“Okay, you’ve made your point.”
“I don’t think I have.” Taking a stool at the island, he raises his brows at my wine.
I ignore him, trying not to let him get under my skin. Impossible. He has direct access to my patience switch, and he presses that button for fun. “Yes,” I breathe. “You’re here, there, all over my bloody house, Jesse,” I smile sweetly and approach my bookshelf, my pride and joy, where a copy of every book I’ve written has pride of place. “But so are these guys.” I swoop my hand out, bringing his attention to my other titles. My other alphas.
His expression is instantly dark, the cogs of his mind spinning, his adorable—maddening—frown falling into place. “But they’re not me.”
“No one is, Jesse,” I reply tiredly, rolling my eyes.
“I still can’t believe you’ve cheated on me. And not with just one man, but with seventeen.Seventeen, Jodi, for fuck’s sake.”
I laugh. “What do you want me to do? Retire to save your enormous ego from being dented?”
“Yes.” He scoffs. “You should have retired in 2014.”
Before Miller. And all the others. Unbelievable. “I’m not retiring.” Not then, not now.
“Got any peanut butter?”
“Eh?”
“I’m peckish.”
“Peckish?”
He pouts. “Yes, peckish.”
God help me.“Fine, but then you can leave.” I go to my fridge and pull out a jar of peanut butter, placing it down on the counter with a heavy hand. I know what’s coming the momenthis eyes land on the jar. “I don’t have Sun-Pat,” I say before he voices his disapproval.
“Why the hell not?” He picks up the jar and gives it a filthy look.
“It’s organic.” I pull the drawer open and fish out a spoon, handing it over. He recoils. “No fingers either,” I add.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” He looks at the label, squinting.
“Need an eye test?” I ask. “What are you now, fifty?—”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Jodi, it doesn’t suit you.”
“My readers beg to differ.”
“It’s crunchy too?” His eyes widen in horror as he holds the jar up, thrusting it toward me. “No Sun-Pat, no fingers, and now you’re telling me it’s not smooth?”
“Deal with it. You’re lucky I have some; I don’t even like peanut butter.”
“Then whose is this?”
“My boys.”
“I thought you of all people would keep my favourite.”
“Why? In case you dropped by unexpectedly on Christmas Eve to trample my Christmas tree?”
“Yes, exactly that.” He unscrews the lid and shoves his finger in, green eyes drilling into me, daring me to challenge him and his finger-dipping. I would if I had the energy. Lucky for him, my new alpha has drained me dry today while I chasedThe End. I won’t tell Jesse that. Best not poke the bear.
Popping his finger in his mouth, he slowly pulls off the peanut butter on a hum of delight. “Not bad,” he muses, abandoning the jar and standing. “So, the tree.” He strides over and takes in my eight-foot beauty. “Let’s settle this.”
“Okay, it’s settled, you don’t get the top position this year. Are we done? Great. Time for you to go.” I take his arm, trying to encourage him—and his ego—out of my kitchen. He doesn’tbudge. Not one inch. God damn me, I rue the day I made him such an irrational, unmovable control freak.
