"So what do you do for fun?" I asked, sipping my margarita.
He laughed but it was the kind of laugh that had no humor. "I don't."
"What do you mean you don't?"
"For the past eleven years, I've worked seventy to eighty hour weeks every week, sometimes more. I go to work. I come home and crash. That's it."
"That's no way to live." God, what a workaholic.
He got a funny look on his face and paused. Then he looked around at our opulent surroundings and lowered his voice. "When I was young, my family didn't have money. Like any money. I mean, I grew up using ketchup instead of spaghetti sauce on pasta." I cringed. "My mom divorced my dad when I was a teenager, saying that she deserved better than my dad, who worked all the time, and she left me . . . Sorry, this is kind of heavy. I guess where I'm going with this is that when I was young, all I did was draw. I wanted to be an artist. But once I was a teenager, my dad, knowing how hard it is to make a living, pushed me into doing something more. And I guess that's it. I work all the time now."
"Your dad didn't support you being an artist?"
"No." He didn't elaborate.
Well, if he didn't have any family support, no wonder he was in advertising. That could be artistic-another outlet for creativity.
"But you like drawing."
"I can't not do it," he said earnestly. "So I take classes when I can. Photography. Painting. Drawing."
"What did you think of the life drawing class?"
He looked at me with a sexy stare that did things to my whole body. "It had a great model." He continued, even quieter, "Actually, I was wondering what it felt like to be up there, naked, with everyone looking at you. Drawing you."
"It feels disembodied. I know all these art students are objectifying me, making my body into lines on a page."
"I didn't objectify you," he said, intently. "I knew it was you, Lucy, my beautiful neighbor, the whole time." My margarita glass got really interesting to me all of a sudden and my cheeks grew hot. Yeah. We liked each other. But could anything happen?
I had to ask. "So with all this work, do you actually have time to see anyone?"
He barked out another mirthless laugh and shook his head. "No." Great. Stomach in my shoes. Not the right answer. But he continued, "That's not the thing to tell you on a date, but it's the truth." He took my hand across the table. God, I loved his hands. Artist hands. Strong and warm and intelligent hands. "Listen. I'm always at the office. I know it's unhealthy. But I want to see you. I want to get to know you. Will you give me a chance?"
Was there any question? Of course.
I nodded. Yes, I could give him a chance. He was trying. He was so sweet and I just felt compelled to be with him. When I wasn't around him, I was wondering what he was doing. I don't know if that was healthy or unhealthy, but it was how I felt.
I also knew that I wanted to be in bed with him by the end of the night.
And I knew that it would be the first time I'd been with a man since Carlos.
This romance writer had a way more active imagination than active sex life. For a really, really, really long time. Yes, I'd been on dates. Yes, I'd messed around. Yes, I'd done things. But I hadn't been all the way with a guy since Carlos.
Pathetic.
It just hadn't worked out. Either the guy was wrong or I was wrong and I wanted Mr. Right.
Explanation? Romance writer.
I didn't know if Jake was Mr. Right. He seemed kind of not. But there was something about him, something complicated to him, that made me trust him.
He'd opened up to me. Given his fancy import car, I couldn't believe he'd ever been poor. But we all have pasts and we all have things we aren't proud of.
I did pay attention to how he treated me, however. While he was clearly a workaholic, he was clearly into me and I felt a connection with him that I'd never felt with another person. Everything felt right when he was around.
The way he talked, I think it was the same way for him. Otherwise, why would he even bother stopping by my house when he got home from work so late? Even though his body wanted to do nothing more than crash, he still made sure to stop by and check in on me. I loved that.
As we drank our drinks, we watched the sun go down into the horizon over the ocean. The sunset turned the sky a brilliant shade of pink, fading to purple, fading to gray, the water gray-blue and dark. When we finished, we went to a heated outdoor patio and had dinner at their Italian restaurant.
"So I have to ask this," he said.
"Anything."
"Were you ever married?"
"No. My ex-boyfriend Carlos dumped me after he got me pregnant. Actually before we found out."
