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“What do you think is broken?” I ask.
“The diner doesn’t get business over the off-peak months like it does during the summer, even though our overheads are the same,” she says. “And then there’s the debt to pay off from Billy.”
I try not to get irritated at the mention of that lowlife asshole. I want to respect her “family is important” rule, but he doesn’t give a shit about her. If he did, he wouldn’t constantly put her in this position.
“Maybe I can help you with that,” I say.
“Help me?”
“Yeah. Let me think about it,” I reply. “No wife of mine is going to struggle.”
Marci and I finish the rest of our meal in companionable silence, while Mr. Skitters eyes us from his new sleeping spot.
Nineteen
MARCI
I peekout at the cat sleeping on the recliner.
Would it make me a bad person if I accidentally made a loud noise that scared it off? Yes.
Am I going to do that? No.
But I can’t help thinking about it because it’s getting late, and Jesse’s in his en suite bathroom, showering.
I try not to fixate on that part. On water running down his naked body. On how good he probably looks.
I’ve already changed into my PJs—silk shorts and a matching strappy silk top—that Jesse fetched from my apartment, along with my toothbrush and a change of clothes. I pace back and forth in his bedroom, trying to ignore how cute the room is.
He has a leather armchair in the corner, his bed is huge and comfy looking, and the furniture is done in dark woods, with cream walls, and floaty white curtains over the windows and a view of the ocean. I’m a sucker for a guy who gives a shit about how his house looks, and it’s clear that Jesse’s put in real effort.
There are interesting trinkets scattered throughout his cottage—the type of curios you’d find in a museum, each onedifferent but intentional somehow. A perfectly smooth stone, a carved wooden flute, a shield hanging on the wall in the living room next to the TV.
For a guy who loves Heatstroke, he’s sure collected a lot of stuff that’s not from around here.
He’s also got books—psychological thrillers and romances, and a few non-fiction—stacked on his bedside table.
The shower shuts off, and I freeze, mid-stride.
Fuck. Just take a breath. It’s going to be fine. It’s an agreement.
I fiddle with the ring on my finger.
Fine. Nothing’s going to happen. We’re good.
The door opens, and Jesse steps out of the bathroom, shirtless. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, but it still makes my insides curl in on themselves. Jesse’s chest is broad and muscular, a few dark hairs spread across his pecs, and he has a tattoo underneath his heart on his rib cage. The date his mother passed. His hair is wet and curls at his temples, and he eats me up with a look.
“Ready for bed?”
My voice is way too squeaky for my liking.
“I’ve got to do one thing first,” he says.
Jesse removes a tripod from the closet and then sets it up in front of the bed.
“Whoa, there, buckaroo. What exactly do you think this is?”
Jesse chuckles.
