CHAPTER TEN
Sarah
I don’t know whether to laugh or punch him in the junk right now. Because let’s be honest, what woman has been given flowers with the name of “blue balls” from a guy who’s inflicted the syndrome of the same name on them both?
Lifting my gaze, I find him watching me with a guarded expression, and I swear, he appears almost boyish and shy. Which is ridiculous since the guy is well over six feet tall and one hundred percent man. A man who also happens to have a really thick—
Whoa, whoa, whoooaaa. Who suddenly jumped on the horny train and has damp panties?
Oh, just this girl right here. The one who’s holding blue balls in a box.
I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried. Seriously. Only me. I’m a magnet for ridiculousness.
“Think of these as a peace offering of sorts.”
Twisting my lips, I hedge. “It’s an…odd peace offering.”
“What?” His face is a mask of innocence. “You mean every woman doesn’t dream of receiving these as a gift? Especially such fragrant ones?”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I close my eyes and mutter, “These are the moments I have to remind myself it’s not worth the jail time.”
“This is a moment, Sarah. We’re having a moment. It’s special. Don’t ruin it.” His voice is dripping with amusement. He’s enjoying this.
“It’s not a special moment.” I open my eyes, squinting up at him.
“What would you call it then?”
My response is instant. “A migraine.”
He throws his head back in laughter. “I think you’re interested. In fact, I’d go so far as to say you want me.” He leans in close. “Still.” His smile spreads across his face, wide and cocky.
Patting him on the chest placatingly, I wear an expression of faux concern. “What you don’t realize is that I have a superpower. It’s called, ‘I don’t care what you think.’”
Jack’s eyes sparkle in amusement. “If that’s what you want to believe, Sunshine. Just remember what they say…” He gestures for me to walk with him to where his car is parked a few feet away along the main street. “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.”
At the sound of my grumbling, he laughs, and God, it’s the kind that makes a smile tug at your own lips. It’s infectious and makes warmth unfurl deep within you.
He playfully tugs at the bottom hem of my blouse and winks. “What do you feel like doing for lunch?”
What do I feel like? I feel like seeing if your penis feels as good inside me as it did that night. I bet it would slide right in and—
Wait, what?
My lips clamp shut, my eyes widening in fear that I just spoke my thoughts aloud. Luckily, Jack simply flashes me an odd look, still waiting for me to respond to his question like a normal person.
Which I’m clearly not. No surprise there.
“How about…”
Crap! My mind goes blank. We are literally standing on the sidewalk in downtown Saratoga Springs, amidst dozens of restaurants and shops, and I can’t think of one. This should be classified with my other not so brilliant moments, ranking up there with the whole “push” versus “pull” for doors. I mean, really. I’m intelligent and have a college education, yet I still struggle with opening doors, for God’s sake.
I won’t even go into the whole I’m looking for my phone and panic when I can’t find it only to realize I’m TALKING on it.
Now, it seems I’m also struggling to maintain brain power around Jack.
Luckily, he must sense my struggle because he offers, “How about we take a ride up to Limoncello?”
I pull one of my favorite chocolates from my purse and unwrap it. Not biting off a piece like usual, I pop the entire thing in my mouth after reading the message on the inside foil.
I’m totally stalling. Because, nuh-uh. Nope. Not happening. Limoncello is one of those romantic joints. It doesn’t matter if you go in there for brunch, lunch, or dinner because the restaurant is practically dripping in passion with its low lighting and cozy atmosphere.
Don’t believe me? Imagine combining old Richard Marx ballads with flickering candlelight and tables meant for two. That would be Limoncello.
Of course, my stomach chooses this moment to grumble so loudly I wouldn’t be surprised if people three counties over heard it. Crap. I’m starving, but I need to play it safe. Just as I begin to scramble for a response, I’m saved.
“Sweet cheeks!” a loud, exuberant male voice calls out from behind me suddenly. Before I can spin around to see him, I’m practically tackle-hugged. Thick, tanned arms wrap around me, lifting me up in a bouncy backward hug.
Finally, Clint releases me, turning me to face him, and his perfectly straight, blindingly white smile fixes on me. “Have you missed me? You’ve missed me, haven’t you?”
Before I can respond, he catches sight of Jack, instantly doing his open appraisal. “Well, hellllloooo, tall, dark, and handsome.” Clint thrusts out a hand, and his smile turns brighter. “Name’s Clint. Like Eastwood.”
“Jack Westbrook.” Jack’s blue eyes crinkle with amusement. “Nothing impressive about my name.” With a shrug, he smiles in self-deprecation. “Just Jack.”
“Well, I beg to differ, Just Jack.” Clint reaches over to flick the collar of Jack’s button-down shirt. “There’s nothing ‘just’ about you.”
I tug Clint’s wrist, flashing him a stern look that says, “Back off, buddy.”
He gives me one in return that asks, “He’s yours?”
And then I falter. Not only because we’re having some sort of weird silent conversation with looks alone—creepy, right?—but because my initial thought would be yes. Yes, he’s mine.
Cue my inner tantrum. You know, the one where you wish you could throw yourself on the ground with flailing arms and legs while screaming or yelling in complete and utter frustration. That one. I wish I could do that right now. Because, gah! I’m clearly still hung up on Jack.
I need to put a stop to this madness right now. I. Have. To.
Instead, I end up going to lunch with Jack and Clint. At Limoncello.
Kill me now.
