I sigh. “For the record, I meant take it off in the bedroom, I thought that was implied.”
“Assuming only makes an ass out of you…”
“Not you, then?”
When I look at her again, I’m struck with the thought that I’m truly not sure which is worse, her in my shirt or out of it.
“I’m not ashamed of my body, so I’m not the ass here.”
I bite back a laugh, shaking my head. “You have a talent for raising my blood pressure.”
“Hm, likewise,” she says with so much interest. I try incredibly hard not to react to it. Instead, I busy my itching hands and pick up a cloth to begin clearing up the sauce on the counter.
“You know, there are easier ways to thank someone than setting the kitchen on fire.”
“I know that now,” she scoffs, but her chin lifts. She wanted to do something for me, and it backfired, and somehow that makes her twice as endearing.
I don’t know why I do it, but the streak of sauce on her cheek is calling for me to wipe it away, so I do, dragging the pad of my thumb slowly across it. Her eyes track the movement with rapt attention. The world narrows to the warmth of her skin beneath me and the faint tremor that runs through her when I pull my hand back.
“Uh, thanks,” she murmurs, her voice not much more than a breath. The confidence she wielded so effortlessly a minute ago folds inward, and it’s replaced by that same glimmer of something else I’ve seen in her before. Only now, I recognize it as doubt. That familiar part of me wants to scoop her up and beg her to tell me who hurt her, but I don’t, not yet.
I clear my throat, adjusting my glasses and stepping back to reclaim some distance I’m not sure I want, but I know she needs. “Anytime.”
I pick the cloth back up and drain the pasta that’s boiled to within an inch of its life. Liv moves alongside me, putting the charcoaled food in the trash and cleaning the flour. When I pick up the pan with the sauce, I wince a little at the burned marinara I’m guessing she was trying to make.
“It’s bad, isn’t it.”
“We might have to buy another pan.”
“I’ll be buying the pan, not you.”
I don’t argue with her because I know she’ll come out on top; something about her tells me she always would. But I also want to make sure she knows I don’t expect her to.
“Then let me order dinner,” I argue.
“Not a chance, dinner is on me. It’s theleastI can do.”
“Olivia.”
“Jay, I almost just burned down your kitchen. Let’s call it what it is and accept that this is now a thank-youandan apology dinner. I hope you like a side of guilt with your Mexican food.”
This time, I don’t argue, just hold her gaze and smile. “Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter twelve
Jay
“Andifyoucanjust look into each other’s eyes for me…” I pull my camera up to my face and snap a picture of the couple showing me how in love they are. In fact, five minutes ago, I had to ask them to stop making out. Man, I really need to find a new job.
I look down at my watch and back up at the couple and decide to call it a day when he leans in again. There’s only so much I can take, and watching people eat face when I know I’ve barely even dated, kissed, or had sex with another person for over a year… well, I’m over it. I don’t need to see it.
I pack up my gear faster than usual, muttering a half-hearted, “You’ll get your proofs soon,” like the robot I am, before making a beeline for my car once they leave.
The drive to Daphne and Hudson’s place is quiet, save for my stomach grumbling. I’m praying they’ve ordered pizza or something… anything right now.
One knock later, and I’m met with a smiling Daphne. “You’re late,” she says, but pulls me into a hug that I return.
I carefully place my camera bag by the door. “You try spending eight hours photographing people trying to tongue each other’s souls. I deserve a medal.”
