Separation Anxiety(30)
“In his guest bed. ‘Guest’ being the operative word.”
“Right. How long’s that gonna last?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, feeling my face heating up.
“You’re fucking blushing, Veronica! You want him!”
“Shh,” I whispered. “Take it down a notch, please.”
“Fine,” she said in a loud whisper. “You want to sleep with him. Don’t deny it.”
“I’m not sleeping with anybody until my divorce is finalized,” I said, my voice low.
“You didn’t deny it,” she said.
“Because there’s nothing to deny. He’s fucking gorgeous. Who wouldn’t want him? But I can’t just jump into his bed because I’m leaving my husband. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Oh, Veronica. So innocent and pious and prude. He invited you to stay in his house, a detail we will get to in a minute after I’ve convinced you to fuck him. My sweet friend, men do not ask women to ‘crash’ at their place without wanting more.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t like me like that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“I saw the way he was flirting with you at the bar on Friday. Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, my friend. I think he likes you like that.”
I rolled my eyes, but something inside of me hoped that she was right.
“Okay, so if you’re going to avoid that topic, at least tell me more about Dreamy Drake.”
I grinned. “He is pretty fucking dreamy,” I said.
“Shit, I was jealous that you got to ride in his truck, and now you’re living with him. Jesus, that body.” She sighed dreamily. “So what’s his house like?”
I giggled at her rambling.
“His house is beautiful. The outside is perfectly landscaped, like he really takes good care of it. And the kitchen…” I trailed off, closing my eyes in appreciation for that perfect dream of a kitchen.
“The kitchen?” she prodded.
“It’s like one of those kitchens you see in Architectural Digest or something. It’s ridiculous.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about the kitchen,” she said, resting her elbow on the table and her chin on her palm. “I want the deets on his bedroom.”
“He’s got this gorgeous bed that somehow looks bigger than a king,” I started, and her grin widened. “What?” I asked.
“So you’ve seen his bed.”
“Oh my God, Quinn. Not like that. He gave me a tour of his house.”
She nodded and winked as I took a sip of my coffee. “Sure. Okay. So how many women do you think he’s fucked in that lucky bed?”
“None,” I answered immediately, and then I wanted to kick myself. His confession about his house just being for him seemed like the sort of thing that he probably wouldn’t want shared between friends, but it was too late.
“None?” she asked. “Yeah right.”
“He didn’t say much, but he sort of indicated that he goes where the fun is.”
“Interesting. Does Jesse Drake, bad boy extraordinaire, have a soft side?”
“It would appear so.”
“Yes it would.”
“Don’t forget the fact that he works with teenagers. He can’t be too bad a boy if he’s doing that.”
“I beg to differ. I’ve slept with my share of the male teachers around town, and they can be some very, very naughty boys.”
I giggled.
“Tell me more.”
I thought about telling her about the tattoo. Maybe she could shed some light on it. And I thought about telling her about the woodworking. But both of those things seemed private somehow, like he didn’t want people to know that side of him. I thought about all the times he’d grabbed a shirt when I caught him without one in just the past two days that I’d been staying with him. I thought about the dedication he had to that table he was working on in the garage. Those “deets” seemed like details of Jesse at home, not the Jesse we knew from work. And it wasn’t my place to tell Quinn about those things. If he wanted to reveal them to her, like he had to me, he would.
So I kept my mouth shut.
But I had to give her something. She’d stop at nothing to get it out of me.
“He likes to cook,” I said.
“Is he any good?”
I nodded. “He makes this homemade salad dressing that’s just about the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“I’ll assume you haven’t tasted him yet from that comment.”
I glared at her.
“Has he cooked you anything else?”