My Gigolo (12 page)

He pouted, his green eyes dancing. “I’m crushed. And after I slaved all afternoon making my specialty. I got lost on the way back from the grocery store, too. I almost called for directions. And I had to dig through that monstrous pile of CDs to find just the right one. Good God, woman, you have too much music. Here, have some wine.”

“I have wine glasses?”

“You do now. You also have an excellent white Riesling in the fridge.”

She sipped. “Oh, that’s good. I haven’t had wine in an age. I usually don’t care for it, but this is almost sweet.”

He tugged the towel off his shoulder and popped it at her. “Go sit down. I’ll bring everything to you.”

Standing away from the bar, she cradled her new wine glass and raised an eyebrow. “Well, well. You’re laying it on awfully thick.”

He turned to the oven, bending down and giving her a mouthwatering look at his butt perfectly filling out his jeans. She didn’t bother trying to look away.

“It’s the least I could do for calling you at work and interrupting your boss.”

“Jack? Have I told you lately that you have the perfect ass?”

He laughed, sneaking a peek back at her without standing up. “You think? Should I bare it and give you a better look?”

She grinned. “Maybe after dinner. I’m starving.”

“As you wish, milady.” He pulled a golden-topped casserole out of the oven and stood. “Seriously, Gabe. Go take a load off. I got this.”

“All right. If you insist.”

Finally turning away, she peeked in the dining room and smiled. He’d even set the table, laying out the silverware on white linen napkins that he must have bought along with the wine glasses. A few white candles of varying height clustered in the center of the table, their flames gleaming on the silverware. Her old, chipped plates looked a little ridiculous in such a pretty place setting, but he’d done the best he could. It was…sweet.

“Do you mind if I get out of these work clothes?”

She looked over her shoulder and blushed to find him leering at her as he tossed some salad greens together in a huge glass bowl that looked as new as everything else. How much had he spent on this dinner idea of his?

“Absolutely not. Naked dinner works for me.”

Grinning, she tipped her wine glass his way. “You’re an oddball, Jack, but you’re good for my ego. Gimme five minutes?”

“Take your time.”

She climbed the stairs slowly, swirling the wine in her glass and thinking entirely too hard. He’d bought wine and wine glasses, made dinner, set the table. While the gesture was astonishingly sweet, it bothered her. Was it over the line? Did it constitute “significant otherness” instead of just sexual compatibility? Would Cheryl think an evening like this was romantic and definite boyfriend behavior? Would Mike?

Worse, would Karen?

She frowned as she stopped at the foot of her bed, wondering if she should just call the whole thing off. It wouldn’t do to get used to a having guy like Jack around—for her own protection, more than anything else. She actually liked him, liked spending time with him, and that couldn’t be good. If she allowed him to act like this, like a boyfriend, would he become one by default? Would she start to see him as one and end up hurt like poor Cheryl?

And then her wandering, frowning gaze fell upon an instantly recognizable box on her nightstand, and she snorted. Condoms. A new box, from the looks of it. The
big
ones.

Rolling her eyes, she put down her wine glass and grabbed her favorite jeans.

Another uncomfortable morning after. For the first time since his first time, sex made him nervous. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Gabe. Far from it. He wanted to make love to her for hours, then start over and do it all again.

But that was the problem. If he made love to her the way he wanted to, she'd suspect his motives. Thus, he needed to keep it just sex. The struggle to not betray himself with every touch made him feel awkward, and he had no doubt that she felt it, too.

Not good. If he kept this up, he’d make himself impotent. Ironically, that might actually help the situation.

He rolled onto his back, the sheet tangling around his legs, and stared up at the ceiling. Though she’d slept in with him a little, she’d still left for work long before he usually got up for the day, so he’d stayed in bed a while longer. Thinking.

Unfortunately, thinking did him no good. He tended to rely on his instincts, and they usually served him well, but now the damn things insisted on him telling her the truth—that he enjoyed her company and envied her normal lifestyle so much that he’d quit the very job that had introduced them just to be with her.

Extremely
bad idea. She would bolt like a kid caught pocketing candy in a store, and he’d never see her again. He reminded himself for the dozenth time that she absolutely did not want a relationship. Period.

