Chapter 9
REESE
“You really should try the key lime pie,” the waitress suggests as she slides my usual order in front of me.
“Maybe next time.” I impale a pecan with my fork. If I keep this up, my ass is going to start spilling over the sides of the brand-new Harley SuperLow that I found sitting in the driveway when I came back from Cancún. It was a birthday/graduation present from Jack. After a brake line snapped in my old Honda Shadow, he had deemed it unsafe and shipped it to the junkyard while I was away. He made a sizeable down payment and I’m making modest monthly installments to cover the rest. I think it’s all part of his plan to turn me into a responsible twenty-one-year-old woman. Who rides a motorcycle.
I gladly accepted it, unable to contain myself the first time I cranked the engine and got lost in the distinctive rumble deep within my chest. I was planning on getting lost in that rumble all the way down to the Keys today, until I found the note from Jack on my bedside table, asking for my help in the office. After all that Jack has done for me, he’s one of the few people who I’ll go out of my way to please, so of course I changed my plans. Had I known that the law bot and Ben had bid for my undivided attention, I might not have come so willingly.
Having a smirking Ben sit there watching the ambush, his arms folded over his chest, certainly didn’t help my mood. He knows exactly why I’ve been working on mind-numbing corporate contracts for the last two weeks. Honestly, I don’t think driving a knife into my ear would be as painful as listening to Nelson’s nasally voice drone on about this clause and that amendment and blah, blah, blah . . . But as agonizing as it has been for me, I’ve taken some pleasure in knowing that Ben’s overinflated ego may be taking a hit.
I agreed to Jack’s request, of course—through gritted teeth—and told them I’d be back in an hour because there was something important I had to do.
That was almost three hours ago.
And that’s why I’m not at all surprised that Ben is now standing in front of my table with a big smirk on his face, like he’s caught me red-handed.
“This does look very important.”
“Food quality control,” I mumble as the vacant metal chair drags along the patio stones and he takes a seat.
“Well, I hope you failed the coffee because it tastes like ass,” Ben says, helping himself to my glass of chocolate milk.
My mouth opens to say something about that but I quickly shut it. I don’t really want to think about where Ben’s mouth may have been. And does he talk to everyone like this, or just me?
“Jack told me you’d probably be here.”
“I’m highly predictable when it comes to food.” I eye the boxed pie he just set down with a raised brow. “Hungry?”
“It’s for a pregnant friend who I want to visit later, if I ever get out of the office.”
Trying to guilt-trip me. Nice. Unfortunately for him, I grew up with a master manipulator and I don’t generally fall for it. “Good for you, keeping your baby mama happy.”
That loud, bellowing laughter of his carries through the patio, turning heads. “I can’t wait to tell her you said that.” Yanking my fork out of my hand, he stabs at my plate and shovels a piece of my pie into his mouth. “Damn, that’s good pie. You should try the key lime next time, though.”
“I hate limes.”
He shakes his head and says in a slightly exasperated tone, “No you don’t, Reese. You’re just being difficult.”
“Says who?”
His gaze roams around, stalling at a table of young women. “Says the margaritas I ended up wearing.”
I grab my fork out of his hand and pull my plate closer, my free hand wrapping around the outside of the plate as if to protect it. “I actually do hate limes. That night was about me embracing change.”
“And how’d that go?”
“Well, now I’m positive that I hate limes and change.”
Ben’s head tips back to take in the blue skies with a smile, and I can’t help but notice his Adam’s apple protruding from his neck. He has a really thick, strong neck, but not like one of those gross no-neck guys. Quite the contrary. “Tell me something . . . is suffering through Nelson’s contracts for the past two weeks—which everyone knows you hate—really worth it?”
“I love working with Nelson,” I lie. “His voice is enchanting.”
Leaning back in his chair, relaxed, he watches me quietly for a moment. “Mason warned me not to piss you off.”
“See? Jiminy Cricket knows things.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
Washing the last bite down with my chocolate milk, I offer in a patronizing tone, “It’s a good thing that you don’t need me.”
