Page 82 of Long Shot

I purse my lips. “I may have. Once.”

“Right. Well, you’re not doing it here, either. We may not be a high-end place like that, but you’re a chef and you don’t need to do that. Now answer my question.”

My chin lifts again and I square my shoulders. “Jesus.”

His eyebrows rise and his gaze stays on me.

“Fine. I was jealous.”

He blinks.

“You were all over that . . . Nerissa, or whatever her name is.”

His jaw drops. “Nerissa. You’re kidding me.”

“I know she’s one of the women you went out with. And obviously she didn’t come here tonight to paint a picture of palm trees and a sunset.”

Cade laughs.

I frown. “I told you I was jealous. The least you can do is not laugh at me.”

He sobers and rises from his chair. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just find it amusing that you’re jealous of her.” He stops in front of me, our bodies brushing together. He stares into my eyes. “I’m with you. Not her. I was being polite to a customer. A paint night customer.”

I sigh. “Look, if we’re being honest . . . it bugs me when all those women come in here to beg you to see them again.”

“We talked about this. I was honest with them.”

“I know.” I drop my gaze. “Now we’re together . . . I don’t know. I wish it didn’t happen.”

“I can’t change the past, Reese.”

“I know.” I lay my forehead on his chest. “I’m sorry I was jealous.”

“I’m sorry you were, too. Because you don’t have to be. Listen.” He sets his hands on my hips. “I screwed around a lot. With a lot of women.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” I mutter.

“I was being an idiot. None of them meant anything to me and in retrospect I wasn’t very fair to them. I was . . . compensating.”

I lift my head, my face all scrunched up. “Compensating? For what? You’re not exactly, uh, lacking. If you know what I mean.”

“Actually, I am.”

My forehead tightens even more. “What are you talking about?”

His lips tighten, but his gaze stays firmly on my face. The moment stretches out almost painfully and then he says, “I only have one testicle.”

I blink. Tip my head. Think about that. “No. I’m pretty sure you have two.” I experience a flutter between my legs remembering last night when I went down on him . . . and how much he loved it when I licked his balls . . . sucked them . . . squeezed them.

“One’s a prosthetic.”

I stare back at him. He’s not joking. “I-I . . . really?”

“Really.”

“Oh.” I consider this even more. “How did it happen? Were you injured in combat?”

“No. Fuck.” He swipes a hand over his face. “All those fucking years in the Navy and barely a scratch on me. It happened when we were mountain-biking. My tire hit a big rock on the path and I fell. Got twisted up in the bike.” He winces, remembering.

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