We paid our bills and headed out to Jesse’s truck. He drove one of those enormous Ford F fifty somethings, and something about that truck screamed sexy sensuality, just like the man who drove it. He opened the passenger door for me, and I stepped onto the running board and pulled myself up into the front passenger seat. He shut the door behind me, and as he walked to the driver’s side, I don’t know why, but suddenly I burst into tears.
He gracefully jumped up into the driver’s seat and gazed over at me, and then he reached across the armrest and put his arm around my shoulders again.
“I’m sorry,” I managed out through my tears.
Were those his lips brushing against my temple? Surely I imagined that, but his intimate comfort only made me cry harder.
“Don’t cry, V. I’ve got you,” he cooed, his soothing voice helping me to feel better as he rubbed my back. I didn’t want to go home. It didn’t feel like home anymore. It felt like a prison where I was confined to one side of the house while my soon-to-be-ex was confined to the other. We did everything we could not to cross paths, and going home meant having to face the inevitable awkward tension.
I couldn’t believe I was crying, for the second time that night, in front of Jesse Drake. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the vodka or because of the confession I’d unleashed on him, but it felt cathartic to cry and even more cathartic to have someone like Jesse providing the comfort through my tears.
“I’ll be right back, okay?” he said, and I nodded. My eyes followed him as my tears started to dry, and I saw him walk back into the bar. I watched as he looked around for a moment, and then I saw Tami walk up to him and put her arms around his neck. He backed up a little and said something to her. She looked angry, and then he turned and left. I averted my eyes so he wouldn’t know I had watched the whole encounter, curiosity burning in my mind about what he’d just said to her.
He got back into the car and quietly started the engine, turning down the radio so low that I could barely hear it. He started driving toward my place. I was curious how he knew where I lived, but he never asked. As we approached my neighborhood, I gathered my purse from the floor and took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was awaiting me.
But we drove right past my neighborhood. “I live back there,” I said, pointing my thumb behind us.
“Well I live up here,” he countered.
What?
“What?” I put voice to the question in my head.
“I’m not taking you to your house. You need someone to talk to, and you obviously need a night away from your almost ex. I’ve got extra space, and you might be aware that I have a degree in counseling, so I’m taking you home with me.”
My heart pounded, and then I felt a deep, aching throb start to form between my legs.
He was taking me home?
He was taking me home!
Holy shit!
I was going to Jesse’s house.
I was going to sleep in Jesse Drake’s bed.
Well, technically a guest bed that belonged to Jesse Drake.
Same difference.
“It’s okay, Jesse. You can take me to my house.” My argument was weak, but I knew I had to put one up anyway.
“Forget about it. You’re coming with me.”
We continued about five more miles in comfortable silence. He hummed softly with the radio, the throaty rasp of his deep timber awakening feelings that had been long dormant inside of me, and then we pulled into his driveway. His home was a beautiful and modest ranch. I could tell from the outside that he was meticulous and neat, but, then, I could tell that from his desk at work, too. His yard didn’t boast a single weed, and his trees and bushes were trimmed skillfully. He pulled into a garage lined neatly with bookcases and shelves that had boxes and tools stacked in a precise order. Two mountain bikes hung from hooks screwed into the ceiling. A workbench lined one side of the garage, and I spotted wood on it that looked like some sort of work in progress.
He cut the engine and we both opened our doors to get out. I hopped down and pushed my door closed, and then I swung my purse over my shoulder.
“What’s that?” I pointed to the workbench on my way by, taking it all in.
“Eventually it’ll be an end table for my mom,” he said, and if I’m not mistaken, I thought I saw a sweet pink shade stain his cheeks.
“You build tables?” I asked stupidly.
He shrugged. “I build furniture,” he said. “I’m good with wood.”
I giggled at his innuendo, and he grinned.
“I only work on this stuff when I have spare time, which, as you know, isn’t much,” he said.
“All the girls you’re entertaining?” I teased.