“Oh, but Jack thinks I do, so . . .” He stretches those arms above his head—the sleeves of his loose black T-shift falling to reveal how much time Ben must spend in the gym—and smiles proudly. “I guess you’ll be helping me whether you like it or not.”
I heave a sigh as my gaze roams the patio, knowing that I’m stuck. Jack never steps in to dictate who I work with. He always says he’s just happy that I’m working so hard and keeping out of trouble. If he has done it now, it’s because he thinks it’s necessary.
“Look.” Ben rests his elbows on the table as he stares at me with that penetrating gaze that probably enraptures many women. “If I promise to never mention anything to do with Cancún again, can we start over?” He dips his head a bit, his big blue eyes full of sincerity. “What do you need me to do? Cry? Grovel? I’ll do whatever you want. Please.”
I like this side of Ben. I’m sure it doesn’t happen often, and I’m sure he has this conversation well planned out, but still. I like listening to him beg.
“Come on. Anything. Do you want something embarrassing to hold over my head, too?”
The spark of interest—not so much about balancing the scales as curiosity about what could possibly embarrass this jackass—must be evident in my face because he quickly pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket. “Here, look at this. At least there’s no concrete evidence of you ass-up on the ground.” Not sure what to expect, I take the proffered iPhone, acutely aware of his fingers grazing mine in the exchange, and turn it around to see a guy climbing up onto a stage of some sort, with a scrap of what looks like a pink bikini riding up his ass and a set of—“Oh, my God! Is that . . .?” With a cringe, I zoom in on the screen to see a very unflattering angle of Ben.
“Yup. I keep waking up to texts of these pictures from my friend. She must have taken about fifty of them. Thinks it’s hilarious.” Ben smoothly grabs the phone out of my hand as I burst out in laughter.
“I need to meet this friend. I like her already.”
“Yeah, you’d probably get along well with Kacey. You’re a lot alike.” Pausing to drop his phone back into his pocket, he suddenly turns serious. “Look, I’m drowning in this shit, Reese. And June . . . holy fuck!” His enormous hands cover his face, dragging down to reveal his frustration. “If I have to sit in a room with her for one more hour, I think I’ll slit my fucking wrists. I can’t be spending every weekend in the office. My mom runs a citrus grove and she’s gonna need me there when the season opens, and I just need help. Please help me.”
I heave a sigh. Maybe he did learn his lesson. Maybe . . . my thoughts trail as I watch the hostess lead two people to a table on the other side of the patio. I recognize that slight swagger in the guy’s step; the curly wisps of hair around his ears and down the back of his neck are slightly longer, urging fingers to swirl them.
Waves of emotion crash into me as I watch Jared slide into a chair. He’s wearing his usual dark blue jeans, hanging off his hips provocatively. I’m sure that if I lifted up that soft gray T-shirt, I’d see the elastic band of his Calvin Klein briefs—he won’t wear anything else. His naturally dark skin is darker than normal, as if he’s been spending more time in the sun. He probably is, if he’s working outside. His arms also seem bigger than they . . .
“Earth to Reese?” I hear Ben call out, adding, “What is it with chicks gaping out?”
I manage to turn my attention back to Ben’s waiting face for all of three seconds before I’m compelled back to Jared.
And I watch. Like a lunatic who deserves a sedative cocktail and a padded room, I watch Jared for the first time in almost nine months, as he entwines his fingers through hers and brings her hand to his lips, kissing it softly, mouthing something that looks like “I love you.”
He used to do that with me.
“Shit,” I mutter, swallowing the rising sickness and jealousy as I angle my face away, trying to discreetly block my profile with my hand should Jared glance over in this direction.
“What is it?” Ben begins, turning in his seat.
My hand flies out to land on his cheek, slapping it as I push his face back to me. “Nothing. I’m ready to go.”
He easily overpowers my strength, his bright blues quickly scanning the tables. Somehow he zones in on the right one. Or wrong one, depending on who you’re asking. “Who are they?”
“Who is who?” Playing dumb has never been my strong suit.
“That smokin’-hot redhead and the dude?”