Page 20 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
Inviting Jesse to share my favorite place feels deeply personal in an odd, intimate, scary way. This table and chairs were a purchase I made after the divorce was finalized, because I’d always wanted a table out here and Nicholas would never get me one and, at the time, I was saving all my money for the renovations. The day the judge signed the papers, I drove from the courthouse to an antique store, bought this set, brought it home, and promptly sat down with a glass of wine and cried.
Now it’s my place.
So why oh why did I invite Jesse to eat here with me? He’s sitting in the delicate wrought-iron chair, looking like an adult sitting in one of those miniature chairs in a kindergarten classroom. He’s too big for the chair, too big for the table, too big for the backyard. He just fills the whole space with his presence.
I set my plate on the table and take a bite—I smile, pleased with myself for making a yummy meal.
Jesse has eaten half his food before I get done with two bites, and then I realize there’s nothing to drink. I set my fork down and speak around a mouthful. “You want something to drink?”
He nods, fork halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, please. Whatever you have is fine. I’m not picky.
“I have sparkling water and…wine, and that’s pretty much it, unless you want me to make coffee.”
He laughs. “Water, wine, whatever you want.”
“No coffee?”
Another laugh. “At seven at night? I don’t think so. I’d be up till next week.” A self-conscious grin. “I used to be able to drink coffee all day and all night and never think twice, but nowadays? Coffee past, like, four in the afternoon keeps me up for hours. Getting older sucks.”
“It sure does.”
He eyes me. “Yeah, and what would you know about getting older? You’re just a kid.”
I snort. “Okay, if you count forty as a kid.”
“I’m forty-four, so I win.”
“I didn’t realize this was a competition.”
“I can turn everything into a competition,” he says. “I’m sort of competitive.”
I get up and decide to screw it, I’m pouring wine. So I uncork a bottle, pour two big glasses, and bring them back outside. Jesse has his phone out as I enter the backyard, but as soon as he sees me, he powers it all the way off, and shoves it back into his pocket.
“Sorry, just checking my email. James tends to rely on email for all his important communication.”
“It’s no big deal.” Actually, I’m impressed by his courtesy.
Nicholas was always on his phone. What’s the term I read about? Phubbing. Snubbing someone by talking on your phone. That’s Nicholas. Yet another way he proved how little he cared about me.
Jesse, on the other hand, even on an impromptu means-nothing dinner like this, is showing more courtesy than Nicholas ever did.
It feels good.
“You didn’t have to turn it off,” I said.
He shrugs as I hand him the glass of wine. His eyes are hot and intense on mine. “My mama raised me to have manners, and in my book, staring at your phone instead of a sexy woman is just bad manners all around.”
“I thought you’d had your fill of staring a few minutes ago,” I say, the words spilling out unbidden.
He snorts sarcastically. “Got my fill? Imogen, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Um, yeah, just before I came down after my shower.”
“Haha, okay Miss Literal. What I mean is, no, I definitely did not get my fill of staring at you.” His gaze stays fixed on mine, and is so intense that I have a hard time holding it. “That’s not a thing, Imogen.”
“What’s not a thing?”
“Getting my fill of looking at you.”
Oh god. Swoon.
Instead of swooning gracefully, however, what I end up doing is choking on my wine. Is this guy real?
“Did Audra send you?” I ask, another blurt I have no control over and didn’t intend to say.
“Audra? Who’s Audra?” He shakes his head. “No, I work for James Bod and I have no idea what Audra has to do with anything.”
“Audra is my best friend,” I say, “and she’s been after me before the ink was dry on my divorce papers to meet someone. She’s tried fixing me up a dozen times in a dozen ways with a dozen different kinds of guys. I thought maybe this whole thing was an elaborate ploy of hers.”
He frowns. “How could she have arranged for you to smash your own window? Is she a Time Lord or something?” He shakes his head, laughing. “I mean, seriously. And why would you think that in the first place?”
“Because you’re too good to be true.”
He leans close to me, so close I can smell the wine on his breath, the utterly masculine scent of sawdust and sweat. “Good? Have you not seen the big truck and the tattoos and the long hair?”
