“No. This is my second time.”
“Why tonight? You stalking me?”
“Not consciously.” He looked at her for a long minute, taking in the fact that she was jamming things into her bag, moving as fast as she could. “That was really brave, Jess.”
She looked up sharply.
“And I won’t tell anyone.”
Her gaze dropped back to her bag. “Thanks.”
“You want to get a drink?”
“It’s almost eleven. Nowhere’s open.”
“O’Rourke’s might be. I know the owner.”
She hesitated, then met his eyes. “I could use a drink. Which is probably why I shouldn’t have one.”
“How about a Coke, then?”
She nodded.
The fresh air was welcome after the beer-scented fog of the club. Connor waited till Jess got into her car. She turned the key, but there was only a click. “This night seems to be cursed. Can you give me a jump?”
“I only have my bike.” He gestured to his motorcycle. “I’ll give you a ride home, though. After your Coke.”
She got out of the car. He took off his leather jacket and handed it to her.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
“Put it on. This, too.” He gave her the helmet, and after a second, she did what he asked.
Mentally thanking the gods that had chosen this night for her battery to die, Connor got on the bike. Jess climbed on behind him and put her arms around his waist.
Driving through the dark, Jessica pressed against his back, was about the best thing that had happened to Connor in years. The drive had seemed long on the way out; now, it was way too short.
He parked the bike behind O’Rourke’s, then unlocked the door. “It’s not quite finished yet,” he said needlessly, turning on just the light behind the bar.
Jessica slid out of his coat and put the helmet on the bar.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. She took a long look around, then ran her hand over the bar. “You’re gonna put a dent in Hugo’s business, that’s for sure.”
“Well. It’s...it’s just a pub.”
“Looks like a lot more than that to me.”
Connor saw it through her eyes—the U-shaped bar, the booths with the carefully chosen lighting and comfortable leather seats, the tables that he’d paid extra for so they wouldn’t wobble, unlike 98% of all restaurant tables everywhere. The wide-planked floor and tin ceiling, the amber lights that hung over the bar.
Hopefully, yes, it would be a lot more than a pub.
Jess went to sit down on one of the stools, then stopped. “You live upstairs, right?”
“Right.” His residence wasn’t a secret, but he was surprised Jess knew.
“Would it be all right if I took a shower?” Her voice was businesslike, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
“Yeah, of course. Right this way.” He brought her upstairs, abruptly wishing his place didn’t look like a dorm room. He got a clean towel and handed it to her, feeling awkward. “Take your time,” he said. “I’ll be downstairs.”He went back down, trying not to think about the fact that Jessica Dunn was taking off her clothes in his apartment. Stepping into his shower. Naked. Wet. Soap suds streaming down her long, smooth—
“Snap out of it,” he muttered to himself.
He went into the kitchen, since the kitchen was where he did his best thinking.
He didn’t know too much about what Jess had been doing these past two years. She was still at Hugo’s, he knew that. Lived with her brother in a little house over near the factory, at the very edge of the residential part of town, where the houses were covered in sagging vinyl siding and the sidewalks were cracked.
A neighborhood that was far better than the trailer park.
He broke three eggs into a bowl and started whisking. Chopped some parsley and cilantro, hoping Jess wasn’t one of those people who hated cilantro. Got out the nonstick frying pan that had cost a fortune, turned on the gas and put a dollop of butter into the pan. As it melted, he opened the cupboard where he’d already arranged his salt collection, chose some Peruvian sea salt and added a few flakes, waiting till they dissolved. Sliced two hearty pieces of the peasant bread he’d bought from the Mennonite market that morning and put them in the toaster.
Above his head, he heard the shower turn off.
He told himself that he shouldn’t be so happy that tonight had been an utter failure for her, that her car was a piece of crap.
He could still feel her arms around his waist from the ride here.
He added a quarter cup of heavy cream to the eggs and whisked gently. Poured it into the pan, added the herbs and ground in some Tellicherry black pepper, waited twenty seconds, then began folding the eggs gently. Buttered the toast, plated the eggs, added a sprig of parsley and brought it out, just as she came into the bar.
The makeup from earlier was gone, and her wet hair looked darker, pulled back into its ponytail.
She looked about fifteen years old, except for the way she filled out her clothes.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she said.
“I know. Would you like a glass of wine instead of that Coke?”
She hesitated. “Okay. Just a small one.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t care.”
“Now, now. You took my class. I expect better from you.”
She sat at the bar and smiled a little. “Fine. A fumé blanc?”
“An excellent choice.” He winked at her and poured her a six-ounce glass. One for himself, too, so she wouldn’t be drinking alone, then sat down next to her.
“You’re not eating?” she asked.
“Not right now. I’m just a voyeur.”
“Pervert.” She smiled slightly, then took a bite of the eggs. “Oh, my God, these are incredible,” she said, closing her eyes. “Are they really just scrambled eggs?”
Her eyelashes were dark brown and feathery. “Thanks,” he managed. “Uh, yeah.”
Watching her eat made his chest hurt from happiness. Her hands were efficient and neat, and she savored the food, really tasting it, not like some people, like Colleen, who ate like a starving coyote; not like his mother, who ate with the careful rhythm of a chronic dieter and then binge-ate junk food later.
No. Jessica tasted. She savored. Her tongue slipped out to lick a little crumb of toast from the corner of her pink mouth, and when she swallowed, he had to look away. He took a pull of his wine or beer or orange soda or whatever the hell he was drinking. It was cold. He should probably pour it in his lap.
“So I figured stripping would be easy money,” she said, and he looked back. She was talking to her glass, apparently, because she didn’t make eye contact. “There’s this new medicine they’re trying for kids with fetal alcohol syndrome, and it’s expensive, and of course Medicaid doesn’t cover it.”
“What kind of medicine?”
“It’s something to help with impulse control and outbursts. This bread is fantastic, too.”
“The Mennonite market.”
“Right. Anyway, I figured I could strip for a few months and pay for it. It was harder than I thought.” She took the last bite of eggs and wiped her mouth with the napkin. “Those were the best scrambled eggs I’ve ever had. Thank you.”