to fuck up our friendship again.” She chuckled. “Now come on up here and take a nap. That sunshine wore me out.”

Thank god Jamila was a cuddler. I needed her arms around me after the story about a friends-with-benefits-gone-bad.

20

“What are you doing?”Jamila scuffed into the kitchen in a pair of wool-lined slippers and a silky dragon-printed robe that covered all the secret places I’d worshiped last night.

“Making you breakfast,” I said, tossing the perfectly diced onions and peppers into the pan. Jamila’s beach home kitchen was fully stocked, which I’d found out as I’d wandered in shortly after sunrise.

“I don’t eat breakfast.” She didn’t eat breakfast? I slumped. She shuffled to the coffeemaker and grunted when she found the carafe full of hot coffee. After selecting a mug from the rack, she filled it and sipped without blowing on it first.

I stirred the vegetables in the pan. She’d miss out on my perfect knife skills—I’d gotten an A on that, at least—and the gorgeous omelet I was making her. They hadn’t shown us how to make them at culinary school, but I’d watched Telma enough times to know how to do it.

Suddenly, she leaned over my shoulder, breathing bitter coffee on my cheek. “I’ll watch you eat. I enjoyed that last night—a lot.”

My face went as hot as the pan. I hadn’t even thought about what I looked like last night. Most guys didn’t care. Quite the opposite: they seemed to think the messier, the better. My experience with women was that we were always checking each other out, comparing, judging. Jamila was the most talented, put-together person I knew. “Did you really like it?”

“Yeah.” She slid a hand under my T-shirt and stroked across my stomach. “It felt amazing. And your ass is adorable.” She squeezed it over my shorts.

I hummed and pressed into her hand.Adorable.From a beauty like Jamila, that meant something.

She sniffed. “Watch those. They’re getting a little charred.” I looked down into the pan. The edges of the onions had started to blacken.

“Oops.” I whipped it off the heat and scraped them onto a plate. Most of them were salvageable. I poured in the eggs I’d previously whisked and began scooting them around the pan as they cooked. “You sure you don’t want one?”

“Nah, I think better on an empty stomach.”

“Okay.” The joy had left my cooking. I’d imagined sliding a perfectly fluffy omelet onto a plate in front of her and those brown eyes of hers lighting up at the feast I’d prepared. Now she was going to watch me eat. That was definitely less appealing.

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