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That, right there, is the biggest reason I need to stop thinking about Jessie. I’m welcome now. If things went sour, her family would take her side. Or maybe they’d remain neutral, but I would never feel comfortable here.
“Thanks,” I say to Celia, then change the subject. “Got any pretty chef-friends that would like to be my date to the wedding?”
She takes a sip of her coffee. “Yeah, honey. I know plenty.”
Chapter nine
Nic
TimothyandMinastrollinto the kitchen at nine thirty-five, smiles on their faces. “Let’s go!” he calls out, grabbing a couple of Danishes. “Jessie!”
Shit. So much for avoiding her.
Five minutes later Jessie and I are crammed into the back seat of Timothy’s truck. Fiancée beats longer legs when it comes to shotgun, unfortunately for me. The truck has an extended cab, but it’s not that big, and every bump or turn sends my elbow or knee onto Jessie’s side. She defends her territory, elbowing me back like we’re children, knocking her knee against mine. It’s hard not to stare at that stretch of leg between her knee-high boots and the hem of her dress. Yesterday I had my hands on those thighs. My mouth on her smooth skin.
Maybe, as long as I avoid being alone with her, I can pay her back for tormenting me with Scrabble and cannoli and this too-short sweater dress.
“God, do you have to man-spread?” Jessie whines, pushing me away after I allow Timothy’s turn to dump me on her.
I slide closer, pressing my leg against hers and bumping her with my shoulder, just to be an ass. “Where the hell am I supposed to put my arms and legs?”
“I’d like to file a complaint with your personal trainer,” she mutters, shoving me again. “No one needs to be this big.”
There’s nothing in her tone to suggest this is a compliment, but it’s the closest she’s ever come to giving me one. So I take it. “Thank you. Now scoot over.”
Jessie doesn’t hesitate. She scoots over—closer. Pushing herself against me.
She smells so good, like blackberries and cinnamon, I want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in. My hand is on her knee before I think it through, pulling her closer.
In the front seat, I catch a glimpse of Mina nudging Timothy’s leg. His eyes flick to us in the rearview mirror.
I shift my hand and shove Jessie’s legs away from me, using my shoulder to push her back onto her seat.
Too late. Timothy’s grinning.
Jessie notices we’re being watched and turns, angling herself away from me.
The truck barely stops and I’m out of the back, gulping in air that doesn’t smell like her. The four of us gather on the sidewalk as Timothy looks at his phone.
“In two hours, we meet for lunch at Ginger and Jasmine,” Timothy says. “Don’t be late, we have to get back in time for caroling. We are not losing to the Stuarts on my watch.”
Mina and Jessie link arms and walk down the street. For a moment we stand there, watching.
“You checking out my future wife or my sister?” Timothy finally asks, his tone vaguely threatening before he loses it to a laugh. “Come on.”
The three-piece suit fits perfectly and best of all, it’s understated in a dark charcoal color. Hearing Timothy had taken care of everything for the wedding had me nervous, but I guess I should’ve counted on Mina to tamp down some of his wilder impulses.
“So, what are you going to get Jessie?” Timothy asks as we walk back down the busy street after hanging the suits in the back seat of the truck. With my beanie pulled low and my scarf pulled up against the cold, no one gives me a second glance, which is nice for a change.
I shrug, but then spot a craft store and duck inside.
He follows me in, frowning. “What are we doing here?”
When I went into the attic for the Ping-Pong balls, I found Jessie’s old paintings. Hundreds of them on canvases and in art books. I looked at all of them, following the years as she honed her skill. Paintings of her mother in the kitchen, Timothy laughing, and her father with a book. A few of me, with Timothy, or in the kitchen with Celia, or by myself staring off into the distance. Paintings of flowers, landscapes, trees, and the lake.
Judging by the most recent dates on the paintings in the attic, she stopped five years ago.
Maybe it’s unrelated to Addison’s comment. It could have nothing to do with me at all, but something tells me it does.
