CHAPTER EIGHT
Sarah
It’s confirmed. I’m in love.
I’m seriously in honest to goodness love. It might be one-sided, but I swear it’s the real thing. I have the sweaty palms, the shortness of breath, the dry mouth—the whole nine yards.
“If it were possible to be sexually attracted to an object, this would be it,” I murmur softly to myself, coveting the sparkly heels in my hands.
“Then get them.”
The sudden sound of Jack’s voice behind me causes me to physically jerk. My lips tip down at him suddenly homing in on my special moment. And trust me, it was special. It was just me and these spectacular heels beautiful enough to remind me of something Cinderella would wear to a ball.
Minus the asshole prince who doesn’t remember what she looks like when she’s not wearing a face full of makeup and a pretty dress, of course. Because, yeah. Talk about a douche of epic proportions.
Scrunching my face, I give him my best side-eye. “I can’t do that.”
“Sure, you can.” He says it just like that. Like it’s easy peasy.
With a long sigh, I stare at him.
He simply waves a hand at me. “Don’t look at me like I just confessed to sharing responsibility for kidnapping the Lindbergh baby or something.”
Huffing out a short laugh, I return my eyes to the shoes as I place them back in their box on the shelf.
“Get them, Sunshine.”
I’m ignoring his new—and obviously snarky—nickname for me because I don’t want to get into it with him. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because”—I purse my lips—“I’m a nurse, and I don’t…have anywhere to wear them. Aside from the rare occurrence of a wedding.”
“Or out to a nice dinner one night.”
I peer at him skeptically. “A nice dinner?”
“Yeah. A nice dinner out where you dress to the nines and splurge a little on food that’s delicious and packed with calories. And”—he leans in with exaggerated emphasis—“you even get dessert.” He covers his mouth with his hand, eyes going wide as if what he just said was scandalous.
And it kind of is.
“I don’t…know…” I’m hesitant. He’s planted the seed, and can you hear that? That sound?
Damn it. The roots have already begun to grow.
But, no! Nooooo. It wouldn’t be practical. It wouldn’t be—
Jack abruptly grabs the box with the heels I’ve been coveting and walks down the aisle toward the counter.
Sputtering, I give chase. “But wait! You can’t—”
He stops suddenly, causing me to nearly barrel into him, but I catch myself just in time. “I can.” He pauses. “Are these your size?”
I can only manage to nod numbly.
His expression softens. “You’re one of the hardest working people I know, Sarah. You deserve this.” With a shake of his head, he adds, “Actually, you deserve far more than this.”
Just as he turns back, I blurt, “And who’s going to take me out to this fancy dinner you speak of?”
Meeting my eyes again, he steps closer and his word is low and husky.
“Me.”
* * *
Two and a half hours have passed, and Jack and I have taken care of the final fittings, checked on the deliveries for the wedding cake, and chosen our personal gifts for Maggie and Ry.
Now, we’re in floral hell trying to choose centerpieces because neither Maggie nor Ry can decide—or care—about any of the floral arrangements.
“What about plain roses? Then we can have the DJ play the Tango.” Jack plucks a long-stemmed rose from a nearby bucket filled with dozens upon dozens of the fragrant flowers and places it between his teeth. His fingers encircle my wrist, and I’m tugged against the firm wall of his chest. Quickly setting the shopping bag with the heels he insisted on purchasing for me aside, he nudges it beneath the nearby display table. One of his hands settles at my waist while the other grasps my hand.
And he freaking leads me into a Tango-like walk down the main aisle of the flower shop.
Before I can escape his clutches, he dips me, and my hair flies back. He has that stupid rose still secured between his perfect teeth with his lips curved into a smile. His dark blue eyes are dancing in amusement, and I can’t resist a little laugh at his antics.
He lets the rose drop soundlessly to the floor, and his features change, eyes darkening, as they flicker between my lips and my eyes. My breath catches with the anticipation that he’ll close the distance between us and kiss me. What’s worse is I want him to. Badly. Even after what happened.
Traitorous lips. Traitorous hormones. Traitorous—
“Hey, you two!”
At the sound of the shop owner’s voice, I jerk with a start, causing Jack to nearly lose his grip on me. Thankfully, he rights us swiftly enough that I’m certain my hair whipped forward so fast I’ve given my own cheeks brush burn.
