Page 15 of Charlie

This is bad. Really bad.

I settle myself on the stool and open the laptop, ignoring him. Trying to ignore him.

"Beer?" he asks, his hand poised over an empty glass behind the bar.

"Please," I drop my gaze, determined to keep working.

I'm finally starting to make some headway when the music turns down and the lights on the far side of the pub turn off. I look up to see Jack flipping chairs over the tables and sweeping under them. I check my watch – it's past midnight. I hop down and slide the laptop into my bag, startled by how much time had slipped past.

"I meant it when I said I would help you," Jack says, walking over to me, "Just give me a few more minutes to finish cleaning up."

"Let me at least help." I hold my hand out for the broom.

He hesitates before gently placing it in my hand. "Thank you, lass." He pulls the towel from his shoulder and starts wiping down the bar. I watch his muscles move under his skin, the broom forgotten. He freezes, evidently feeling my gaze, but he doesn't turn. I pick up sweeping where he left off, trying desperately to keep my eyes on the floor. I hear him push through the kitchen doors, and I take a deep breath, shaking the tension out of my body. I'm finishing up as he shoulders back through the kitchen door, holding two steaming plates of pasta.

"I'm starving and figure you might be, too? It's been a while since you ate."

"Thank you." I can't help the grin as I hand him the broom, sliding into the seat he's holding for me. I twirl the pasta around my fork, ultra-aware of how close he's sitting to me. "You know, I think this may be the first meal a man has made for me, " I blurt, wincing as I realize how pathetic it sounds.

"I'm glad I'm your first," he winks, raising his loaded fork in salute. "I take that back," he says, his expression darkening. "I can see the indent from a wedding ring. He never cooked for you? Not once? In how many years?"

"We were married five years," I whisper, mortified.

"Fuck him." He twirls the pasta around his fork and holds it out to me.

My stomach flutters as I take the bite, his warm honey gaze sliding over me.

The pasta is delicious, a velvety cream sauce enrobes each strand, bits of prosciutto and peas dotting my plate. Jack finishes his plate first, nursing a beer while he waits for me to finish. I watch with fascination as he drinks. His Adam's apple bobbing, the slow wipe of his hand across his lips. The small sigh of satisfaction after each gulp. I want those lips on me. I want to hear him sigh with my mouth around his cock. I squirm in my seat. Fucking hell.

He clears our plates once I finish and then asks me to spread my papers out on the bar. It isn't wide enough for all generations, so I only show him the maternal grandparents and great-grandparents. He studies them for a minute before turning back to me. "What's this for, exactly?"

"A family tree for a good friend. We're both doing each other a favor, I think."

"Is this what you do for your job?" He runs his finger over some of the rough sketches I doodled in the margins.

"Yeah. Well, I mean, it's what I used to do. This is my first one in years."

"Why?"

I grimace. "That's a long story."

"Let me guess. Your ex made you stop?" His eyes flash with something I can't quite place.

I start to protest, taken aback by the anger in his words, but I bite my tongue instead. I'm not going to make excuses anymore. "You're right," I admit, fighting the shame that washes through me.

"Hey." He pushes my chin up with his fingers. "I'm glad you're here doing something you love. That's all anyone can ask for." He smiles, his hand lingering, his gaze dipping to my lips.

I break the tension, looking through the pages to find the one he had singled out. "Here." I slide it over to him. "This is where you said I made a mistake. I spent the last few hours reviewing the connections, but I'm having difficulty locating records. Any ideas?"

"You would need to go to Harris for that."

"Harris? Why? And how do you know that?"

He laughed, "I grew up there. These are the last names of all my mates, so I can only imagine they must be their great-great grandparents, although, as you've probably noticed, there aren't many surnames in Scotland, so I could be wrong."

I scribble Harris down on the page, hoping he's right. "Any other tips?" I ask, hopeful.

"That's all I have. I suppose I could have told you that and not made you stay, but I'm glad I did." He gathers the papers, careful to collect them in order. I place them in their folder and slide them carefully next to my laptop in my bag.

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