* * *
“Gluten is considered Satan’s tool to bring on death and destruction in epic gastric proportions around Saratoga. You know what I say to that?” Clint asks us in a loud whisper. When Jack and I shake our heads, he answers, “Pass the breadsticks and pasta my way, baby.”
“I’m going to request that my ashes be spread over their shrubs when I pass away.” I pat my stomach with a sigh of contentment. I just ate my weight in pasta and regret absolutely nothing. Lunch was that good.
“Honey. I’m right there with you.” Clint pats the top of my hand before expelling a long sigh of his own.
Jack looks amused. “Already planning for the end, are we?”
I lean toward the table, and before I realize it, my words spill out. “If this were my last night on earth, what a way to go.” I wave a hand toward my nearly empty plate of homemade cheese ravioli in cream sauce.
“That’s it?” Jack props his forearms upon the table, drawing my attention to the slight play of the muscles and the light sprinkling of dark hair on them. He offers an easy smile. “A good plate of pasta is all it takes, and then you’re good to go?”
“Well, ideally, it’d take more than that.”
Oh, shit. What the hell am I saying? Word vomit is happening again. Not to mention, my tone was seriously flirty. And not only with the “Aren’t you just the most handsome guy around?” flirty. Nope. It was the “If I were a cartoon character, my tongue would be hanging out of my mouth limply with saliva dripping from it” crossed with a sexy Catwoman version of “I’m going to crawl across this table lithely and seductively until I get to you, and you’ll be dazed by my sexual prowess.”
“Really? Do tell.” Jack leans in with obvious interest.
“Yes, do tell.” Clint wiggles his eyebrows. He rests his chin in his hand, gazing at me expectantly. “I’m all ears.”
Right now, I’m blaming the damn ravioli. Damn you, ravioli! You got me into this mess!
I know, I know. You’re shaking your head at me in disgust right now because I refuse to take responsibility like an adult.
“Well, it’d take this ravioli and maybe a little make-out session.” I lift a shoulder in a half shrug, picking up my fork and toying with it to avoid any eye contact.
And I continue to dig myself deeper.
“You know, I’d even be cool with some middle school, over-the-clothes type of action.”
OH. MY. GOD. I did not just say that.
Please tell me I didn’t say that out loud. Please. Telllllll meeeeeee.
Horrified, my eyes fly up and meet Clint’s gaze first—he’s doing the whole silent, shoulders shaking, “I’m dying with laughter” thing. And Jack? Well, the expression on Jack’s face says it all. It’s clear he’s trying not to laugh, those full lips pressed together but tugging up at the corners.
Dropping my face into my hands, I let out a tiny groan. Maybe I’ll drown myself in the leftover cream sauce. Because let’s be real here. That’s a hell of a way to go. I can imagine the news reports now.
“We’re live from Limoncello in Saratoga Springs where reports have a young woman drowning herself in the restaurant’s decadent cream sauce to escape mortification from the man who seems to be her greatest weakness. The same man who inflicted a blue balls condition upon them both. We’ll keep you posted on further developments.”
Here’s the moment where, if Jack and Clint were decent human beings, they’d laugh it off and let my word vomit slide, chalking it up to the slight food coma I’m in. Wait for it. Wait for iiiiiiiiiiiitttt…
“So what you’re saying is you’d be interested in some middle school, over-the-clothes action, huh?” Clint’s tapping a finger to his lips as if he’s considering taking part.
Damn smartass. He’s gay, which means I’m about as appealing to him as Vegemite is to a chocolate connoisseur.
“Should I put a rush on the check?” Jack offers.
Great. I’m stuck at lunch with two friggin’ comedians. My fingertips massage my temples, and my eyes drift closed in an attempt to shut them out.
“What do you think?” Clint says in a loud whisper. “Maybe I can be on top?”
Oh my God.
Jack whispers back, “I don’t know, man. She looks like she’s getting a”—he pauses, and I open my eyes to barely a squint and see him using air quotes—“headache.”
“Nah. I have faith she’ll rally for Eastwood Junior here.”
Leaning back in my chair, I cross my arms as my eyes flit back and forth between the two men who clearly don’t need me to carry on this conversation.
“However,” Clint says with a pointed look at Jack, “you need to hold off on the blue balls if you plan to get lucky with me.”
Raising my hand in the air, I attempt to flag our waiter for the check.
“Speaking of which.” Clint rests his forearms on the table and fixes his eyes on Jack. “You planning on more episodes like the last one I heard so much about?”
Jack’s eyes flicker over to me, shining with a mixture of dismay and amusement before returning to Clint. “She mentioned that, did she?”
Clint flashes a gleeful smile. “Oh, yes.” Leaning back, he folds his arms across his chest. “As far as I’m concerned, you’ll be referred to as Mr. Blue Balls for years to come.”
“Great.” Jack chuckles, shaking his head.
“You can remedy this by bringing out your A-game,” Clint suggests before leaning over to me and speaking in a loud whisper. “And maybe you can liven things up a bit—”
I interrupt, wagging a finger. “You of all people should know that most men are simple creatures. I mean, really.” I give them a pointed look. “A guy would do me even if I had chips in my hair.”
Jack throws his head back on a husky laugh whereas Clint stares at me, appearing thoughtful.
“What kind of chips, though?” my friend asks. “If we’re talking salt and vinegar, sure thing, but sour cream and onion”—he makes a face—“are game changers.”
My hand shoots up in the air. “Check, please.”