not what—”
“It’s okay,” Amelia said, trying to cut the conversation off at the knees and make her escape. “You guys have a good time tonight. And don’t get too drunk.”
Tabby shook her head. “Amelia, you’re so pretty. I wish you could see it. You’ve got the most gorgeous skin, and your body is to die for. You don’t need to hide.”
Not trusting her voice, she nodded, gave Tabby’s hand a quick pat, then broke away. She went straight to the kitchen and turned on the water. Dirty dishes filled the sink and half of the countertop, and washing them seemed the safest thing to do. At least they wouldn’t be able to see her cry.
Why did she have to be so sensitive? She wasn’t a troll, she knew that. She had her pluses and minuses, like most women. But she’d been so painfully shy all her life that Aunt Grace’s strict dress code had been a comfort, not a burden.
Donna didn’t mean to be cruel. None of them did.
She thought of Jay. But not the way she’d been thinking since… No, this scenario had a new twist. What if Jay had been teasing her? Making fun of her?
She tried to dismiss the idea, but it sharpened as the moments ticked by. There was no reason on earth someone as gorgeous as Jay Wagner should be interested in her. She didn’t know how to dress or wear her hair or do her makeup. He knew about her propensity to blush. He’d enjoyed embarrassing her before, hadn’t he? This was probably a big fat joke to him. Watch the weird girl die of shame.
She sighed, wishing she could turn back the clock. She’d been so happy this morning when the possibilities seemed limitless. When she’d dared to dream her dreams.
She was a fool. A hopeless romantic. A dope.
What’s worse, a broke dope. If only she could afford her own computer.
It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t go back to the café. Not ever. She couldn’t bear the inevitable conclusion to this little farce.
JAY TURNED THE PAGE, scanning the New York Times as he drank his first cup of coffee. Nothing so far had piqued his interest except a piece about gas prices, but he continued. He wasn’t much for routine, but this morning ritual was inviolate. As he skimmed the columns, he paused at a picture. Shit. It was his father and his brother, Peter, taken at a dinner honoring his father’s illustrious career. Jay wasn’t surprised he hadn’t been invited.
His father, Lucas, was a big fish in a very small academic pond. A one-time poet laureate, he held the comparative literature chair at Cornell, and his books were always reviewed in the Times, although Jay knew precious few people who actually read them. Like his father, the books were pretentious as hell, with about as much warmth as a twenty-dollar hooker.
He read the full article and saw that his other brother, Ben, had also been in attendance. A fine time had evidently been had by all.
He folded the paper and finished his coffee, then went to get another cup. He studied his distorted reflection on his silver toaster, wondering if he should grow a beard. That would piss off the old man. But then, everything he did had that effect.
Jay took his cup into the living room, and, after he put the cup on the coffee table, sank down on the couch. It was stupid, this game he played with his father. Lucas wanted him to follow in his footsteps. Jay hated academia. A lose-lose situation.
Now Peter and Ben, they’d turned out as planned. Peter was an attorney with the most boring firm in New York, and Ben was an accountant. It had always been assumed that Jay would go to Cornell, like the rest of them. That he’d major in literature, and become a professor and writer. His grandfather had even set up a trust fund so that Jay wouldn’t have to work during his graduate studies. Instead, Jay had bought the shop.
He looked at the bookcases that covered the wall to his right. Damn, he had a lot of books. Everything from Chaucer to Tom Clancy. And one very slim volume by a man named Jay Wagner.
Published when he was seventeen, the book, a coming-of-age story, naturally, had been reviewed by all the biggies. Not because he was a literary genius, but because of his father. Kirkus Reviews called Jay “The voice of his generation.” Publishers’ Weekly had hailed the book a stunning debut. Everyone wanted to know when the next book would arrive in stores.
Yeah, everyone including him.
He’d tried. He’d written pages and pages, enough for several novels—all of it crap. Whatever he’d had once, it was gone now. No amount of wishing or hoping would bring it back. In the almost ten years since Damage had come out, Jay had lost not only his talent, but his desire. He wasn’t going to be a famous novelist. Or a famous anything. Which was a good thing. He loved his bikes, his friends, his women.
Amelia immediately came to mind, and he leaned back farther on the couch. She hadn’t been to the café since he’d introduced himself. Brian and his part-time helper, Drew, had explicit instructions to call when she showed up. Jay had used his time wisely, going over screen after screen of her journal entries. Talk about writing talent. He wasn’t all that keen on erotica, but this situation was another thing completely.
Picturing that prim, shy beauty as she’d written the most incredible fantasies had gotten him so hot he was surprised he hadn’t burst into flames. Hell, picturing her living them out with him was more than any mortal could stand. He’d gotten so many erections in the past two days he’d had a tough time walking.
He’d given a great deal of thought to his next move. She’d provided him with a road map, and he intended to take every side trip necessary to get her in his bed.
He remembered one particularly vivid fantasy.
I see him across the room, standing by the exit, dark and dangerous in his tuxedo. He looks bored, as if nothing and no one has sparked his interest. His eyes meet mine, and his boredom disappears. He stares, unblinking, and I’m compelled to go to him. There is no choice, no decision. I barely see the room or the people around me. I stop an arm’s-length away, and still that doesn’t satisfy him. I move closer, and he cups my cheek, only it’s not a tender move. He holds my head steady, staring through me, reading me.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. I belong to him now. I’ve abandoned my free will. His hand leaves my cheek and I wince at the loss. He smiles, understanding.
He leads me out of the room, to his car, a black Mercedes. I sit next to him quietly. We take off into the night, and I don’t ask him where we’re going. I don’t ask him anything. Not his name or his intentions.
He touches my knee and I gasp, electrified. His fingers inch up my thigh. He rubs one finger over my panties, then stops. I spread my legs farther. He nods. Then he rubs me again. I can hardly breathe as his finger traces my cleft. He kills me with his measured pace, his even pressure. I try to buck forward, but he stops instantly. I understand. Through force of will, I remain still. Except for my heart, my pulse, my gasping breaths.
He pulls into a driveway, into a garage. Leads me inside, to a large living room with a crackling fire. His lips brush mine, teasing, and then he sits on the couch, waiting.
I know I must undress, and I do, slowly, my gaze on his. I don’t stop until I’m naked, the firelight dancing on my skin.
He smiles, and I feel a rush of triumph. I’m not embarrassed, not burning
