Arrogant Playboy(15)
“Plenty of celebrity chefs have spouses,” I say.
“They’re not us,” he says. “We can’t do it just because they do.”
Jeremiah lifts the top of my hand to his mouth, before pulling me into his arms. My cheek falls slowly against his chest, breathing in his familiar, spicy scent.
“I still love you, Jer,” I sigh, wrapping my arms under his and listening to the steady thrum of his heart. “I love you for who you are. Not because you’re suddenly somebody. No one else knows you like I do.”
“I love you too, Sam.” He squeezes me. “Everything’ll work out.”
His words give me little hope and comfort.
“I miss you. Bed gets cold at night,” I say.
“Are you eating?” He glances down at me and back up, his fingers running against my rib cage. “You’re smaller.”
“Stop.” I laugh.
“Let me cook you dinner tonight.”
“Aren’t you tired of cooking? How many episodes did you shoot this week?”
He stands up, and for a second it feels like we’re headed in the right direction. I can’t help but grin.
“The cool thing about filming a show like that is I’ve got a whole team of interns and assistants who make the food ahead of time and prep everything and clean up, so my part is mostly pretending and keeping the show fun.”
Jeremiah is a natural born entertainer. His mother is the head of the theater department at his hometown high school, and his father is a radio disc jockey for a major radio station in Atlanta. Commanding audiences, in person or over the airwaves, is in his DNA.
I wrap myself in a blanket and get cozy as I observe him picking through what little ingredients remain in the fridge and cupboards. Haven’t gone to the store in forever, and when I do go it’s cereal, milk, and frozen dinners for me.
“I’m going to have to run down to the market,” he says, running his hand through his messy blond hair. “But I’ll make you a nice dinner, Sam. We’ll hang out tonight like old times, okay?”
I nod and give him a closed-mouth smile, silently mourning the old times. They’re gone. Never coming back.
All we have is ambiguity and a distance between us that grows further each day.
Chapter Seven
BECKHAM
“I warned you about redheads.” Xavier Fox sips artisan beer from a frost-covered mug, his eyes glued to the sports reel flashing on a TV above my head.
I’ve just filled him in on my last twenty-four hours, or at least the condensed version because we’re men and we stick to the facts.
“You did,” I say.
“And you didn’t listen.” He takes another sip.
“You’re not right about everything.”
His eyes meet mine. He smirks. “I was right about the penthouse I sold you.”
“And you never let me live that down.”
“It’s not everyday you sell a ten million dollar penthouse and watch it nearly double in price over the next three years.” He slams his fist against the table, cheering at the TV along with a handful of men at the table over.
I never got into sports, and it might be because I never saw a TV screen until I was almost sixteen or an actual football until I was seventeen. Regardless, I grew into a man who preferred to get his hands dirty in ways that satisfied on carnal levels.
“You got lucky,” I say.
“It’s called knowing the market and striking while the iron’s hot.” Xavier is as cocky as I am. Can’t imagine having a mild-mannered schmuck for a best friend. “I can’t help it if I’m fucking amazing at my job.”
“Didn’t Magnolia tell you about that neighborhood? And the Green Quarter Revitalization Project?”
His face pinches. I shouldn’t have brought up Magnolia Grantham.
“Why’d you have to mention her? We were having a nice time, drinking our beers…”
“You need to get over her.” I slip an extra cardboard coaster between my fingers, flipping it and examining the gaudy beer logos on each side. “It’s been, what, a few months now?”
“I am over her.” He attempts to say it with conviction but falls flat on his ass.
“There are plenty of other women. Women who’d kill for a night with you.”
“You act like I’m sitting at home every night just ‘cause I’m not at the bars with you looking for my next lay.”
He acts like I’m a drug addict. I wouldn’t say women are my addiction. I wouldn’t even say sex is my addiction. Hobby maybe. Addiction? Absolutely not. Hobbies are fun, done purely for enjoyment. Addictions imply a lack of control.
“When was the last time you got laid?” I ask.