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She shrugs, staying quiet.
I open my mouth, ready to push. Ask more. Do my brotherly duty and nudge her toward Jake, but she just said she hadn’t loved Jake like I assumed. That Jake wasn’t what she really wanted back then. He was definitely less thoughtful when he was younger, more selfish. Her reticence to date him now might be linked to the way he was. That history doesn’t mean she wouldn’t fall for the caring, stalwart man he’s become.
Or I’m trying to fit a square peg into a round hole.
As badly as I want to see Jake happy, I couldn’t, in good conscience, manipulate Jolene into dating him. Not if she isn’t open to the idea.
I knock back a bigger swallow of scotch, breathe through the burn in my chest as I let these thoughts percolate.
She places her mini pickle stacks on a plate, organizing them equidistant from one another, then presents me with her platter. “Your orgasmic snack, as promised. Pickle sandwiches!”
Great. Now she’s tossing around words likeorgasmic.
Blocking that word from my subconscious, I pop one of her creations into my mouth, and…wow. Savory, tangy, and salty flavors explode on my tongue. “You’re definitely my favorite roommate.”
“Even though I turn your home into a war zone?”
She turns my brain and body into a war zone, but I admit the truth. “You’ll always be my favorite, Jo.”
Her cheeks pink as she places the platter on the coffee table. “At leastyou’reenjoying the arrangement. I’m stuck living in all this”—she scrunches her nose and shivers—“cleanliness.”
“Sorry, I take that back. You’re a nightmare.” I pop a second snack into my mouth, groaning as I swallow. “Also, you can’t call these sandwiches.”
She folds her arms. “Why can’t I call them sandwiches?”
“Sandwiches have to have bread.”
“Sandwichesare when items are enclosed between two outer things that hold those inner items together. In this case,pickles.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Gotta be bread. But these pickle stacks aredelicious.”
I reach for another, but she pulls the plate away. “Care to amend that statement?”
I debate pushing the point. I don’t actually think a sandwich has to be made with bread. I’m all for inventive cooking and language play, but I’ve missed jousting with Jolene. Teasing her and riling her up. Not worth it when my stomach suffers.
I offer a small bow. “Apologies. Your picklesandwichesare the best things I’ve eaten in ages.”
“Apology accepted.” She relaxes into the couch, devouring two pickle sandwiches in quick succession. We both reach for another at the same time and laugh.
“If your cooking business failed,” I say as I swallow another bite, “it can’t be because of the food quality.”
“The food was good. The business end of things is where I fell apart.”
“Not with the Barrel. It seems to be doing well.”
A crease sinks between her brows. She takes her scotch in hand and runs her finger over the rim.
“Jo?” I lean toward her, delicious snacks forgotten. “Are you struggling with the business?”
“I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s okay. This is my downtime.”
I get that, but she’s evading. Work is bothering her, and she won’t tell me why. “What about your back? You seem to be moving better. It’s hurting less?”
“Way less, thanks.” She shoots me a soft smile. “It flares up at times, then settles. I do exercises to keep it in check. See a chiropractor monthly. That was just a bad spell.”
“Well, if you need help with anything, you’ll let me know, right?”
“You’re letting me stay here, Cal. I think you’re doing enough.”
