Page 35 of Fluke
When people say that, they’re usually being polite. They’ve already gotten themselves into a conversation and don’t want to look like a jerk and say—Oh, cool. Thanks for saving me the explanation because I don’t care. But Jess doesn’t move or flinch, nor does he seem to notice or be distracted by the people buzzing around the patio.
He’s focused on me. Like he really does have time.Like he really wants to know.
“So I got a promotion today at work,” I say, smiling.
“Hey, congratulations. That’s great.”
“Thanks.” I smile. “But in the middle of the chaos of it, I might’ve told my coworkers that I’ve been married before, and Chuck might not believe me. Chuck might also want my head on a stick and is hell-bent on outing my little white lie to our boss.”
Jess balks, not expecting that explanation. “Well, that took a turn.”
“I just blurted it out because I let him get to me and now, I’m stuck in this story that I can’t get out of.” I frown. “Thanks for playing along. It helped buy me some time to think about how to fix this.”
“Oh yeah.That was terrible. Youshouldthank me after the trauma of having to hold you and pretend we’ve done all these nasty things to one another.The horror.”
I try not to grin.
“You know how you couldreallythank me?” he asks.
“How?”
“We could recreate some of the best times of our marriage—ouch!” he says, chuckling as I smack his arm. “I’m just saying it would be nice to have a memory of my first wedding night.”
I shake my head and grab my glass. The margarita is nearly gone, and I wonder where it went.Did I drink all of that?
“Jess, you couldn’t handle me, buddy,” I say, fueled by the tequila and a shot of adrenaline.
“I assure you, Miss Plum, that I would give you all you want and then some.”
Now that it’s just the two of us and my fight-or-flight response has eased, the weight in my lower stomach is obvious. The heat in my core.The pulse between my legs.
I should nip this in the bud. I should laugh it off and change the subject to something less flirty, a topic that’s more neutral. But my mind is blank when I search for things to bring up that don’t lead to some type of sexual innuendo, so I give in.
Screw it. The day has gone to hell in a handbasket anyway.
“I believe you seriously underestimate me,” I breathe, leaning toward him.
“Any time you want to test your theory, I’m game,” he says, running his lips around his mouth.
My insides quiver at his proximity mixed with his words.
“Why do you always turn me down?” He leans toward me lazily, as if he’s deciding whether to move in for a kiss. “What is it about me that you don’t like?”
Slowly, I lift my eyes from his lips to his beautiful green irises. It’s as if he was waiting to capture my gaze, prepared to lock me in place until I give him an answer.
“Don’t give me it’s because we’re friends or some shit like that,” he says. “We’re not in high school anymore.”
“It has nothing to do with us being friends.”
“Then what is it?”
I consider how to answer him—how honest to be.
Do I tell him that I think about him often? That it’s his face, his hands, those lips that I imagine when I’m in bed alone in the middle of the night? That I had a vibrator a few years ago that I dubbedJessbecause that’s who I imagined more often than not was making me come?
“I’ve told you this before,” I say, searching his eyes. “You’re a Carmichael. You’re born to have six kids and a gorgeous wife who travels to wrestling tournaments on Saturday mornings and goes to your parents’ for Sunday dinners.”
“So?”