Jake looked pissed. "Fucker. That's no way to treat you."
I shook my head. "You? Have you ever been married?"
He looked amused. "No. Again, not a good first date topic, but I've never dated anyone long enough for that."
"Big guy like you probably has no problems getting a date."
He looked sheepish. "The problem has been me, not them. My work life is untenable. It runs over my whole life." He sighed. "Always so much to do in the office."
"So tell me what you like to paint."
Raising an eyebrow, he said, "You, for starters."
"Aww, that's sweet," I said, touched. "What else?"
"Anything, really. There's no shortage of inspiration if you really pay attention. I like photography, too. There's an amazing exhibit right now at the Getty, I saw it online. I'd love to go . . ."
As I listened to him talk, I realized how much I loved hearing his ideas. What a loss it would be if this creative man couldn't draw, and I was so glad that even though he was a workaholic he took the classes to tend his passion. Animated, lovely, he wasn't so slick. There was something almost sad and wistful underneath. Someone who had been missing out on life. Someone who needed care and attention.
And I kept watching him. Watching his athletic frame move in his chair and the graceful way he held his silverware. Then in return, feeling his eyes on me, studying me. Enjoying him asking me questions-about Rob, about the people in our complex, about my childhood-and listening to the answers. I studied the way his neck moved, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The little glimpses of his chest that I got from the unbuttoned neck of his shirt.
Oh, yes, desire had been stirring in me for a long time. And now I had it bad.
He'd been hands-off of me, other than giving me his arm.
But now, as we finished the last bite of tiramisu, he reached over and touched my hand and I loved it and he looked at me in a way I could feel between my legs.
"Let's go back."
Yes.
We didn't even make it out to the Biltmore parking lot before we were joined at the lip.
Holding hands, we'd walked through the chic lobby of the hotel to the patio entranceway, lit with fairy lights wrapped around the palm tree trunks, making it look magical. We'd been serenaded by the crash of the ocean right beside us in the dark and the clink and murmur of dinner guests in the restaurant patio.
Leaving me by a lush, bright purple bougainvillea vibrant in the low light, Jake had strolled to the valet booth, handed the ticket to the attendant, and now came back to me, eyes on mine, intent. He bent down and kissed me hard. His scorching mouth, chocolatey from the tiramisu, invaded mine, our noses smushing together. I kissed him back with fervor, loving the crush into his body, loving the way his arms wrapped around me and held me to his firm body, loving the way he smelled and the way he tasted.
He didn't kiss like a distracted, workaholic businessman. He kissed like he'd never heard of a cell phone. Like this was his way of creating art and he didn't care who saw. It felt like there was nothing around us, nothing in existence except him pressing his body to me, his lips and tongue to mine. I was completely in his world and he was in mine and it was a heart-stoppingly romantic place to be. All of creation existed in that moment. At least until he bit my lower lip gently, and he pulled back and looked at me, heat in his eyes.
The young, pimpled valet standing next to us cleared his throat.
I stifled a giggle. Who knew how long he was standing there watching us make out? Jake looked at me conspiratorially, kissed my nose, then took my hand and walked me over to his car. He opened my door and I slid in.
When he took off back home, he drove faster than he did on the way to the hotel. In no time at all, I was out of the car. I fumbled with my keys. Then my door was open and Jake followed me inside my home. I turned and closed my door. He boxed me into the back of the door, arms on both sides of me. His mouth came down on mine again, and this time it was even more frenzied because we didn't have any chance of an audience.
Teeth knocked, tongues touched, he even growled against my throat. I moaned when he started nibbling his way down my neck, sucking and caressing.
I pressed his jacket off of his shoulders, struggling with it, and finally getting it off. Then I started unbuttoning his shirt, crazed to touch him, wanting to feel his athletic body. As he leaned over to kiss me, he helped, and his shirt came off and fell to the floor. Shoes kicked off. I kissed his broad, muscular chest, licking his nipples, sucking my way up to his neck.