Of course, he hadn’t either, until he met her.

Throwing off the sheet, he tumbled himself out of her bed and headed for the shower. Despite his awkwardness in bed with her, they’d managed quite the workout the night before. His body buzzed with pleasant satisfaction, of course, but pertinent muscles ached just enough to require a nice, hot shower.

As he turned on the water, he couldn’t help a smug smirk. Gabe hadn’t been walking quite right this morning, either, though she hadn’t breathed a word of complaint. At least his years of experience weren’t going to waste.

He stepped into the spray and soaped, his mind wandering to his plans for the weekend. Truth be told, he didn’t really know what she did in her spare time. He knew that she read and watched movies. Baked. Listened to great music. Danced almost as terribly as he did. Worked a lot and hung out with friends.

But what else?

A frown snuck onto his face. What did she like to do? She obviously had a toned, slender body, so she surely exercised. She’d mentioned Tae Bo aerobics, but was that it? Did she like to run? Maybe they could go for a jog this evening if she wasn’t too worn out from work.

But what if she hated running? He tried to jog every other day, and he would enjoy her company. Unless, of course, she hated it. Good grief.

And what about mini golf? Tennis? Bike riding? He hadn’t seen a bike anywhere. Of course, he hadn’t been looking for one, but if she used it regularly, wouldn’t she keep it handy?

Did she like anything he liked?

He ducked his head under the spray and appropriated a bit of her shampoo. Luckily, it didn’t smell flowery or fruity. Clean, but not overwhelming—rather like her. Breathing in the scent, he smiled. He could almost feel her hair tickling his nose. All those curls. They hung down past her shoulders when wet. He’d had no idea her hair was that long.

So what if he didn’t know her likes and habits? He’d find out soon enough, if he played his cards right. And if their interests didn’t line right up, well, what of that? They could find new stuff to do together and keep their separate hobbies for when they needed time alone. If that wasn’t what building a relationship was about, he didn’t know what was.

Besides, tricking her into telling him about herself was half the fun.

Squeaky clean and naked as the day he was born, he stalked down the stairs for the jeans he’d left slung over her couch’s back. They hadn’t quite made it to the staircase. Neither had his boxer briefs, either of their shirts, or her bra. He grinned as he snagged his pants by a belt loop and swung them over his shoulder. He might feel awkward about the conflict between making love and having sex, but she seemed to feel no such distress. Her efforts to lead him upstairs by the johnson hadn’t felt awkward in the least.

He whistled happily as he went back upstairs for a clean pair of underwear. It was time to return the favor.

At first glance, nothing on her street seemed different. A second glance, however, cured her of that misapprehension. Old biddies lined the street.

Mrs. Minnett sat in her sag-seated lawn chair on her porch. Mrs. Tarrington stood ostensibly watering her flowers, but no water ran from the hose, and she wasn’t looking at the flowers. Rose and Ava Chauncey, the spinster twins, rocked in their yard swing. Even the old poop three doors down—the one Gabe had long since written off as a recluse—had unearthed and made no attempt to conceal her attention. The grouch leaned against her mailbox, staring directly at Gabe’s large side yard, where all the other ladies seemed to be trying not to obviously look.

What on earth?

As she climbed out of her car, she waved at the Chauncey sisters. They’d brought her homemade chicken noodle soup the last time she caught the flu, and they always checked in on her since. Now, though, they didn’t seem to notice she was home.

Her forehead wrinkling with confusion and curiosity, she walked around the front of the house to see what was so interesting in her side yard. Was her shed on fire or something?

She cleared the corner, caught sight of the scene in the back corner of her yard, and stopped mid-step. A laugh bubbled up in her throat, but she held it back desperately, even biting her lower lip as it trembled with her urge to crack up completely.

Jack stood just outside her shed’s open door, naked to the waist, sweat gleaming on his perfect physique. His damp jeans clung to his thighs and butt. His hair—usually the adorably tousled bedhead style—hung in his eyes in damp tangles. Her lawn mower, a cantankerous old hunk of junk that had seen at least half as many summers as she had, sat silent and smug on the ground before him. If it were a sensible thing, it would cringe at his feet from the furious glare on his handsome, flushed face.

