Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,16

your grandpa eat? Did you tell your daughter to make dinner? That could start the drama early, though. She could only manage one piece of drama at a time.

That was why she’d waited. After dinner, though, instead of starting to clear the table, she told Mark, “Let’s take a walk.”

“I thought we’d go back to your place,” Mark said. “It’s cold out.”

“I don’t want to go back to my place. I want to take a walk.”

That had possibly come out a little forcefully, because her grandpa looked up, Mark looked startled, and Dyma said, “I’m going home. Lots of homework.”

“Help Grandpa with the dishes first,” Jennifer said.

“I am,” Dyma said. “I wasn’t going to leave them for him. Give me some credit.”

“Don’t mind me,” Oscar said. “Miss Dynamite and I have got the dishes. Go take your walk.”

His blue eyes were sharp. Watchful. He could probably tell that Jennifer was thinking about abandoning him. She got a stab of guilt right to the heart, but she also got her coat.

Once they were on the sidewalk, she tried to figure out how to start. What did she even want to say? What did she even want?

Mark said, “What is this, a new fitness kick? I keep telling you, babe, you look fine.”

What a ringing endorsement. “No,” she said. “But I’m thinking about moving. To Portland. Possibly.”

“Oh,” he said blankly. “What about Dyma?”

“Not now. Once she graduates.”

“That’s a long way away.”

“It’s four months.”

“Like I said. A long way. Why are you worrying about it now? Or—wait. Does Orbison want you to work for him there?”

She took a breath. “No. I’m getting laid off. And I’m thinking that I need to move on. Move ahead. In my life. Now that Dyma’s leaving, and I don’t have a job, and so forth. Time to try something new. Time to shake things up.” Time to shut up, was what. But Mark wasn’t saying anything. Why not?

“Wait,” he said. “Is this about us? I mean, sorry about the layoff, but you can get a new job. You’ve got great skills. So what’s this all about?”

“What?” she said. “No. I just told you. I’m talking about moving on. Moving ahead. All that.”

“Except that it’s some kind of ultimatum,” he said. “Some kind of marriage thing. I told you, I’ve done that. It wasn’t fun. We’re still having fun. If we were married—boom, fun’s gone. I’m a stepdad, you’re telling me we need to buy a house, I’m cleaning gutters. Even more responsibilities. Who needs it?”

“You’re right,” she said, and he looked surprised. Also gratified. Like, That was easy. Which was what she was. Easy. Go along with anything. Don’t ask for more. “Except that I’m not sure how fun this is. Seriously? This is enough for you? This is the best we can do? Hanging out?”

“We had dinner,” he objected.

“Which I cooked. Which is exactly like being married for me, but you didn’t even have to pay for it.”

She couldn’t believe how she sounded. Bitchy. Dramatic. And yet somehow, she was going on. “And, no, it’s not some kind of ultimatum, because you clearly don’t want to marry me, or we’d have done it.”

“Well, hang on,” he said. “I have to think about it, that’s all.”

“Mark. You’ve had four years to think about it.”

“Four years of good times and good sex,” he said. “Worked for me. How did I know it wasn’t working for you? And all right, I’m thinking about it. See? I’m thinking.”

“Well, no.” He didn’t even sound upset. He sounded inconvenienced. Somehow, her mouth opened and the words came out. “Not always so good. Sometimes I fake it. The sex,” she added, in case he was confused.

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “What?”

“I do. I fake it.” There was a roaring in her ears. She’d never said this. Not to anybody. Not ever.

“That is not true,” he said. “You’re just saying that to get to me. I can tell when a woman’s coming.”

“Can you, though?” she asked. “Can you really? Maybe she just wants it to be over, because she can tell she isn’t going to get enough tonight. Maybe she’s just waiting until you fall asleep so she can finish up without hurting your feelings. Maybe you go right to her breasts for about five minutes, and then you go for the home run, and half the time, you forget to even kiss her. Why would you think that’s a woman’s night of ecstasy?”

“Nobody else has ever complained,” he said. “And