Instantly, I cringe, knowing damn good and well that he has an ulterior motive.
Sure enough, he pulls away from me before slapping my ass. “Damn baby,” he says, and the flush that creeps up my neck is enough to make me want to crawl under a rock and never emerge again.
I can’t stand it when he does this. Jettson’s existence alone seems to threaten his fragile male ego, though I’m not sure why. All the man did was see me struggling and step in to help. Shocking, I know—such wild, unthinkable motives.
Kindness?
No. That’s too generous a conclusion. There must be something more sinister at play. I almost roll my eyes at the irony, but his nearness keeps me still—close enough to touch, yet motionless, like a warning.
He’sridiculous.
It’s not like I had a shot at reaching it—not at my height. Short is putting it kindly. I barely scrape five feet tall, and being thick doesn't exactly help my case. And I don’t mean"curvy"by today’s trendy standards. No, I’m a solid size sixteen in just about everything, which lands me squarely in the plus size section every time.
Do you know that saying? Thick thighs save lives? Yeah, they fucking lied.
Thick thighs do not save lives. They make it much harder for me to live my daily life. And don’t even get me started on the chafing or the fucking short-leg jokes I’ve been subjected to.
I’ve gained some weight, which is expected, especially during the honeymoon phase of your marriage.
I mean, it’s fucking normal, or at least I’ve always been told that. It doesn’t matter to Luke. He can’t have his trophy wife look anything less than perfect. That’s why he filled the fridge with lots of fruit and vegetables—sans the wine.
I move to serve them, catching the sight of Luke’s empty glass. Of course. I go back and grab the lemonade from the fridge, refilling it like I always do. Not even a thank you. Figures.
Jettson’s rough voice cuts through the awkward silence, “Mrs. Blackthorne, would you like to tell me about your plans for the house?”
The jug of lemonade feels heavy between my fingers. My heart drops, plummeting into the recesses of my stomach, sending a wave of dizziness straight to my head. Iknowthat Luke is watching my every move and tension permeates the air, which spells trouble for me.
My stomach clenches painfully, my throat constricting as I try to force the words out.
“Yes, why don’t you tell Jettson all about your plans? I’ll see you after I make some calls,” Luke says before wrapping me in another hug and planting a wet kiss on my cheek.
The urge to wipe it off is so bad, but I manage to refrain. Luke looks at me before shaking Jettson’s hand again, promising to call Uncle Elliot tomorrow.
I almost snort. He’s not going to call that man. Luke Blackthorne is too busy to be bothered with such trivial nonsense.
Once Luke heads back to his study, I move to clean up. I’ve just grabbed the veggie tray when a hand clasps around mine, stopping me in my tracks. A gasp slips from my lips, my gaze meeting those piercing eyes that seem to see straight to my soul. “I’ll put this away. It’s the least I can do. Why don’t you have a seat and tell me about your vision for the kitchen?”
This man keeps taking me by surprise.
All I can manage is to stand there slack-jawed while he returns things to their rightful place. A few minutes pass, and I still can’t seem to force the words out of my mouth. I’m stuck—utterlyenthralled—watching Jettson move with fluidity in an unfamiliar kitchen.
I swallow hard.
When the final items are put away, I awkwardly sit at the island, clasping my hands in front of me and nervously swinging my legs. I’m fidgety, tapping the counter with my fingers as my eyes dart around the kitchen. “Well,” I say, unsure where to start. “All I know is this…isn’t it.” I wave my hand around the room, a frown furrowing my brows.
Amusement twitches at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes twinkle mischievously. His gaze lingers too long on my face, the twinkle swiftly dying and turning into something more dangerous. He pinches his brows together, and it seems like he is biting his tongue.Good.
If he’s smart, he’ll keep his mouth shut and leave the whole fiasco with Luke alone. His interference wouldn’t bode well for me.
Then, something shifts, like a wall crumbling down, and his expression shifts—an inferno that burns brighter with every second his eyes trail down my body.
The look he gives me sends a wave of heat barreling straight to my core. I clench my legs together, shocked and mortified by the ache and growing wetness I feel. I don’t understand why I’m not running in the opposite direction. I shouldn’t feel anything—not like this.
His eyes snare mine again, a sinful smirk lingering on his lips. One minute, he’s ever the protector, going out of his way for someone he just met. Next, it’s like he flips a switch, enjoying the way I squirm.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see how affected I am. Schooling my features, I sit up straighter, releasing a slow, measured breath. This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve had five years of practice when it comes to acting. When I glance at him again, the expression is gone, replaced with a wall built so high it steals my breath.
Jettson sits across from me, his bulky frame nearly hanging off the stool. He looks like a gorilla trying to sit on a tricycle. My lips twitch, and I cough to cover the laugh begging to escape. It’s a comical sight, but he sure does look uncomfortable.