Page 15 of Jessie's Girl
I’m going to cave.
While the thought of returning to Asa’s house, the site of The Humiliation, has the soles of my feet itching to break the record for the hundred-yard dash, the possibility of witnessing Rose’s eyes dim with disappointment stifles the urge.
I’m trapped into spending the evening with Asa Hunt by an adorable little con artist.
“Okay, then, sure.” I try to pour all the enthusiasm I can muster into those three words. “Let’s do it.”
And as Rose yells her victory, fist pumping and performing an awkward but cute shuffle dance, I can’t help but glance at her silent uncle.
His hooded gaze ensnares me, setting my heart into a primal beat against my rib cage.
Dangerous. I’m playing a dangerous game here.
If I had the sense God gave a pet rock, I’d risk upsetting Rose in the name of self-preservation.
But as I agree to meet them at six o’clock, all I can do is hope—pray—that I remember the rules this time around. And try my damnedest not to break them.
4
Asa
Ifreely admit to being a dominant man who likes to be in control. Some would even say I have control issues, which is fair. I’d been the “man” of my house from an early age, with my mother at her job more hours than she’d been at home. Later, when my football dreams ended with a torn ACL and the revocation of my athletic scholarship, I had to take my suddenly altered future and create a new one for myself that didn’t include a professional career in the NFL. And then I had to take a quarter-away-from-failing business and transform it into a thriving one.
Yeah, control is important to me.
So how the fuck did I completely lose it on the sidewalk in front of an elementary school? Ever since I drove out of the parking lot with a chattering Rose in the backseat, I’ve been rewinding and replaying that whole scene, wondering where in the hell it went left. When Rose invited India to our weekly night of pizza and movies, I should’ve gently but firmly told herno. I should’ve shut that shit down as soon as it popped out of her mouth.
Instead, my tongue flipped my brain the middle finger and backed up Rose’s invitation.
And now, hours later, sitting on my couch, watching as Moana restores Te Fiti's heart, I’m in my own personal hell.
India’s back in my house. I never thought we would be here again.
And all I can do is remember is the last time she was here. Not that I ever forgot—how could I? That kiss had been better than the best sex I’d ever had. But somehow, with her within these walls, the memories are richer, more vivid. So is the guilt, the shame. Ball-twisting pleasure and dirty shame—I can’t separate the two. They’re like abusive partners who refuse to leave one another. Yet…
I glance over my shoulder toward the foyer. And in like instant and total recall, my mind provides the image of us sprawled on the same dark laminate flooring, my hands buried in her hair, our mouths eating at one another. I can hear our groans, her soft whimpers, and the soft suction of our tongues and lips meeting, parting, meeting…
Fuck.
I shift on the couch cushion, restless, but forcing myself to focus on Rose’s favorite cartoon. Not on her light giggles and India’s huskier chuckles. Not on India braiding Rose’s curly hair into two neat and cute braids on either side of her head, making my daily attempts look like the amateurish jobs they are. Not on how the sight of her caring for and paying special attention to my niece squeezes my chest so tight my lungs threaten to revolt.
Not on how every smile, every laugh, every teasing remark has me curling my fingers into fists so I don’t do something monumentally stupid like reach over and tunnel the afore-mentioned fingers into her gorgeous curls. Not on how her red-and-black plaid shirt stretches across her gorgeous breasts or how the dark, skinny-leg jeans glove her wide, feminine hips and beautiful thick thighs like their only purpose in life is to be next to her skin.
No. Not focusing on any of that at all.
“Can I see yet?” Rose asks, for about the hundredth time since India offered to style her hair. I should’ve been offended at the quickness that Rose jumped all over that. But hell, I’d seen my handiwork. I can’t blame the girl. “Is it done?”
India finishes wrapping a sunflower tie around the end of one of the long braids then squeezes Rose’s shoulders. “Go ahead. Let me know what you think. If you don’t like it, we can take it out.”
Like she’d been propelled from a cannon, Rose shoots to her feet and bolts from the room. Moments later, she charges back in and hurls herself at India. On instinct, I shift, my hands up to catch Rose and steady India. But my precaution isn’t needed.
India closes her arms around my niece, hugging her tight, and Rose clings to her, her face buried in India’s neck.
“I love it.” Rose’s words are muffled, but I catch them. And apparently, so does India, since her lashes lower and a spasm of emotion crosses her face. I know that look. Love. Pain. The perfect co-mingling of both. “Thank you so much, India.”
“You’re so welcome, Rose,” she whispers, drawing back so she can smile at my niece. “Anytime. I’ll send your uncle some DIY videos so he can learn how to do this.”
She slides me a side-eye, and I snort. Yeah, not gonna happen. I can replace a timing belt with no problem, butthat? I’m failing at Ponytails 101, so the perfectly symmetrical braids aren’t looking too good.
