Page 34 of Hidden Desires

“You know how it looks,” Nancy says.

There’s a clinking sound, maybe a plate in the sink. Eliza’s voice drops even lower. “Nothing happened, Mom. And besides, what’s there to notice? I dropped a meatball, and Jack picked it up.”

I almost bark with laughter. That fucking meatball.

There’s another long silence. I can picture them: Eliza cool and composed, her mom dissecting every word for evidence.

Finally, Nancy sighs. “You’re too pretty for your own good, sweetheart. Men are drawn to you like bees, and I just want you to be safe. To feel comfortable telling me if anything and I mean anything, puts you ill at ease.”

Eliza makes a noncommittal noise, and I hear footsteps, then the scrape of a chair on tile.

That’s when Gerald’s hand lands on my shoulder, making me jump a foot in the air.

“Lost in thought?” he asks, thrusting a beer at me.

“Just tired,” I lie, accepting the bottle. “Damn, the sunset’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

We stand together, staring out at the gorgeous red and orange rays spread across the sky, and I think about how a man can spend decades building a reputation, a life, and in less than a month throw it all away for the taste of forbidden fruit. Is it worth it though? Right now, I’d say yes.

I turn to leave, and inside, I catch a glimpse of Eliza clearing the table, her hair in a messy bun, a faint smile on her lips . She’s gorgeous, as usual, with that big bust and curvy hips, humming a bit as she works.

Shit. If there’s a war on, I’m already losing.

And I love every second of going down.

When I get home, the house feels even emptier than usual. There’s a leftover echo of charcoal in my clothes and the lingering taste of small talk in my mouth. I kick off my boots, toss my keys on the counter, and pour myself a glass of the red I saved from last week, just to make the silence feel deliberate.

It’s not even nine, but my body aches with exhaustion—the kind you get from being on high alert for hours, every word and glance a potential grenade. I open a window to let in the night, and in the distance, some kid is blaring a car stereo, the bass thumping in time with my headache.

I’m halfway through my second glass when my phone buzzes.

It’s her.

You home? The message appears, simple, but loaded.

Yeah. You okay? I type back, thumb trembling a little.

I imagine Eliza, holed up in her room, lights off, maybe in comfy PJs. I wonder if she’s crying, or if she’s burning with the same restless energy that’s eating me alive.

My mom’s suspicious. She called me into the kitchen and did the “are you on drugs” stare. If she had a drug test, she would have made me pee in a cup.

I smile a little. You hiding a secret meth lab?

She replies instantly. Only if you’re my first customer.

There’s a beat, then:

We need to be careful, Jack. I don’t want to get you in trouble.

I know. I add a smiley face, just to keep it light, but inside I’m already mapping out new contingencies: no more secret glances, no more touching. Hell, no more being in the same room unless there’s a crowd. But good intentions die hard.

I want to see you, I send, before I can stop myself.

She doesn’t respond right away. I set the phone down, finish my wine, and let my mind drift to the last time we were together—her skin under my hands, her laugh muffled in the pillow, the way she said my name like she was tasting it.

Then, another ping. This time, Eliza’s tone over text is despairing. I don’t how I know, but I just do.

My boss just messaged. Emergency doc review. All night. He’s cc’d the whole team and told us if we screw up, the partner will eat us alive. I want to die, but at least I can do this remotely. Who would have thought this would happen Saturday night?