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“I’m helping you clean up, Angel,” he says. “Give me this one small fucking pleasure.”
“Take it,” I murmur.
He sucks my fingers, placing a fist on the wall above his bed, his body shuddering. Finally, he goes to the bathroom and comes back with a wet towel. Then he leaves me alone, the click of the bathroom door is followed by the sounds of him groaning, saying my name, and then a grunt as he releases.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Because we didn’t even touch each other, and Jesse Taylor rocked my world to its foundations.
Twenty
MARCI
I wakeup to the sounds of waves crashing on the shore and the scent of Jesse’s cologne on the sheets. Last night, I fell asleep moments after he got back into bed. We didn’t cuddle, we didn’t talk, we slept, but at one point during the night, my foot touched his leg, and I left it there.
I left it there.
This fake marriage stuff is getting out of hand.
I crack an eyelid and scan Jesse’s bedroom.
He’s not in bed with me, which is a blessing since I’m already hot at the thought of last night. Flashes of it come back to me, and it feels like a dream. Agreatdream.
In the quiet, I make the bed and get ready for the day. It doesn’t matter, I have a diner to save and debt to pay off, and a brother who might get in trouble for stealing a car.
The kitchen is as quiet as the bedroom. Mr. Skitters is gone, but he’s left some fur on the recliner. Jesse’s left a bowl, empty glass, and a note beside a flower in a vase on the kitchen counter. I walk over to it, my pulse skyrocketing.
Angel,
We don’t have to talk about it. Pretend it’s a dream if you want. Hate me all you like.
There’s freshly brewed green tea in a pitcher in the fridge, as well as yogurt and cut fruit for breakfast. I left the granola on the counter.
If anything happens today, call me immediately.
Your husband.
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. Not Taylor being sweet. Just because we’re husband and wife in public, doesn’t mean we need to act intimate in private, so why is he putting in this much effort? I don’t want the answer.
The tea is delicious. The fresh-cut fruit is mango and kiwi, and the granola is crunchy and home fucking made. Is he kidding me with this? I’m not used to men who fend for themselves, and, honestly, this makes him sexier.
I clean up after myself then head out. Yesterday, Jesse and I went back to the diner to grab my car and some clothes. I get into my old beater and drive down to the diner, the salty sea air tangling my hair.
Focus. You have to focus.
It doesn’t matter that Jesse and I crossed a line last night. It doesn’t matter that I want him. If I focus on what’s important, I can ignore that.
“Good morning,” I sing as I enter the diner.
Grant waves at me from the kitchen. One of my servers, Riley, gives me a small smile. She’s from Prickly Poppy Bay, the town over, and she keeps to herself most of the time. When sherolled into town looking for work, it was serendipity—one of my longtime servers had married and moved away the week before.
Riley’s got long, curly blonde hair and is in her early twenties, but she hardly ever talks. She grabs some menus and sets to work cleaning them.
“You good, Riley?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, her voice soft. “And you?”
“Let’s say, it’s complicated.”
