Forbidden Fruit (Shannon Cheney) - By Ann Aguirre Page 0,1
notebooks or drawn hearts around it, but sometimes I do whisper Jesse in a certain way.
I have zero shot, but since the moment I saw him, I’ve been on fire. He’s got tawny hair and dark eyes, a hint of Mexican heritage in his tan skin. Plus, with a day or two of golden scruff, he always looks like he could use a shave. I see him and I just want to take a bite; he’s the ultimate forbidden fruit. I’m not sure exactly how old he is, but I’m guessing twenty-eight or twenty-nine.
Did I mention I’m not quite nineteen?
Ten years might not seem like such a big difference down the road, but right now, it’s insurmountable. Because he sees me as a project—I’m the girl he’s saving. And unless you’re crazy, you don’t kiss the crap out of damsels in distress. Christ, I hate that label. I wish I could prove that I’m not an at-risk youth, but I have no idea how to make it happen.
He cuts through the tables, making a beeline for Pretzel Pirate. Let me point out, there are way better places to eat. If he’s after actual food, the court has sushi, sandwiches, pasta, pizza, and burgers. Some of it even tastes decent.
God, Jesse Saldana’s smiling at me.
“Hey,” he says, as he reaches the counter.
“Arr,” I answer. “Prepare to be boarded.”
Oh, God, why? I have no idea why I said that. It’s not even an official Pretzel Pirate greeting. Mark, my manager, would vehemently disapprove. He’s all about corporate policy and reminds me of that movie where Jennifer Aniston works at a terrible restaurant and they give her shit for not wearing enough buttons.
Fortunately, Jesse laughs. He’s got a great smile, white teeth—and dimples. How am I supposed to cope? Dimples. It’s absurd.
“How’s the pretzel business?”
“It’s horrible. I have no dignity. On the plus side, I’ll be able to make rent.” When his brow furrows, I realize I’ve reinforced his impression of me as vulnerable, someone who needs looking after.
“If you ever need anything, Shan, let me know. I’m here for you.”
“You’ve been sentenced to community service? What’d you do?”
“Funny. Can I get a lemonade and an order of toasted pretzel bites?”
“Tell me this isn’t your dinner.”
“What?” Now he looks defensive. “It’s food.”
“Debatable.” But Mark would not be amused to hear me talking this way about our fine products.
Glumly, I put together Jesse’s order, mentally counting the seconds before he walks away. “So what’re you doing here?”
“Would you believe I was craving pretzel bites?”
“Not even on my dumbest day.”
“Car charger for my phone.” He lifts a small plastic bag. “I’m always forgetting to plug it in at night.”
Take me home with you. I’ll remind you. Oh, God. Why does he have to be so…day-um? And so oblivious to the fact that I’m female. He treats me like a little sister, maybe one he adopted through a charitable organization. I suppose I’m lucky he doesn’t offer to take me out for ice cream or to play skeeball once a week.
“Yeah, it’s hard to save the day when people can’t reach you.”
“Do I detect sarcasm, Shannon Cheney?” Jesse props himself on the counter, giving me a look that melts my knees.
“Only always.”
“You’re too young to be this cynical.”
“And you’re too old to be this hot.” Shit. I said it out loud.
To my relief, he laughs. “Thanks. That made my day.”
Wow. So I’m the waitress who flatters him despite being undateable. If he ruffles my hair, I’ll bite his hand. No joke, I will draw blood. When he gets a tetanus shot, he can think of me. I shove the pretzel bites at him, set the lemonade on the counter, and mumble the total. He pays in exact change, and I pretend it’s because he’s trying to make my life easier.
“That’s why I’m here—to provide excellent customer service. And pretzels.”
And to want things I can’t have. As he waves and turns, I can’t help checking out his lean, muscled back and the fit of his jeans. I’ve done my share of screwing around, but I could ride this cowboy until the break of dawn. I’m actually chagrined by the rush of heat that accompanies the thought. And then the unthinkable happens. Jesse Saldana whirls to face me.
See, this is the other thing I haven’t mentioned. Jesse Saldana isn’t simply a smoking-hot cop. He’s also an empath. Dunno if he’s been trying not to read me, or if I’ve done a good job keeping it locked down until