We ate in comfortable silence for a few moments.
“So, who’s the flavor of the week?” I asked, trying to dispel some of the sexual tension I was feeling between us. I hoped that if I could just get the attention on whoever he was currently banging, I’d stop picturing myself as the woman he was currently banging.
His eyes met mine and he raised one eyebrow. My breath left my body as he stared me down. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the look in his eye, but I almost sensed some irritation. At me?
“There’s no current flavor,” he said, his voice deep and quiet, his eyes never leaving mine.
So much for breaking some of that sexual tension.
He cleared his throat. “And, again, I’d like to ask what exactly you think I do in my spare time.”
“You’ve admitted to me yourself that you have a new flavor every week,” I said lightly.
“When?” he challenged, narrowing his eyes at me as he took a bite of chicken.
“Random times. Like over a text, or in a passing conversation.”
I watched him chew that chicken, and even that somehow turned me on. I gazed at his strong jaw as he chewed, that jaw covered in just enough scruff to be really, really sexy. An image of that stubble rubbing across the inside of my thigh came to mind, and just staring at him across the table from me was enough to send a shot of lust right through my spine and straight to my lady parts.
I knew I had to stop that train of thought in its tracks, but I didn’t know how to.
I thought Jesse was hot the moment I laid eyes on him nearly five years earlier, and we’d built a trusting coworker relationship and friendship over time. I’d always nursed a crush on him.
But I’d never actually been available to act on that crush.
Not that I was now, either. But I was a hell of a lot closer to being available to act on it.
As I watched him eat, I realized that all of our conversations over the past twenty-four hours had been about me. Apart from his summer plans and his penchant for women, I didn’t know all that much about Jesse.
He swallowed his bite of chicken and followed it with a sip of wine. He glanced back up at me, and I averted my eyes to my food, embarrassed about the sexual fantasies currently playing out in my mind and sure he’d be able to see it in my eyes if my eyes met his.
“Alright. I’ll give you that,” he said. He stood up and grabbed the wine bottle off of the counter. He refilled both of our glasses and then sat back down.
“Tell me something about you,” I said, suddenly desperate to know everything.
“Like what?” he asked.
“Favorite wine.”
He pretended to really ponder my question for a moment. “Beer,” he said, and I giggled. “You?”
I took a sip of the Sauvignon Blanc. “This shit’s pretty good,” I said, and it was his turn to laugh.
“Nice that you’re calling my twenty dollar bottle of wine ‘shit,’” he said dryly.
“You can always count on me for choosing just the right words.”
“The perf words?”
I laughed. “Yep. Perf use of ‘perf,’ by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“So then what’s your favorite beer?”
“Whatever’s cold and in my refrigerator.”
“Really? No preference?”
“I’m only picky when it comes to cars and women,” he said with a cheeky grin that melted a little piece of my panties.
I drank some wine to cool down, and much like the vodka the night before, all it served to do was heat me up. I had to be almost through my second glass, but it was hard to tell since Jesse kept topping me off. And, for some reason, wine hit me faster than any other alcohol.
“So, if you’re picky with women, why flavors of the week and not something more permanent?” I asked, knowing my bold statement never would’ve come out of my mouth if I wasn’t already wine drunk.
He shrugged and took a sip of his wine, avoiding eye contact.
“You’re a catch, Jesse. You work with kids. You’re good with wood. You make a mean chicken marsala. You’re hot as hell.”
His eyes snapped sharply up to mine at my last words, and I realized what the hell had slipped out of my mouth just a moment too late.
Fucking wine.
My face was already flushed from the wine, and I think I might’ve turned purple from embarrassment. I could not believe I just said that.
What the hell was I thinking?
This man was kind enough to extend an invitation for me to stay with him, and I just told him I thought he was hot. Or, more specifically, I told him that I thought he was “hot as hell.”
What. The. Fuck.
Something was wrong with me.
Seriously.