Jazz: Maybe your time together in the big house will change your mind.
My stomach growls so loudly the woman at the desk glances over the top of her purple-rimmed glasses, and no amount of silent praying makes the ground open up and swallow me.
The guy beside me pats his stomach. “I could go for some food too, now that you mention it.”
Getting to his feet, he flashes me another grin before making his way to the bars. He’s pulled on his jumpsuit halfway, over the top of his jeans and graphic tee. It hangs limp around his waist. Somehow he makes it work.
“Sy?” My cellmate taps the bars, jerking his head at someone I can’t see. I don’t know how they got real life cells assembled in the local community center, but they’ll need a truck or something to pull them down again.
The real cop who fake-arrested me comes into view.
“Pass my backpack?”
The straight-faced officer quirks a brow. “Do I look like your fucking servant?”
“Please?” Even with his back to me, I can tell he’s smiling.
With a grunt, Officer Sy turns away and after a beat or two comes back with an army green canvas bag. He opens the cell door, hands over the bag, and closes it again, smug satisfaction settling on his face as he secures the lock in place.
“Thanks, Sy. ’Preciate it. Tate been picked up yet?” The broad-shouldered hottie with his back to me jerks open the bag and sticks his arm inside.
Stifling a giggle at how much he looks like Mary Poppins right now, his arm disappearing almost all the way inside the canvas bag, I avert my gaze.
“Not yet. I get to pick him up later.”
I sneak another glance in their direction at the tone of theofficer’s voice. Something almost menacing crosses his face as my cellmate chuckles, his shoulders bobbing. I’m missing an inside joke, but whoever Tate is, he seems to have pissed off this cop. He’s going to take great pleasure in locking him up, even if it’s fake jail.
When my cellmate turns back to me, he’s holding something in my direction. “Here.”
I’m almost sure there are sandwiches in the brown paper bag within arm’s reach. And it’s tempting. But just because he has a beautiful face, a strong jaw, and blindingly blue eyes doesn’t mean I’m going to eat any old thing he hands me.
As though reading my mind, he sinks back onto the bench next to me, drops the pack at his feet, and opens the paper bag in his hand. Pulling out two halves of a sandwich, he makes yummy noises. Loudly.
After taking a huge bite out of one half, he beams at me. How does he even make eating a brown bag lunch look sexy?
Is he having an orgasmic experience right now? The bliss on his face would lead me to believe he is.
He slides closer, until his thigh touches mine, then offers the other half to me. With a growl of encouragement from my digestive system, I relent despite realizing that it’s peanut butter and jelly. Having it damn near every day as a kid has made me generally not a fan.
Mom worked three jobs just to make ends meet, and when those ends met, PB&J was the flavor of the month. Every month. But something’s different about this one. Something extra. An x factor I can’t place.
“It’s honey.” His thumb sweeps across my bottom lip, then he sucks it into his mouth with a low moan. It's an incredibly intimate touch from a stranger without any buildup of mutual attraction or flirting beforehand.
He didn’t even hesitate before doing it, and I’m too perplexed to jerk away.
Am I horrified? Turned on? I’m not sure. His close proximity is stifling even as the scent of cinnamon and peanut butter overpowers my senses.
“What is?” The words catch in the back of my throat. I’d love to say it’s the thick peanut butter coating the inside of my mouth, but something’s bewitching about this guy that suggests I need to put as much distance between us as I can.
“My secret ingredient.” His gaze flickers to my lips for a beat longer than is probably acceptable before resting on my eyes again. “I drizzle honey on it. Sometimes I sprinkle sea salt, but this one,” He waves his half-eaten sandwich at me. “This one has honey.”
“Oh.” My body sags as he sits back to finish his sandwich. I’m not sure what the fuck is happening right now. I’m not this doe-eyed, breathless fool when it comes to guys.
Sure, I dropped my life and moved to a school I had no interest in to support my hockey-playing boyfriend, but that’s beside the point. In this moment, I’m not letting my vagina get the better of me. I’m in control. Me. Not my hormones. Not this grinning man-child with sandwiches in his backpack.Me.
He clears his throat, drawing my attention to another sandwich outstretched in his hand. He’s already plowing through his half.
“You just carry sandwiches around, waiting for the perfect picnic opportunity?”
