When I Need You (Need You #4)

So . . . jeans and a T-shirt. But not like I tried too hard, wearing a hipster T-shirt with an emblem of an obscure band or brand of beer or clothing—which I had a drawer full of thanks to my hipster/stoner brother. I opted for a Justin Timberlake concert tee, black skinny jeans and no shoes. I’d just kick them off at the door anyway.

I’d called Calder before I left the apartment. But as usual, he’d been almost too busy to talk to me. I briefly spoke to my mom and she encouraged me to get some rest while I had the chance. I didn’t tell her about having dinner with Jensen, because it was no big deal.

I knocked on his door, bringing a bottle of wine and two of the turtle brownies I’d baked earlier in the week.

Jensen answered the door wearing the same disguise he’d had on earlier.

I lifted a brow. “Incognito in your own apartment? Is there something I should know, Lund?”

He groaned. “The restaurant was way behind with orders and I just got home. Come in, and pour yourself a glass of wine while I get changed. I set everything up on the dining room table.”

I’d never been farther into his apartment than his living room. As I turned the corner, I realized his apartment was laid out differently than ours. The dining room was a separate area instead of a part of the kitchen. Out the sliding glass door, a balcony ran the length of the kitchen and overlooked the pool. I opened the wine and noticed only one glass. Not that there was room for anything else on the table, as it appeared he’d ordered enough food from Emily’s Lebanese Deli for ten people.

When he said, “All right,” as he came up behind me, I jumped, sloshing wine all over my shirt and the floor.

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Got paper towels right here.” He tossed one on the floor and said, “See? No worries.”

“Jensen. Maybe this was a bad idea.”

Taking the glass of wine from my hand, he set it aside, moving in so close I couldn’t see the tops of my feet, which I’d been staring at intently. Then he said, “Rowan. Look at me.”

I tilted my head back and met his gaze. All I saw in his eyes was concern.

“What’s going on? Why are you so jumpy?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because this feels like a date, even when I know it’s not.”

His eyes searched mine and I couldn’t look away. “Total honesty between us, okay?”

I nodded.

“I find you hot as fuck. You’re smart, sexy and sassy and that pushes all the right buttons for me. But despite all that? There are a lot of things about you that make you exactly the type of woman I don’t date. So go change shirts and get back here to have dinner with me—as friends. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He grinned—that devastatingly wicked sexy grin that made female football fans’ panties damp. “However, I will restrain myself from slapping you on the ass as I would my other friends.”

“So noted.”

“Hurry back. I’m starving.”

In my bedroom I didn’t even fret over which shirt to wear; I just grabbed one. I returned to Jensen’s in under three minutes.

He’d already opened up all the containers and poured me another glass of wine. I noticed he’d gotten a beer for himself.

“Holy crap, Lund. Did you order the entire menu?”

He blushed. “I didn’t know what you like. So yeah, I think I got one of everything.” He pointed at the offerings. “Dolmathes—stuffed grape leaves—chicken kabob, kafta kabob, hummus, spinach pie, baba ghannuj, mistah bread, Lebanese chicken and rice, Lebanese green beans, lentils and rice, kibbi—kinda like meatloaf—and tabbouleh. I burn a lot of calories, so I need a lot of calories. Trust me. None of this will go to waste.”

“This looks great. I haven’t had Emily’s in ages. I used to eat there all the time when I was in college. Sadly, Calder isn’t a fan.”

“I wasn’t either at his age. Tastes change.”

“I try to expose him to different foods. It’s funny to watch parents who attempt to ‘develop’ their kids’ palate by feeding them oddball foods at a young age. Those same kids skip the veggie trays and devour chicken nuggets and fries at birthday parties when their parents aren’t around.”

“My brother and his wife are having their first kid in a few months. It’ll be interesting to see how they deal with stuff like that.”

As we ate, he talked about his family. Made me happy to hear he was close with his siblings as well as his cousins. For as different as Martin and I were personality-wise, we’d made a point to stay close and I counted him as one of my best friends.

“So did you have the idyllic life growing up in a Minnesota apple orchard? Or were you one of those who couldn’t wait to peel out as soon as you turned eighteen?”

I groaned. “Peel out? Seriously?”

He laughed. “I love puns and that was sort of a gimme.”

“True. But no more,” I warned.

“Damn. Next one lined up was to ask if you were the apple of your daddy’s eye.” He smirked. “Yeah, I know, I’m the guy who always reaches for the low-hanging fruit.”

I held up my hand. “Lund. Stop.”

“I’m done. Answer the question.”

“I had a great childhood. My parents are awesome. They never pushed me to do anything except my best. Sounds clichéd but it’s true. Dad inherited the farm from his grandfather and their orchards were certified organic—before it was cool to focus on organic farming methods. So we were raised left of center but we weren’t ostracized for it. My folks never expected me to stick around, but I wouldn’t be surprised if when Martin decides to settle down he goes back there and takes over for my dad.”

“Really?”

“It’s a perfect setup for him. He can grow his own and still take on web design clients because there’s not a lot to do in the winter months.” I shoved my plate aside and decided to start boxing up leftovers, when I noticed there weren’t any. The man had put away a serious amount of food and he was staring longingly at the brownies. “You want yours now?”

“Yes. Man, I love homemade brownies.” He brought the garbage can over, sweeping everything into the trash in one fell swoop.

Guess that was one way to clear a table.

Jensen returned with a gallon of whole milk and two glasses. “Want some?”

“Half a glass.”

“Then you should only get half a brownie. It’s sacrilegious not to enjoy them with milk.”

“Who told you that?”

“My grandpa Jensen. He lives in Sweden and the man is serious about his sweets. No coffee or tea with his fika or dessert. Just cold milk.”

I smiled and cut my brownie, giving him half. “Far be it from me to buck a family tradition.”

“Rowan, I was kidding—”

“No, I’m stuffed and I’ve had more than my fair share of brownies this week, so you enjoy.”

“Thanks.”

After I took a small bite and a swig of milk, I said, “You’re named after your grandpa?”

“Jensen is his last name. When he’s around, my family usually calls me Jens ’cause Gramps tends to answer if someone yells Jensen.”

“I imagine so.”

“This brownie is freakin’ fantastic.”

I poured myself more wine. “Thanks for buying dinner.”

“Happy to have your company tonight.” He frowned. “You don’t have to rush off?”

“No. I can stay a little longer.”