Page 49 of Sinfully Shameless Chef

Shit. I’m going to need something stronger than wine tonight. A lot stronger.

* * *

IZZY

I wasn't trying to spy on them.

Yeah, right, Iz. Go ahead and tell yourself that…

The laughter and voices from inside drew me to the door, even though I had only intended to run into my place to grab a few things and then go right back home tonight.

So maybe it was spying…a little. Or a lot. But I couldn’t not check it out. Not after the way Jameson and I left things. Not after that awkward few moments of finding pants and underwear and pulling them back on in silence while he tugged up his jeans and stood there rubbing at the back of his neck like he’d never been in a more uncomfortable position in his life. Not after he finally motioned to the remainder of the food on the plate and said, “Well, enjoy it,” and then hustled out like his damn ass was on fire.

It has to be the single worst post-sex moment of my life. Not that I’ve had a lot of those to speak of, but it was, by far, the one that left me reeling the most. Because the sex was incredible. He was incredible. Even with the way he toyed with me and made me want to simultaneously punch him and ride him, he was just…magnificent.

And I let him walk out of there with no sort of resolution or discussion about what anything that had just happened meant.

Maybe it meant nothing. That would certainly make things easier for both of us if we mutually felt that way. And I, honest to God, don’t know how I feel about Jameson. All I do know is that whatever he did to me that night wore me out so much that I’ve barely been able to get out of bed since. Even days later, I can still feel him between my legs every time I take a step.

So yeah, after all that…curiosity has gotten the better of me.

And…maybe a little hint of jealousy came into play when I heard a woman's voice filled with affection say his name. The name of the man who gave me the best night of my life. The man who, until only minutes before that, I thought I would always be at odds against even though I denied not wanting to be.

How fucking insane is that? Me. Jealous over Jameson Fury.

It’s not like I have some sort of claim on him just because we banged it out once in my kitchen. That wasn’t anything special—just two people who had a bit of tension figuring a way to work it out so we can continue to be neighbors and rivals without so much animosity.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

But now, my spying got me caught, and Jameson’s family has invited me to what will surely be a very awkward dinner. If Jameson agrees, that is.

He stands, staring at me, his darkening eyes never wavering from mine. Completely unreadable. He lifts his wine glass and drains it in one gulp, then swallows hard. “Of course. The more, the merrier.”

He doesn’t mean that.

It’s written in the tic of his jaw and the way his knuckles whiten where they clench around his wine glass.

Jameson doesn’t want me here.

That realization makes acid crawl up my throat. I fight to swallow it back down. It never occurred to me that he might regret what we did; that he might be sitting over here wishing he had never brought over that plate of food, that he had never kissed me, that he had never touched me…

It made things a bit awkward, yeah, but regret? That hadn’t crossed my mind until seeing the way he’s looking at me now.

“I-I really shouldn’t. I need to get over to my place and check—”

“Nonsense!” Greer guides me forward with her arm looped through mine until we’re mere feet in front of Jameson. “Why don’t you go help Jameson in the kitchen? That might get things moving a little quicker. We’re all starved!”

She doesn’t even bother to try to hide the wink she tosses at Jameson, nor does he make any attempt to hide his scowl back at her. But when his focus finally lands on me again, his lips shift slightly into a weak smile.

He inclines his head toward Greer and motions toward the kitchen. “Come on, Izzy. We have a few things to finish up.”

I almost say no. The word sits on the tip of my tongue, threatening to spill out. It would be so much easier to walk away now. To turn and race from his beautiful restaurant and back over to my totally lame one where I can drown myself in mac and cheese and wallow in self-pity.

But I’ve never been someone who runs away from anything. I’m not going to start now. So, I pull my arm from Greer’s and prepare myself to follow Jameson into the kitchen.

He glances over my shoulder at the group gathered around the table and sets his empty glass on it. “Rach, come grab the plates and stuff.”

Thank God we won’t be alone back there.

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