Jersey Six(20)

“I enjoyed lunch with you. I know it was a short amount of time, but it awakened this feeling of familiarity. You triggered something, and I liked how that something made me feel—at lunch and again before the concert. So…” he rubbed his lips together and shrugged “…I brought you here because there’s an odd comfort I get when we’re together.”

“What’s odd about it?”

Ian let his thoughts play in his head, deciding what to say that would protect his vulnerability as well as hers. “The obvious. We met at a hot dog stand twelve hours ago.” His eyebrows knitted together. “That, and it’s a little odd that you so quickly threatened to cut out my heart. That’s at least third or fourth date material.”

“So this is a date? I think dating my boss is a bad idea. And I’ve never dated anyone, so you’re going to be really disappointed.”

“I was using it as a figure of speech.”

“Food,” an unfamiliar voice called, following several hard knocks at the door.

Ian opened the door. “I’m starving.”

“Sorry. There was a delay in a few of the things I requested.” An average-height man with light brown hair and bags in his hands brushed past Ian. “Oh, hello. I’m Nick.” He smiled at Jersey while depositing the bags onto the coffee table.

“Jersey,” she replied with a cautious voice, eyes flitting between the bags and the two men.

Nick proceeded to pull containers of food out of the bags as Ian returned to his spot on the sectional.

“Help yourself.” Ian shot Jersey a small grin and an easy nod toward the food.

“How are you feeling?” Nick turned down the bed and set out alcohol, swabs, and needles.

Ian bobbed his head side to side while plunging a plastic fork into a black plastic container of pasta. “Not too bad. My right shoulder is tight.”

Nick poured some of Ian’s bottled water into a glass and added several drops of herbs before handing it to him.

Ian set his bowl of pasta to the side and chugged down the bitter water. “Still tastes like shit.” He scrunched his face.

Nick met Jersey’s wide eyes. “Herbs to help him sleep.”

“Best pasta in New York. Try some.” Ian scooted another black container to the opposite side of the coffee table.

Jersey eyed it and then him for a few seconds. When she reached for the container, Ian grinned around his plastic fork. She knelt on the floor and opened it, using her fingers to scoop up the long strings of spaghetti, sucking it into her mouth.

“There are more forks in the sack.”

She paused, glancing up at Ian while slurping the last inch of spaghetti into her mouth. Her cheeks turned red. He didn’t mean to embarrass her. Without giving it a second thought, Ian kneeled on the floor at the opposite side of the coffee table, pitched the fork over his shoulder, and dug his fingers into the pasta, bringing it to his mouth and slurping it up.

A tiny laugh slipped out of Jersey when sauce splattered onto his face and into his right eye.

“Clearly I’m out of practice.” He grinned, wiping his eye. “What else do we have?” Ian pulled out another container. “Yes! My favorite.” He opened the container of olives and popped one into his mouth, moving it side to side while chewing it before spitting out the pit into the empty bag. “The salt …” He licked his lips. “I crave the salt after sweating so much.”

Jersey eyed him with curiosity as she slurped more spaghetti. He liked her even more in that moment. She wasn’t just a reminder of his past. Jersey brought back memories of so many of Ian’s firsts—the curiosity, excitement, and thrilling fear of the unknown.

Her gaze dropped to the bowl of olives, and the gleam of curiosity died as a frown stole her smile.

“Have some.”

She shook her head.

“You don’t like olives? I didn’t like them until my agent and a producer took me to a vineyard in Italy. We had pasta, bruschetta, and olives … lots of olives. They went on and on about the olives, telling me to try them. I hated them, but I wanted to impress them.” Ian shrugged. “I don’t know if it was all the wine, or just forcing myself to eat dozens of those damn olives, but weeks later, I found myself craving olives. Isn’t that crazy?”

Jersey’s focus remained on the olives as she nodded slowly. “I like them. I just don’t eat them.” When her dark brown eyes met his, it sent cold chills cracking along his spine. She had more than one look that did that to him. Maybe he couldn’t see the pain in her vacant eyes, but he could feel it.

“We’re flying to Charlottesville in the morning. Is there something specific you’d like for breakfast?”

She shook her head, retaining that vacant look in her eyes like it had settled in for the night and there was nothing Ian could say or do to change it—except give her time.

“Do you drink coffee?”

A single nod.

“Cream? Sugar? Black?”

She shrugged.

“Eat. We’ll figure it out tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.”

Her lips parted.

“What?” Ian slipped another olive past his lips.

Jersey shook her head. “There’s not always a tomorrow.”

Ian took the olive seed from his mouth and tossed it into the bag. “You’re right.”