I’ve never seen him without a shirt, not even the other night when he laid behind me in bed, but I have a strong imagination of the tightness in those lower stomach muscles as I’ve seen him in fitted tees.
“I don’t think I can handle pizza,” I warn him. Jacob has an obsession with frozen pizzas.
“What do you feel like?” His voice drops when he asks, as do his eyes to my legs. The sweats he gave me are too big, and a ripple of something unwarranted seeps through my body under his gaze. I hate when he speaks in that seductive manner because he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s only teasing me.
“I’d love scrambled eggs and toast.” A little protein and some bread sound divine.
“Coming right up, breakfast in bed.” He winks at me, and I grin. He’s such an ass in an adorable way. As he nears me, he stops at my side. “Back in bed, Lilac.” His voice drops even lower, and over my shoulder, I look up at him. He’s so close to me, closer than necessary for a man heading to his kitchen. His fingers brush the back of my hand. Another ripple of excitement quickly turns into a tornado whirling through my midsection.
“Yes, sir,” I whisper. Jacob bites his lip, his eyes dropping to mine once more. There’s a tic in his jaw, and the vein in his neck strains.
“Lilac.” A warning resonates in the nickname. For the first time ever, I’m deliciously frightened of Jacob. Not for the first time, I imagine what it would be like to kiss him. To have the lip he’s chewing press against mine. To feel his tongue slip past my lips and tangle with mine. To have his body over me.
Heat rushes my face while Jacob stares at me.
Without a word, I roll from the doorjamb and turn to the staircase, slowly taking it upward and sensing Jacob watching my retreat. There’s nothing sexy about wearing his too large sweats or his oversized tee, so I have no idea what he’s looking at other than the expanse of my backside, probably noting it isn’t tight like Malibu Mandi.
Chapter 5
And The Oscar Goes To . . .
[Jacob]
She’s going to be the death of me. It’s evident watching her climb my stairs she isn’t wearing underwear under those sweats, and I want nothing more than to tug them down and take her right there on the steps. Not to mention, she’s not wearing a bra under the T-shirt I gave her, and I want to lift the shirt and place my mouth over one of those weighty globes. Pam has a lush body, and she just does it for me without even knowing it. And dammit, I’m hammer stiff again, and I’ve already taken care of business in the shower once this morning.
I head to the kitchen, in hopes to cool off and prepare our eclectic meal of her eggs, my frozen pizza, and a bowl of popcorn for the movie. She’s right. I’m not a cook. I want food without effort on my part. It’s one reason I hired Ethan Scott last fall. If someone doesn’t feed me, I can forget to eat. I also hired him because I had a six-week book tour, and I needed someone to look after my stepsister, who was living with me at the time.
Pam and I have already discussed her part in aiding my stepsister’s disappearance last fall. All’s forgiven although I was pissed at Pam at first. Ella’s the one who did the soothing over, eventually calling me and explaining her thought process, her feelings, and how she wanted to get help, but on her own terms. It’s noble actually, but as soon as she hinted I needed help—I needed to face my past—it was time to shut that conversation down. I ended up easily forgiving Pam. How could I not? She’s the only friend I have.
Thinking of Ella, I give her a call while I’m working on the makeshift dinner.
“Belly,” I tease when she answers. She’s thirty years old, but I still call her by the nickname I gave her when she came to live with me and my father. Her mother was sixteen years younger than my dad and a former model. Both parents doted on Ella as they shaped and molded her into the shining star they wanted her to be. She equaled dollar signs for them. On the other hand, I was a huge disappointment