Page 29 of Jesse's Girl

“What? Come on. It’s fine. We’re fine.” She reaches out to touch my arm. “Right?”

I pull away.

“Wow,” she says, misreading me. “Didn’t realize I was so repulsive. Sorry.”

“Fuck, no, that’s not… Shit.” I rub my forehead. “I should just go.”

“Okay,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest the same way she’d done with Travis.

My heart sinks, realizing I’ve made her as uncomfortable as he did. I take a breath. “Hey. Sorry for freaking out. You’re not…” I pause, searching for better words, but none are available. “You’re not repulsive.”

“Is that how you talk to all the ladies?” She arches a brow, selling the joke.

I blow a breath through my nose and shake my head. “Fuck. Come here.” I open my arms and give her a pointed look when she hesitates. I know I shouldn’t touch her again, but I need her to know we’re cool. “Can I get a proper hug before I take off, or what?”

She smiles and steps into my embrace, wrapping her arms around my waist.

It takes everything I have to keep it brief but, when I pull away, my skin is humming again.

I’m so fucked.

“So, did I just get Punk’d?” she asks, flicking her eyes up to meet mine. “Is that still a thing?”

I laugh. “That was pretty brutal.”

“Fuck. Pickings are slim.”

“Guess so.” For a brief second, I consider telling her I need a place to stay, but I stop myself and the moment passes by.

“You coming to dinner at my parents’ tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Marcus mentioned that. It’ll be good to see them again. See you there?”

“Cool.” She nods. “We’re good, right?”

I smile. “Yeah, Ada. We’re good.”

7

ADA

Sunday dinner is off to a great start: Mom’s already made a passive-aggressive comment about my job, and Dad immediately stole Jesse for a protracted tour of the last eight years of home renos.

As usual, I’m steering the conversation toward safe territory by attending to the practical task of helping get dinner on the table. I set out a steaming dish of polenta, an enormous pot roast, and three bottles of wine. Everything smells incredible.

Mom carries a tray of fresh bread to the table, then returns to the kitchen.

“What can I help with, Maria?” Renee asks.

“Yeah, Mom, put us to work,” Marcus adds. “Can we set the table or what?”

“Already done, darling.” She pats him on the cheek. “No need to help. You work so hard. Go take a load off.” At that, she shoos him and Renee out of the kitchen and pulls open a drawer, rummaging amongst the serving utensils.

I try not to glare openly at my brother’s back as he leaves, biting my tongue before my salty ass asks why no one’s ever told me to take a load off.

Mom pops the kitchen door open with her hip. “Frank!”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Dad says with a chuckle, stopping to plant a kiss on Mom’s cheek on his way into the kitchen.

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