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Eight
Jesse
What to cook for the woman of your dreams? It’s a question I’ve never been faced with before. And I didn’t even consider this struggle when I offered Darla dinner, but on the drive home after the day’s filming, it suddenly feels like an advanced algebra problem, and I always sucked at math.
Here goes: I could show off and make the most difficult meal I know how. The most technically advanced: elaborate sushi plates or pan-seared sea bass, and maybe a souffle for dessert.
I reject that idea as soon as I have it. Darla’s down-to-earth and casual. She won’t be impressed by antics like that.
Okay, so nothing too fancy. Maybe I could recreate her favorite burrito from the food truck near set? The one she always bounces on her heels when she orders, excited to sink her pearly white teeth in?
Except no, she ate one of those two days ago. Shit. I flick on my turn signal, scowling through my windshield as I turn onto my street.
We could order takeout? No. That’d look like I didn’t care enough to try.
Fuck.Fuck.
I pull onto my driveway and yank on the handbrake. The key twists easily; the engine hums softly as it cools. It’s too hot in this car. It smells like suntan lotion and cracked leather.
Even the sight of my beach house makes my chest pinch with anxiety, my teeth gritting as I stare up at it through the glass.
Am I a cliche? A tired, aging actor playing a role in his own life?
Am I going insane?
This woman will be the death of me. I want her so fucking badly.
Darla.
* * *
“Nice place.” Her opening words are a balm for my raw chest, and the sight of Darla’s clinging purple dress makes my stomach swoop. I lead her inside, through the open plan living space.
Hazel eyes track the huge, squashy sofas gathered around the TV screen on the wall; the gleaming white kitchen cabinets and matching island; the fireplace that won’t be lit again now until winter. The lights dangling from the high ceilings, encased in bronze wire sculptures, and the framed movie posters on the walls.
Darla even examines the large woven rug on the floorboards.
“Does it pass inspection?” DoI?
My words were teasing, but Darla’s smirk is knowing. Gentle beneath the humor. “Oh, yeah. Every bit of you, Jesse Hendry.” Ah, hell. My fucking heart. “So what’s for dinner?”
Yeah. The million dollar question. I lead her to the kitchen, trying to force my shoulders to relax.
“I got ingredients to make fresh pumpkin tortellini with a garlic butter sauce.” I know she’s vegetarian—and hopefully the garlic won’t put her off kissing me again. “Uh. And I was gonna do a chocolate lava cake for dessert with ice cream on the side. Some of it’s prepped already, like the lava cake is basically ready for the oven, but if you’d rather something else—”
Darla tackles me against the fridge. “Oh my god. You’re the perfect man.”
Seriously? She thinks so?
If the greedy way she’s tearing at my shirt is anything to go by, thenyes,she does. I lift my arms in a daze, letting Darla strip off my white shirt, before my brain finally catches up and I spin us around with a growl.
“This is my cheat night.” I lick a stripe up her neck, crowding closer against her when she shivers. “Most nights all I’m allowed is chicken breast and steamed veggies, but you make me want things I shouldn’t have, Darla. Delicious things.”
Her fingernails score burning lines down my back, and her breath is warm on my ear. “You should have them, Hendry. Nobody needs this many muscles.”
Ha. I guess I hadn’t even registered that particular fear before—the idea that she might not want me if I get out of shape. If I age, you know, like a human being. But Darla’s dismissed it before it even had a chance to fester, and now I’m pressing so hard against her, I might squash her flat.
I can’t help it. I want to seal our bodies together so tightly we never come apart. The refrigerator rocks against the wall.
