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Smiling back up at him, I recross my legs and lean close. Jett tears his eyes from mine and takes in my appearance, grinning. “Nice shirt.”
“Why, thank you.” The oversize garment slides down my shoulder a bit.
“I’m starving, though. May I?”
“I’d hate to stand in your way. Eat up,” his green eyes bore into me, “little dove.”
Tamping down the burn in my core, if just for a moment, I dig in, and it’s immediately clear how much of a good cook Jett is.
The omelet is incredible, and his knack for flavors takes the otherwise simple dish and kicks it up a notch. I clean my plate as Jett finishes cooking and eats his. The gesture of making breakfast is so sweet compared to the raw energy I saw in the bedroom, but it’s equally alluring.
“I could get used to this.”
The words come out before I can really think about what I said, and it strikes me that I was being totally honest when I said it. Icouldget used to this.
Jett smiles, but a mix of apprehension keeps it from completely reaching his eyes. He takes our plates to the sink, and I mentally chastise myself. Guys typically don’t like it when you cling after a single date, even if that was the most intense “date” I’ve ever had.
But I can’t help but enjoy myself. Jett is effortlessly charming, and I feel oddly comfortable with him. And, of course, there’s the sex. The utterly mind-blowing, make-you-drop-everything sex. I’m in way over my head.
And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
Jett comes back to the island, refilling the coffee he presented with the eggs. “Well,” he stares at the smooth marble, “breakfast is hardly the only meal I can cook.”
When we meet eyes again, the burn behind Jett’s is palpable. His fingers reach mine across the cool surface, and I let him pull me closer. Our lips meet, his tongue gently pushing inside before his fingers wrap around my neck and pull me in.
That fire he ignites sings brighter, and in this moment, I’d be willing to throw down right here on the table. Jett’s hand moves from my face to snake under the shirt and squeeze my breast.
My phone chirps from the other room, the signal for a text, and as I consider ignoring it, Jett’s phone rings. We pull away with a sigh.
I hurry into the bedroom to check the message. It’s from my mom. She sent over the details for the appointment as requested, and again my stomach flip-flops, my heartbeat picking up speed.
Returning to the kitchen, Jett is still on the phone. We make brief eye contact, where he notices my obvious change in mood. But whoever is talking to him demands his attention, and he refocuses.
I sit back down at the kitchen island and pretend to be doing something with my phone. Before I know it, Jett’s behind me, rubbing my shoulders as he continues talking. His conversation gets more intense.
“Look, I get it. I’ll be there. Yeah. Okay.” He sighs. “Yes. I’ll be there. Bye.”
I spin around on my chair to look at him. “Everything okay?”
“Ugh, sorry. It’s my boss. He’s a bit…unhappy right now. Some issues with other debtors. But it’ll be fine. I do need to take care of something quickly. Another call. I’ll be right back, okay?”
I nod. “Sure. I may eat all your bread, though.”
He smiles. “Help yourself. If you can manage a whole loaf in the time I’m gone, I’ll be truly impressed.”
“Challenge accepted.”
Shaking his head, Jett leaves and goes back into his bedroom. Something about his chat with his boss has me on edge, however. I know what Jett does, and problems with debtors don’t sound particularly good.
I butter a slice of the fresh French bread and start munching when I notice Jett’s MacBook ping at the end of the island. The screen is open, and several windows are displayed across the desktop. I can see everything.
“Don’t. Don’t do it, Macy. Privacy, remember?”
But then an email window pops open, and I can’t help but to see that it demands Jett to take a look at his “accounts” as they’ve apparently been moved to a new virtual location.
I don’t know much about loan sharks or financing in general, but I know that’s not a great sign. After watching a handful of True Crime documentaries, I get the feeling that this is probably a very clear sign of money laundering.
Moving over to the laptop, I click on the link inside the email, and it takes me to a record of every single one of Jett’s deals. There are dozens of them, and I can see a transfer marked as recently completed next to each one. The organization holding the funds is no bank I’ve ever heard of, and my heart sinks.
