Page 24 of Her Age Gap Match

“Ten years,” he said. “I got out at thirty-three, drove straight to Harlan’s place, and found out he skipped town right after I went in. Left Elle and her kids all by themselves. I’m sure she’s better off for it, sure they all are…but it never felt like anything but a personal fuck you from the guy I thought was my best friend.”

I was quiet for a moment, watching him stir the pasta with the same steady hands that had been on my waist ten minutes ago.

"How long before you stopped being angry about it?" I asked.

He considered that seriously. "Few years. Maybe more." A pause. "Elle helped. She didn't have to let me in that first day—she could've looked at me through the peephole and told me to go to hell. I wouldn't have blamed her. But she made me coffee and she listened and somewhere in that kitchen she decided I was going to be part of their lives." He shook his head slightly. "Hard to stay angry when someone does that."

"She sounds remarkable."

"She is," he said simply. "Her and Kim both."

I turned that over. The whole picture of it—the plan, the robbery, ten years, driving to a door that might not have opened. Building a distillery on the other side of all of it. Teaching carpentry on Tuesday mornings at the facility where he'd done his time.

That was in his file. I'd read it and thought it was admirable and moved on to the next line item. Sitting on his counter in his kitchen while he made me pasta it hit completely differently.

"And you still go back every week,” I murmured.

He glanced at me. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because I remember what it felt like when nobody came." He said it without drama, matter of fact, like it was the only possible answer. "Somebody has to."

I looked at him for a long moment. This burned and bruised man with a faded gang tattoo and a cast iron pan and a case of natural wine delivered every few months because some things were worth spending money on.

"John," I said.

"Yeah?”

“How soon will dinner be ready?”

He frowned, giving me a wry look. “Mm…about five minutes, give or take? You getting hungry?”

I chewed on my lip, letting my eyes wander down his torso to his waist. “In a manner of speaking.”

He laughed low in his throat, put his hands on my waist, then stepped between my legs. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders loosely, trying not to betray how tense I was, how much I wanted this.

I wanted to be cool. I wanted to be composed.

I didn’t want to beg, but I would if I had to.

“My sob story make you horny, baby?” he purred.

Every nerve in my body lit up like a Christmas tree. “That—that makes it sound bad⁠—”

“I don’t mind you bad.” He leaned in and kissed me deep, our mouths open, tongues tangled together. The food smelled delicious. I didn’t want it until I’d had him.

His hands slid under the hem of my sweater, warm against my waist, and I made a sound against his mouth that I was not proud of.

Then he pulled back.

Not far—just enough to look at me, his hands still on my skin, his thumbs tracing slow circles just above my hips. His eyes were dark and very certain.

"Not tonight," he said.

I stared at him. "What?"

"Not tonight," he said again.