I never had dinner with Jesse. His dinners were always on the go or over a meeting, while I ate with myself, Flynn or whoever happened to be around when I was hungry.
I met him at five at a cool little bistro-bar, where he obviously knew the owner. We were shown to a private table at the back, behind a partial wall. Jude and Flynn had the nearest table, which was far enough away that we were on our own.
Jesse hugged me and gave me a quick kiss. Just on the cheek, but no one could really see us where we were. Then he pulled out my chair for me and said, “You look hot.”
Which I did. Literally. I’d caught some sun in Central Park and I was shimmering with sweat. I’d come straight from my shopping spree and it was a hella hot day, so I was wearing a new sundress.
Jesse, as usual, looked amazing in a short-sleeve white button-up shirt and well-worn gray jeans, his sunglasses pushed up into his thick, dark hair.
I tossed my tote bag on the chair between us, my sketchbook sticking out of it. Jesse ordered for us and as soon as the waiter departed with our order, he asked, “What is that?”
“My sketchbook.”
His eyebrows went up. “You draw?”
“Sometimes,” I said, buttering myself a bread roll. In fact, in the first week of the tour I’d drawn more than I had in the last year; I’d already sketched everyone on our tour bus and was starting on the guys on the other bus. But for whatever reason, I didn’t feel like saying so. “So, you come to this place whenever you’re in New York?”
“Usually.” He eyed my sketchbook again. “I’ve seen you with it at sound check. I thought you were writing. Like keeping a journal.”
I shrugged. “I just like to draw.”
Our drinks came and I dove into my SoCo and amaretto. Before I knew what was happening, Jesse plucked the sketchbook from my bag and started flipping through it. I slammed down my drink, a little harder than I meant to, and snatched the book from his hands.
His dark eyebrows furled. “What was that? Raf?”
“I dunno.” I closed the book on the sketch of Raf. “Lots of people in there.” I stuffed the book back in my bag and gave him my most serious stink eye.
“It’s really fucking good.”
“Just something to keep my hands busy. Baking on a tour bus seems unlikely.” I sipped my drink again, keeping an eye on him this time, but he made no further attempt to molest my privacy. “You have your oral fixation, right? Well, I’ve got a thing with my hands.”
He sipped his bourbon, which I’d come to learn was his drink of choice, eying me over the rim of his glass. “I’ve got something you can do with your hands.”
Sweet Jesus. We didn’t even have our appetizers yet and the man was already flirting. No, not flirting.Daring.Because of our stupid bet. And quite obviously he was doing his damnedest to make me lose it.
But all I had to do was remind myself of that “private show” he was expecting if I lost, and I rallied my resistance.
“No need,” I said coolly. “Busy enough sketching Raf.”
Jesse’s eyes narrowed a little. Raf was an interesting looking dude. He wasn’t the sex god Jesse was, but he had an easy smile, attractive caramel-macchiato skin and a crazy Sideshow Bob hairdo that got him plenty of attention. It wasn’t like I could make Jesse Mayes jealous, but I suspected his giant ego wouldn’t appreciate me paying Raf a compliment, even indirectly.
Evidently, I was right. He eyed my sketchbook again, like it was killing him not getting to look inside it.
“And Dylan,” I said. Because fuck yes, I’d drawn him too, all six-foot-forever of him, kilt and all. “And Zane,” I added. Mostly to be cruel, but it was true, the sex Viking of rock was in there too.
Jesse’s eyes narrowed further. “Heartless,” he said, and I grinned.
For the rest of dinner the sketchbook was there between us, taunting him. I managed to steer the conversation toward other things, briefly, and got him talking about his day. Apparently his sister was in town and he was supposed to meet up with her, but she’d bailed on him, so he’d ended up running errands with Jude and later having a meeting with someone from his record company. I would’ve been happy to hear more, because his life sounded pretty fucking interesting to me. For one thing, I’d never been in a meeting with a record company exec. For another, I definitely didn’t have a sister who was a supermodel. I mean, Becca was pretty and all, but shit. I’d stalked Jesse’s sister on Google after he told me her name, and as it turned out, Jessa Mayes was drop-dead gorgeous and had modeled for more fashion labels than I’d ever heard of.
But all I got out of Jesse on that topic were one-word answers. Any chance he got, he brought up my sketchbook again, asking how long I’d been drawing and what kinds of things I drew. I answered his questions as vaguely as I could. I never felt comfortable talking about my art. Maybe because I had so little to show for my aspirations. But I was definitely enjoying watching Jesse try to sort it out.
All along, I knew what he was really asking. He wanted to know if I’d ever drawnhim.
I didn’t think he’d actually come out with it, but by the end of dinner, as he stared me down while I finished the last few bites of my pie,Ialmost broke. Instead, I channeled all my sexual frustration into licking the last bit of fruit filling from my fork. Slowly. It was blueberry. I would’ve ordered cherry if they had any, but he got the point. By now, I knew the guy must’ve been bursting at the seams from lack of sex. I knew I was.
“You gonna tell me if I’m in your book, cherry pie?” he pretty much growled.
Of course he was, but I wasn’t about to offer up that information. His ego was bloated enough.