Smoothing down the fabric of my sleeveless blouse, I attempt to compose myself and do everything in my power to avoid meeting Jack’s gaze. It feels like I’ve blasted back in time to the fifth grade when I lied to my teacher about being allowed to wear lipstick. Totally failed at looking Mrs. Frost (and she lived up to her last name, in case you’re wondering) in the eye back then and can’t look Jack in the eye right now.
At least I learned to leave bright fuchsia lipstick a memory. Turns out that’s far easier to leave in my past than Jack Westbrook.
“Hi, Ms. Paisley! So great to see you!”
Shit! Why do I sound like a peppy cheerleader? Maybe I should just break out the old back handspring and end it with one of those little spirit finger waves, too, while I’m at it.
Kill me now.
The weight of Jack’s eyes on me is heavy, but do I look over? Nope, nope, nope. Not going to happen. I’m staying strong here, people.
Ms. Paisley’s eyes dart curiously back and forth between me and Jack. The older woman is in her late sixties, not to mention the kindest lady around, and has owned this floral shop for ages. She donates arrangements to terminally ill patients in our hospital and is also well known throughout our community as an active city council member. Ms. Paisley is one of those people who makes it a point to get to know everyone who crosses her path.
“What are you up to today?” she asks sweetly.
“Oh—” I start to answer, but I’m cut off.
By the new official bane of my existence.
“Nothing much, Ms. P. Just trying to make out with Little Miss Sunshine here,” Jack interrupts, playfully nudging the older woman.
My death glare is fierce, and let’s get something clear. I’ve perfected this glare since I’ve had to use it on a few pretentious doctors I’ve dealt with over the years as well as some asswipe patients who think they’ve watched enough Grey’s Anatomy to know what’s what. This particular glare has quieted burly men who look like they’d just gotten off the set of the movie Deliverance. I like to think it has the same power as Darth Vader’s little Jedi move where he squeezes people’s throats simply by thinking it. My glare is paralyzing.
Or so I thought. Because, yep, you guessed it. Jack Westbrook is not only immune to it, but he has the audacity to smile at me. No, scratch that. He’s grinning smugly because he knows it pisses me off.
Yet I still want him. I’d even go so far as to consider giving up the last, jumbo chocolate-covered strawberry from Sweets ‘N’ Treats—and those suckers are like manna from heaven, I tell you—on Valentine’s Day just to let him have his wicked way with me.
Minus the biting and spanking thing, obviously.
Jack continues sweet-talking Ms. Paisley, telling her all about Maggie and Ry’s wedding and asking for her input since she knows the couple as well. I stand back, not so discreetly watching the two interact. Or more aptly, watching the way Jack interacts with the older woman. His side profile with that straight nose and strong square jawline with just the right amount of dark scruff to send him over the line of the “Wow, he’s sexy” category and into the “He needs to get me naked NOW” territory gets me feeling swoony.
Damn it.
My eyes drift up to his hair, and I recall how soft it felt that night I gripped it while he put his mouth all over me. My gaze trails down the dark gray shirt stretched over his firmly muscled torso, and I falter at his jeans. Sweet Jesus, those jeans. My vagina lurched a little when I caught sight of him earlier. I swear I felt it move as if it were practically trying to flag him down like, “Jack!! Over heeerrrrrreeee!!”
Whoa. That was weird. Plus, directionally speaking, it should be “down here,” shouldn’t it?
Oh. My. God! Why am I having an internal conversation about my vagina waving at a guy? I blame it all on Jack. He’s making me crazy. As if that’s not bad enough, my eyes are locked on his jeans and the way they hug him in all the right places. Specifically, over his ass and crotch. Over that really nice—
The sound of Jack clearing his throat is jarring, yanking me from my inner turmoil. When I meet his gaze, those blue eyes crinkle at the corners and one eyebrow rises. It’s clear what he’s silently saying. Checking out my package, huh, Sunshine?
Gah. I totally hear his voice in my head, too! I need an escape. NOW.
“I’ll be just a moment.” Turning, I rush out the shop’s door; the tiny bell sounding at my exit as I practically spill out onto the sidewalk.