Page 25 of Loss and Damages
I busy myself uncorking the wine while she sets a frying pan on the stove and seasons two steaks. They look like New York strips, and for the first time since Leo passed away, my stomach growls in sincere hunger.
Out of a different cabinet than where she retrieved the pitcher, she pulls out two large russet potatoes, rinses them in the sink, shoves a fork deeply into both, and places them in the microwave. I’m so taken with her movements, the whole reason I wanted to share dinner with her, I forget to pour the wine.
“Letting it breathe?” she asks, eyeing the bottle in my hand.
The steaks start to sizzle, and so does my blood.
“No.”
She freezes, her gaze locking onto mine. There’s electricity in the air, the same as last night when I grabbed her hand. That was a huge mistake. My mind hasn’t let me forget how soft her skin is, how fragile her fingers are.
She pokes her tongue out of her mouth and licks her upper lip. I’m instantly hard. I want my tongue there, on her lips, tasting her.
Ashamed I can’t control my feelings, or my cock, I lower my eyes to the wineglasses, and my hand shaking, begin to pour. Jemma was Leo’s girlfriend, and out of all the women in the state of Minnesota, this one slip of a girl is the last one I can put my hands on. They had something special. I can see it whenever she speaks of him. I can’t tarnish what she had with my brother.
I won’t let myself.
I slide a glass toward her.
“Thanks.”
She takes an appreciative sip, sets the glass next to the bottle, and turns the steaks. The microwave beeps, and she opens the door to stop it. Gracefully, she puts plates, forks, and steak knives, a container of sour cream, bacon bits, and salt and pepper shakers on the counter.
Hypnotized, I can’t stop watching her.
“I’m afraid it’s not fancy,” she says, adding a dish of butter to the rest.
“Is this what you would cook for Leo?” Since I said this visit was going to be about my brother, I need to turn our conversation to him and not focus on my growing attraction to this little artist.
She lifts a shoulder. “This and that. He liked pasta, as you can imagine.”
“Because we’re Italian?”
“Because some of his fondest memories were of the two of you eating dinner together as a family, and he said those meals were made using family recipes that have been passed down from generation to generation. I’m not one to stereotype. Please don’t think that.”
“I’m sorry.”
She serves and blushes. “I didn’t ask you how you like your steak prepared. I assume everyone likes medium rare like me...and Leo.”
“Medium rare is fine. It looks great, thank you.”
Jemma sits on the bar stool next to me, but she twists sideways, looking through the storm door over my shoulder.
“Are you expecting someone?” I ask.
“Sometimes my neighbor, Gloria, stops by on the way home from her souvenir shop. Her house and store aren’t on the same plot of land like mine are. She’s my mother’s best friend and she wouldn’t pass up the chance to stick her nose into my business if she sees your car in front of the gallery. I think the time has passed for her to ride by, though, so we’re safe.”
“She visits often? Did she meet Leo?” I cut my potato open and add the butter, sour cream, and bacon bits Jemma set out. It’s a simple meal, but it will do and maybe all my stomach can handle.
“Yeah. She was convinced he was going to ask me to marry him at the benefit tomorrow night.”
I stop cutting my steak, my knuckles turning white as I grip the utensils. “Is that what you think?”
“No. I don’t know why he wanted me there, but it wasn’t to propose. We didn’t have that kind of relationship. I wish you would listen when I tell you that.”
I set my fork and knife on my plate and swivel on my barstool to look her straight in her gorgeous face. “Jemma, I don’t understand. He came out here to see you all the time. He spenthours with you. You were the last person to see him alive. Yet, you keep claiming you weren’t romantically involved. What else could you be when he spent more time with you than someone who works a full-time job?”
She trails her fork through her potato, the tines digging narrow grooves in the sour cream. “We clicked, but it wasn’t romantically. Leo craved affection, and I’m not going to lie and tell you I didn’t give it to him because I did. He liked to hold my hand while we took walks, he liked to cuddle while we watched a movie, though we didn’t do that very often. Mostly we laid in my bed and talked. Yes, we would lie together. Dressed. For some reason he liked watching me get ready to go to sleep. The ritual of it, I think. He’d lie on his side and play with my hair.”
