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“This woman I’ve been spending my time with mentioned she enjoyed the rearview.” He shoots me a cocksure grin.
I like Jake’s appearance in his dress pants, too. Since our make-out session on the couch, I have to admit I’ve watched him prowl toward me at the club with as much anticipation as I have when he’s walking away. Whatever Jake is hiding under his clothes is likely as beautiful as seeing the long length of him in his tux.
“You look pretty.” Jake flips the script, making me feel squishy all over again.
He bends and I expect a peck on the lips, but Jake has other plans. By the time we come up for air, the air itself is cooling the exposed part of my butt cheek Jake’s palm isn’t keeping warm. He’s got the dress bunched up in the back and my underwear elastic invades my crack.
“In case you were curious, I’ve become partial to your rearview as well.” He squeezes my ass. “Wear a thong.”
“Not with this short skirt.” I play-slap him away, reaching for my clutch.
Jake wraps his massive paw around my wrist. He circles around me, tightening our arms around my waist. His thumb grazes the underside of my breast. “Buy them,” he instructs, his breath whispering by my ear. He holds me so close that his body becomes a hard shell protecting mine.
“Okay, but not today.” My voice quivers.
Jake hasn’t won by a long shot. I own sexy panties. The ones I have on are adorable. I chose them for myself. A thrill zips up my core, tugging at my belly. I lean into Jake, pressing my thighs together, thinking about what panties I’d pick out that I’d want him to see me in.
OMG really, Paisley?
And…
Did I do that for Gavin? I pride myself on my appearance, but when I used to get dressed to go out, did I do that for me or for my fiancé to find me sexy? It’s been so few weeks since taking off my wedding gown and I can’t quite remember. What I do recall is my mom made the final decision about what I wore that day all the way down to my underwear. Not because she took the choice from me, but because I didn’t care enough one way or the other to decide.
When it comes down to it, I spent longer worrying about Jake’s mother’s perception of me than I did about if Gavin found his bride beautiful. And it is a cop out to say I assumed all grooms are knocked out by the sight of their brides coming down the aisle.
Shaking off the less than innocuous realization about my behavior, I tell Jake we’ll be late if we don’t leave soon. He assures me that Caroline Ballentine’s home isn’t far from where I live.
I’m surprised when we pull off a busier road and into the wide circular drive of a two-story Georgian. It’s a creamy yellow with bright white columns. The boxwood hedges, trimmed high, are stately without being pretentious. The fountain in the center of the lush green front yard—a six-foot marble statue of a naked woman—makes me giggle when I notice that it’s the focal point for anyone attempting to peek past the landscaping who passes by the home.
“That was intentional.” Jake’s comment widens the smirk on my face.
“I had a feeling.”
“When my dad bought the property for my mom, the neighbors spread a rumor that they intended to start a brothel. What my parents really wanted was a nice house to raise kids in. The more work mom and dad put into the place, the worse the harassment got. So, mom had the fountain imported from Italy to thumb her nose at them.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t have to remove it.”
“Believe me, they tried. But the house is private property and since the ordinances allowed racists to put up white crosses and the Confederate Battle Flag, which others found as objectionable, then mom could keep her, albeit massive, objet d’art. The city council members passed by the house a dozen times before they could even identify which residence was offensive to the complainers. You have to crane your neck to see it when you drive by.”
“I noticed. Clever.”
Set back from the road, the elegant fountain blends into the garden. If this were a historic site, no one would’ve batted an eye.
“Let’s get this over with,” he says in a tone akin to “it shouldn’t hurt too bad” that I heard as a kid from doctors when something wound up being quite painful.
We chain link our index fingers on our way to the door. Once inside the foyer, I can’t contain my awe.
“This is beautiful!” The house is a dead-ringer for what I’d hoped to purchase with—moving on! “Did you enjoy living here as a kid?”
Jake shrugs. “I dunno. When Carver squatted here for a bit, I guess. Mostly it was like a gilded fortress, so I stuck to the club. Everyone worth talking to was there, anyway.”
“But you don’t like the club now.” It’s a fact Jake has shared.
Jake’s jaw twitches. “I do. When you’re there.”
Trepidation over making a good impression has me forgetting to ask about the co-manager applicant for Sweet Caroline’s.
“Jake, is that you?” a melodious female voice calls.
