The Guy Next Door - By Lori Foster, S Donovan, V Dahl Page 0,67
overly large breasts, great legs and cute feet. A lot of women would have chosen to strut that kind of stuff in skintight Dolce and Gabbana. Not Professor Gail. Her choice was breathable cotton from the L.L. Bean catalog.
The idea made him hard enough to cut glass.
“Am I keeping you from anything?” Gail asked. “We’ve been here a long time. I didn’t mean to monopolize your day.”
“Me?” Jesse was shaken from his stupor. “No. I’m enjoying myself immensely.”
She sent him a sweet smile, then lowered her eyes.
By this point, Jesse believed he had a decent working knowledge of Gail Chapman, and he knew his hunch had been more than wishful thinking. Beneath that mild-mannered exterior lurked a wild woman just dying to escape. She knew it, too. She’d basically admitted it back at the Hemingway house. “I’m unstable, and very, very deprived.”
But Gail was still fighting it. She was still afraid of it. And Jesse decided that he was the man to facilitate her release. He’d provide her a safe and comfortable place where she could let it all go.
“How about you?” he asked. “Am I keeping you from anything?”
She thought that was funny. “Nope.” She looked right in his eyes and pursed her lips. “So tell me more about your day-to-day life.”
Jesse had been telling her his story all afternoon. Most of it, anyway. Sometime after his second glass of wine, he’d made a decision. Bottom line—he wouldn’t lie to her. Should Gail or her daughter ask if he was J. D. Batista, the author, he’d say yes, he was. Gail would probably be angry with him and think she’d been misled somehow, but he’d deal with that when it happened. In the meantime, Jesse’s plan was to tell her enough of the truth that he could sleep at night, but not enough to alter the sweet and uncomplicated connection growing between them.
“Well, in addition to working on Fred’s boat and helping with the walking tours, I usually write every day.”
Gail’s eyes flew wide. “Seriously? You’re a writer?”
“I try to be,” he said, watching carefully for any flicker of recognition in her eyes. There was none.
“Wow! That’s so exciting! What do you write?”
“Mostly fiction,” he said. “I also do a little poetry, and lately I’ve been trying my hand at a screenplay, which is a lot tougher than I imagined.”
Gail’s brows knit together. “Do you think you’ll be published one day?”
Jesse froze. Answering this question honestly without giving himself away was going to be a challenge. He was an author with eight New York Times bestsellers under his belt, but, as every writer knew, that was no guarantee of future success.
“There’s always hope,” was Jesse’s answer.
Gail let go with a laugh. “I knew it all along, of course,” she said, a knowing look on her face. Jesse thought his charade was over until Gail finished her thought. “I knew you had to be a writer or an English teacher.”
Jesse smiled. “Yeah? What tipped you off?”
“Your vocabulary,” she said, folding her arms under her breasts. “You cursed your shutter hinge using words like artistry and substandard along with the usual shits and fucks.”
Jesse choked. Hearing those words come out of professor Gail’s mouth was as jarring as it was hilarious. “Sorry you were subjected to that,” he said. “I get a little uptight about my house sometimes. It means a lot to me.”
Gail raked her fingers through her hair and studied Jesse for a moment, her brown eyes focused on him. “I need to ask you a personal question, Jesse,” she said. “If you don’t want to answer me, just tell me to go to hell.”
He couldn’t imagine ever needing to do that, but he agreed.
“How can you afford your place?” She looked repentant the instant the words tumbled from her mouth. “What I mean is, that’s a really expensive house and you’re a man with a couple of part-time jobs—you know, the starving artist type. I don’t get it.”
“Ah,” Jesse said.
“Are you a drug smuggler? A member of organized crime?” She leaned closer and her expression became quite serious. “Have you embezzled millions from those who trusted you?”
He laughed hard. When he’d gained his composure, he answered her. “I assure you, I am none of those things. And I’m not starving.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, but I had to ask. We’re living right next door to you. You’ve kissed me. I’m having a romantic lunch with you and I’m wildly attracted to you. It’s something I needed to know