Anything For You

“No, but again, thank you. I have a job. And another job, too, actually.”

“Okay.” If she didn’t want to work for him, well...he got that. She’d always been proud.

She sipped her wine, then set the glass down, her movements controlled and precise. Now came the moment that she’d thank him and leave.

She didn’t. “How are things with you, Connor?”

The ordinary question sounded extraordinarily intimate, given the amber lighting and the late hour. “Well,” he said, “I’m a big brother. My father and his new wife had a baby girl tonight.”

“Wow. Congratulations.”

“Yeah. My dad’s been divorced from my mom for ten days. Married to Gail for nine.”

“Speedy.”

“He didn’t want the family honor stained by bastardization.”

Jess laughed. “Interesting definition of family honor. Not that I’m one to talk.”

“I’d say you know quite a bit on the subject.”

She swallowed. Took another sip of wine, and put the glass back down exactly in the spot it was in before.

“Are your parents still married?” he asked, more because he was afraid she was going to leave than because it mattered.

“Yep.”

“That’s good, I guess.”

“That’s not the word that leaps to mind. At least I got Davey out of there. My father thinks it’s funny to get him drunk, and my mom was teaching him to make cocktails.”

Jesus. His own father didn’t seem so bad, suddenly. “You’re an awfully good sister.”

She gave him a wry smile. “So I’m brave, I’m honorable, I’m a good sister... Where’s my Nobel Prize?”

“You’re also incredibly beautiful.”

She rolled her eyes. “Freak of genetics.”

So mentioning her looks was off-limits. “And smart.”

“I almost flunked out of high school, Connor.”

“Good grades don’t mean much. I was valedictorian, and I’m a cook.”

“I thought Jeremy Lyon was valedictorian.”

“No. Salutatorian.”

“You sure? Jeremy’s so perfect. I can’t see you beating him out there.”

Fucking Jeremy. Every female in town, from Connor’s own mother to his three-year-old cousin, was hung up on him. Oh, hang on. Jess was smiling. She was teasing him. Got it.

She was finished with her meal, and had drunk half her wine. But she wasn’t making any noises about leaving, either.

Connor had had a few girlfriends in the two years since they’d slept together. Two. He’d had two. One and a half, really. No one who’d really...impacted him, as much as he would’ve liked that.

Not like Jess.

He looked at her a long minute. “Remember when we, uh...hooked up? When you came to the Institute for that class?”

“No, Connor, you were just another notch on my bedpost.” She straightened out her fork and knife to the three o’clock position on the plate. “Yes. Of course I remember.”

“I didn’t sleep with you because of what you said, you know.”

“What did I say?”

“That I slept with you because I could. Because you were Jessica Does.”

“But that is the name you used.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, still keeping up with the cool-chick-with-an-edge attitude.

“It just...came out.” A crap answer, and yet the truth. That stupid name had been given to her young, and it had been liberally used throughout high school. Jess herself had used it.

“So why did we sleep together?” she asked.

“Is ‘because we’re both red-blooded American heterosexuals’ a good enough answer?”

The corner of her mouth hinted at a smile. “I mean, why did you bother? I’m guessing you have to beat the women off with a club.”

“Some days, sure. I try not to be too rough.”

“So why me, then?”

Was she serious? “I liked the way you ate dessert.” No game, he had absolutely no game. “And you smell nice.” Proof of his sorry, no-game state.

“Right now I smell like Irish Spring. You’re really living the cliché on that one, by the way.”

“A present from Colleen.”

“Ah. Well, most of the time, I smell like restaurant food and other people’s wine and whatever Davey’s wiped on me.”

“I like food. And wine. Not sure about what Davey’s wiping, so I’ll have to stay neutral on that. But you and I have a lot in common, Jess. We both work in restaurants—”

“Don’t. You’re a Culinary Institute–trained chef who has his own restaurant at the age of twenty-three. I’m a waitress.”

“So? It’s hard to be a good waitress.”

“It’s really not,” she said.