Page 10 of Feastin' with Fire
I fumble with it, the bandages on my hands making me clumsy. Before I can protest, he reaches across me, his arm brushing against my breasts as he pulls the belt and clicks it into place. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
I catch a glimpse of his forearm up close. The defined muscles tensing beneath his skin as he secures the belt, a dusting of dark hair leading up to where it disappears under his sleeve.
"Th-Thanks," I say, voice trembling.
He nods and starts the truck, focusing on backing out of the parking space. I use the moment to stare at him without him noticing—the strong jawline dusted with stubble, the slight crease between his eyebrows as he concentrates, the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck. He's handsome in thatrugged, lived-in way that makes pretty boys look like plastic toys in comparison.
"My place is about fifteen minutes outside town," he says as we pull onto the main road. "It's nothing fancy, but it's quiet."
"I'm sure it's perfect," I reply, then wince at how eager that sounds. "I mean, anything is better than no place at all, right?"
His hands tighten on the steering wheel, and I notice for the first time how his knuckles are slightly swollen, like he's used them for more than just carrying equipment. I wonder what stories those hands could tell.
"You must think I'm pathetic," I say suddenly, the words escaping before I can stop them. "Losing everything because I was too stupid to get insurance right away."
He glances at me, those blue eyes sharp. "I don't think you're pathetic. I think you're someone who took a risk to follow her dream and got dealt a shit hand."
The bluntness of his assessment is oddly comforting.
"Still," I persist, needing him to understand, "most people my age aren't dumb enough to pour every penny they have into a business without proper protection."
"Most people your age don't have the balls to start their own business in the first place," he counters.
Balls. The crude word from his mouth makes me smile despite everything. "Not exactly how I'd put it, but thanks."
A hint of a smile touches his lips, and goddamn if it doesn't make my panties even damper. What is wrong with me? I've lost everything I own, and here I am getting turned on by a man who's only helping me out of pity.
We drive in silence for a while, leaving the small downtown area behind. The landscape opens up. More trees, fewer buildings, properties spaced further apart. It's beautiful in a wild, untamed way that makes me think of the man beside me.
"I should probably explain why I have no one to call," I say finally, staring out the window. The words come easier when I'm not looking at him. "My parents and I... we're not on speaking terms."
He doesn't say anything, but I can feel his attention on me.
"They had my life all planned out," I continue. "Ivy League school, medical degree, marriage to the son of my father's business partner. The perfect life, according to them."
I sneak a glance at him. His face remains impassive, but he's listening.
"I went along with it for years. Pre-med at Columbia, just like they wanted. But I was miserable." I twist my hands in my lap, wincing when I accidentally press on one of the burns. "The only thing that made me happy was working with flowers. I had this part-time job at a florist near campus, and those were the only hours I felt like I could breathe."
Jimmy nods slightly, encouraging me to continue.
"Senior year, I finally told them I wasn't going to medical school. That I wanted to open a flower shop instead." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You'd think I'd told them I was becoming a drug dealer. My mother actually said she'd rather see me homeless than throwing away my potential on something so... insignificant."
His jaw tightens, but he remains silent.
"My grandmother left me some money when she died. Not a lot, but enough to start a small business. My parents threatened tocut me off completely if I used it for the flower shop." I take a deep breath. "I did it anyway. They haven't spoken to me in two years."
"And now the shop is gone," he says quietly.
"Yeah." I swallow hard. "And I'd still rather be here, with nothing, than living the life they planned for me."
He glances at me, and there's something in his eyes I can't quite read. "That takes courage."
"Or stupidity," I mutter.
"Courage," he repeats firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.
We turn onto a gravel road that winds through tall pines. After about half a mile, a house comes into view—a rustic cabin-style home with a wide porch and large windows. It's beautiful, in a masculine, understated way.
