Page 63 of The Jilted Lovers Club
I nod, and genuinely, I am. I still feel the raw edges of grief, though I suspect that’s normal, given that this is the first time in years that I’ve actually faced my complicated emotions about Violet, Brayden … all of it.
But I also feel cleansed. It’s like I spent the day swimming in the waves. My lungs hurt, my body weighs heavy, every muscle is sore. But I’m rested and spent. Deliriously happy.
And a little embarrassed.
“I didn’t mean to totally lose it out there,” I say. “Bec and Bob probably think I’m some lunatic.”
“First off, you had a trauma response.” Ashton lifts my chin so that I’m looking at him. “And not only does Becnotthinkyou’re a lunatic, she recognized what was happening. She called to ask how you were doing while you were in the shower.” He kisses my forehead, then pulls me close. “They adore you, Jordy. We all do.” He peers into my eyes. “I do.”
He kisses me slow, his lips lingering on mine as he strokes my back. I feel so good against his body, enjoying the warmth of him, our legs tangled up in each other under his weighted blankets.
His kiss deepens, and he pulls me closer to him until I’m on top. I can feel how hard he is already, and I’m all for round two. But that’s when my stomach gives a loud growl—loud enough that he pulls back, laughing as he helps me off him.
“I’m going to have to feed you if we’re going to do that again,” he says. I groan when he whips the covers off of us.
“Get dressed up,” he orders, already grabbing a pair of boxer briefs. “I’m taking you on a proper date.”
A proper date means dinner at Charred. Of course it does.
As soon as we pull up, I give Ashton a look. “Seriously? I’ve had their burgers and Manhattans. Not impressed.”
“I don’t know,” he says, cutting me a sidelong glance. “You had three Manhattans last time. Seemed like a fan to me.”
He winks and jumps out of the truck, circling around to open my door like a gentleman. When I hold out my hand, he takes it slowly, his gaze raking down the length of me.
“Jordy,” he says, voice low, “I can’t tell you enough, you’re breathtaking.”
I inwardly roll my eyes, though I’m thrilled he likes the way I look. My silk mauve dress hugs all the right curves and hits mid-thigh, and the strappy gold stilettos give me just the right amount of height. My wrap hangs loosely around my elbows, more for style than warmth.
But the way he looks at me? Like he’s never seen anything more beautiful? Yeah, I feel it.
“You clean up nice yourself,” I say, stepping out and letting my eyes sweep over him. Black suit pants, black silk shirt slightly unbuttoned to reveal just a peek of tattooed chest. And the stubble on his jaw? Dangerous. Especially as I think about that stubble raking along my inner thigh.
I step in close and breathe him in—a mixture of aftershave and his own personal scent that makes my insides melt. “I swear, I could bottle you.”
“Mmm.” His lips brush the edge of my ear. “But for now, let’s get some food in you. We’ve got plans later.”
I bite my lip, then glance toward the restaurant. Just remembering the last time I was here elicits a dramatic groan. “Fine, let’s get this over with.”
We approach the restaurant hand-in-hand, and then his palm meets the small of my back as he holds the door open.
“Ashton!” Griffin’s voice booms from behind the bar. His grin grows wider when he spots me, and his gaze lingers on the way Ashton’s hand stays right where it is. “Well, well. Miss New York returns. Ready for another Manhattan tasting, I see?”
“Yeah, no thanks.” I give him a sweet smile, refusing to rise to his teasing. “Think I’ll stick to something less tamper-friendly. Like a bottle of wine—opened at the table, where I can see it. And maybe, just maybe, you can try serving us like an actual professional. Think you can manage that, Griff? Or should I send you a customer service manual?”
Griffin’s smile doesn’t even flicker. He glances at Ashton, offering a wink. “You have a feisty one, huh?”
“Oh, I don’t have anything,” Ashton says, his voice calm but firm. “Jordy’s her own woman, and I suggest you listen to her.”
Griff mock-salutes. “Noted.” He nods toward the hostess. “Seat them by the window. Roasted oysters on the house.”
Dinner at Charred is a whole different experience this time. No side-eyes, no shenanigans—just warm lighting, cozy window seating, and Griffin doing his best impression of a competent server.
The food arrives hot and unburnt, unlike the last time, and the conversation flows as easily as the wine.
“What’s a guilty pleasure you’ll never give up?” I ask, pushing a mushroom around my plate.
He thinks for a beat. “What qualifies as a guilty pleasure, exactly?”
