Page 41 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
He doesn’t answer for a conspicuously long time. “I, uh…sort of. But that’s—I don’t—” He’s squirming, clearly not wanting to talk about it, but not wanting to say so.
I sigh. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have asked.”
He crushes a peanut between his thumb and the plate, and then grinds it into dust. “Nah, it was just a weird thing, and talking about it is…”
“A no-go?”
He nods, seeming pathetically grateful that I’m not pushing it. “Yeah. It’s not a big secret or anything ugly, I just…it was a weird situation.”
“I get it. This whole divorce with Nicholas is pretty new still, so it tends to just kind of pop out at the most inappropriate times. I wouldn’t normally, and don’t normally, lead with it like I have with you.”
I don’t know where to go from here. I’m weirded out by this whole exchange, and feeling off-kilter, unsure. I was already unsure if this thing was something it’d be smart to keep pursuing, and now I’m even more unsure.
Jesse senses this, and shoots me a look of resignation. “The whole hound dog thing is a problem for you, huh?”
“It’s not entirely that, it’s just…everything in my life is tricky and touchy right now, and getting involved in anything seems like a less than brilliant idea, I guess.” I sigh, hating how little sense that made. “I’m just feeling weird right now. About a lot of things, not just you.”
He nods, and pushes back his chair. “I get that. You’ve been through a lot, and I don’t want to add to it.”
“Jesse, I just—”
He smiles gamely. “I get it, Imogen. I do. I don’t like it, but I get it.” He stands up. “I hope you like your new front porch.”
He’s almost to the front door before I get myself into motion. I catch up to him as he’s opening the front door.
“Jesse,” I say, halting him with his hand on the knob. “I’m not saying I don’t want…something. I just don’t know what that is, and I don’t want to lead you on or jump into something I’m not ready for. So…maybe you could…” I don’t know what I’m trying to say, and trail off awkwardly, hoping he’ll finish it.
He does. “Be content to stay on the back burner until you figure your shit out?”
It hurts hearing him put it like that. “Just give me a little time.”
“That I can do,” he says.
I sigh. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I’m such a disaster.”
He laughs, lets go of the knob, and turns back to me. “Imogen, honey…you’re allowed to be a disaster. You’re also allowed to not know what you want.” He leans in close, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me with tenderness and gentility that almost breaks my heart—and my resolve.
And then he’s gone.
I stay standing where he left me, eyes closed, face tilted up, trying to hold on to the feeling of his lips on mine.
Eventually, long after the rumble of his diesel engine has faded into the night, I turn and go to bed.
But sleep is a long time coming, and my dreams are filled with almost-kisses and not-quite embraces and images of Jesse unzipping his jeans.
Chapter 9
In a break with tradition, I call Audra from my car after my shift the next Saturday, while I’m still in the parking lot.
She answers on the third ring, out of breath, the sound of clanking weights in the background and the muffled thumping of music. “Hey, what’s up? Has it been a week already?”
I don’t even know where to start. “I…he…I can’t—I don’t know how to—”
Audra responds as only Audra can. “I’ll grab Chinese on the way over. You just make sure you have plenty of wine on hand. I don’t work tomorrow, so we can party it up, and you can spill everything.”
“Okay,” I say, barely whispering. “Thanks.”
“Well, duh, that’s what best friends are for, dummy.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too. Be there in thirty.”
Forty minutes later, she’s bustling into my kitchen with three bags full of carryout Chinese, wearing a perplexed expression. “Did you grow a set of skills I don’t know about?” she asks, setting down the food and withdrawing cartons of rice and Styrofoam boxes of sweet and sour chicken and General Tso’s.
I shake my head, handing her a glass of wine. “No. It’s somewhat more complicated than that.” I gesture at the bottle, which is… not as full as it should be. “I’m a glass ahead of you, so chug-a-lug, bug.”
Audra takes me literally, and chugs her glass of wine before pouring more. “There, now we’re caught up.” She finds my paper plates and a serving spoon, gesturing at me with the spoon. “I’ll dish the food, you dish the news. Who’s the guy that’s got you so mixed up? And how the hell did you afford this many pimp-ass windows? And a new porch?”
