Rev It Up (Black Knights Inc. #3)(9)
And she couldn’t afford that.
Oh, no. She definitely could not afford that.
Taking a deep breath, reminding herself of the way he’d treated her four years ago, the way he’d treated all of them, she marched forward on knees threatening to give way with every step.
What she wanted to do was crawl into the nearest hole and hide until he went away again—and he would go away again; that’s what he did. But since that wasn’t an option, she mustered all the composure she could and blurted the first carefree-sounding thing she could think of.
“I see the years haven’t had any sort of positive effect on your fashion sense, Jake.” Her voice didn’t come out sounding as shaky as her gelatinous insides felt, thank God. She’d never be able to make another JELL-O mold again without thinking of this moment right here, right now, and the way her stomach was quivering inside her. “You’re still wearing those god-awful Hawaiian shirts like you’re auditioning to be the next Magnum PI.”
Although, with his shaggy mop of sun-bleached hair, Coppertone tan, and five o’clock shadow which, at the moment, looked more like the twelve o’clock version, he more closely resembled Josh Holloway.
Crap.
And yes, she’d watched each and every episode of Lost simply because of the resemblance between the two men…
Crap, crap, crap.
“Magnum PI! Ha!” Rock hooted with laughter, slapping his knee. “Good one, Shell.”
“Mmm,” Jake rubbed his chin, his beautiful, emerald green eyes sparkling with warm humor as he glanced down at the shirt she’d just insulted. The hideous thing was coupled with ratty jeans and a pair of dingy, leather flip-flops. A California surfer until the day he died.
And, man, he made it look good. Heaven help her…
“I don’t know if I’ve ever heard two words more oxymoronic than fashion and sense,” he murmured, grinning. Oh geez. There are those dimples. “And dude” he added, glancing pointedly at Rock’s faded Green Day T-shirt, holey jeans, and scuffed alligator cowboy boots, “you’re not one to talk.”
“Okay,” Rock admitted, still chuckling, “so a couple of Giorgio Armanis we ain’t.”
“On that we can agree,” Jake said, clinking his beer bottle against Rock’s. And just like that, they seemed to fall into their old rhythm, the give-and-take. As if nothing had ever happened. As if he’d never crushed her soul and abandoned them all.
It was all so familiar and heartbreaking, her throat closed up like she’d swallowed the industrial-strength cleaner she liked to use on Franklin’s potty-training toilet. And then she couldn’t breathe at all when Jake winked at her in that flirtatious way he had before tilting his head back and sucking down a mouthful of suds.
She took the opportunity of his distraction to do two things. One, she tried to steady her thundering heart and drag in a much-needed lungful of air before she passed out. And two, she let her hungry gaze travel over his face.
There were webs of fine lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there four years ago, and a little crescent-shaped scar near his left temple. And even given all that, he still looked like he belonged on a billboard selling expensive shaving cream or designer cologne.
It wasn’t fair! Particularly when he dropped his chin, letting his bright eyes leisurely wander down her frame.
Her cheeks heated under his rather…thorough scrutiny as if she’d shoved her head in a four-hundred-degree oven.
And now she could breathe. She gulped in a mouthful of air like a drowning victim.
Ugh, stop looking at me! she wanted to shout like a petulant five-year-old. Because, despite the fact that she sported the fuller breasts, wider hips, and slight roundness to her lower belly that no amount of crunches or yoga seemed to remedy—the physical badges of motherhood—he was still watching her the same way he’d always watched her. With affection and humor and sweet, burning desire in his eyes.
It made her remember things she thought she’d forgotten. It made her question her decision—
No. She’d given him chance after chance, and all he’d ever done was let her down. He was a rake and a wanderer, just like her dear ol’ dad, and instead of being mad about all of that, instead of slamming into him with vitriol like he deserved, like any intelligent woman would do, the only emotion she could seem to conjure up was sadness.
An intense and overwhelming sadness…
“You look more beautiful than ever, Shell,” he murmured appreciatively. “The years have been good to you.”
And how did he do that? How did he make her want to believe him?
“How long has it been since you’ve been to the optometrist?” she quipped, pushing back the urge to cry as she stopped beside Rock, bending to give the Cajun’s cheek a sisterly peck before accepting the chair Frank pulled out from around the unlit fire pit.
Okay, Shell, you’re doing good. Just keep up the mild banter so nobody guesses you’re slowly dying on the inside.
“My eyes are just fine,” he declared, the eyes in question flashing to her jean-clad legs when she sat and crossed them.
At least that was one body part that’d bounced back after her pregnancy. She was proud to admit, she still had a rockin’ good set of stems. Although, it wasn’t like he could see her rockin’ good set of stems, given they were covered in a tattered pair of jeans.