The laugh escaped, and she put a hand to her mouth, hoping he hadn’t heard. No such luck. His eyes flashed—either from irritation or from catching the sun, she couldn’t be sure—and she finally just let it all go.

“Oh, Jack, how long have you been trying to start that thing?”

He scowled. “Just tell me it’s broken. Seriously. If it’s not, it will be.”

Laughing harder, she walked up to him and put her arms around his waist, glad that working on a weekend meant she could wear jeans and a T-shirt and get his sweat all over her without fear for a delicate fabric.

“It’s old. And persnickety. You have to pull the old ‘gas down the exhaust’ trick or you could throw your back out and still not crank it over.”

He groaned, settling an arm around her back. “
Now
you tell me.”

“You didn’t ask.” Another little snigger snuck out. “So how long have you been entertaining the neighborhood watch?”

His chest and arm flexed as he looked up. “Oh, God. At least I’ve only had my shirt off for the last half hour or so.”

She gave him a squeeze, and he obligingly wrapped both arms around her. He smelled like sweaty man, but it wasn’t a bad smell. She closed her eyes and breathed him in.

“Thank you for trying to mow my lawn for me, but I’ll just do it tomorrow. It’s probably too hot to mow, anyway. Plus, it’s lunchtime. I’ll make you one of my world famous sandwiches.”

He snorted. “World famous, huh?”

“Well, famous to those who matter, and those who matter are the world.”

He tensed against her, and her soft smile froze on her face.

“Does that count me?”

She tensed, too, cursing inwardly. “I guess that depends on what you think of my sandwiches.”

The moment spun out, something passing between them. She had no idea what it was, and she mentally sighed with relief when he pulled away and smiled down at her.

“How about you show me how to get this hunk of junk started, and I’ll mow while you lay your best smack down on some sandwiches?”

A crooked grin quirked her lips. “Got a screwdriver?”

He spent the afternoon feeling like the new prize rooster strutting in front of all the old hens, but he finished the lawn so Gabe didn’t have to and felt pretty damn good about himself. He didn’t destroy a single flower bed or even injure himself. Not bad for not having mowed a lawn since he was a kid.

Gabe sat in her terribly green porch swing and watched him. More accurately, she watched the old women watch him from their porches. The one time he remembered to look directly at her as he passed by, he caught a strangely smug smile on her face, as if she wanted her neighbors to see her with a man in her yard. He did his part, leaving his shirt off and pausing every now and then to bend over and take a drink from the hose, even splashing himself once for effect. He didn’t doubt that she appreciated him mowing her lawn, but it probably didn’t hurt that he looked damn good doing it.

She rewarded him with perhaps the largest sandwich he’d ever seen.

“Good God. I haven’t seen this much meat since I saw a cow on TV.” He eyed the creation doubtfully. “What’s that green stuff?”

“Alfalfa sprouts. They taste better than lettuce.”

Shooting her a suspicious glance, he hefted the meal-on-bread. It smelled good, anyway. Couldn’t screw up ham and turkey too much.

The first bite was heaven. The second, ambrosia.

“Gabe, this is the best sandwich in the history of the world.”

Of course, with his mouth full, he doubted she understood a word. He didn’t care. His stomach roared to life, and he dug in with a will.

She watched with a crooked grin, picking at her much smaller concoction and offering him chips and a tall glass of iced tea.

“Thank you for mowing. I don’t mind doing it myself, but it’s nice to not have it hanging over my head during trial time.”

He nodded, his mouth too full to comment.

“And it was kinda fun to watch the Old Biddy Patrol drool.”

Grinning, he nodded again and tried to swallow.

“Can you eat faster without choking?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Because those wet jeans and all of that sweat is turning me on so bad I can barely think straight.”

He coughed and put down his sandwich, reaching for his tea. Swallowing hard, he cleared his mouth enough to swig down half the glass and wash away the lump. Gasping from the near-choking and eyes watering from immediate brain freeze, he tried to grin.

“I can eat later.”