The Lineup(62)

“That’s really amazing. I admire that. Other people could have been resentful about having to take care of a sibling their whole life, catering to their daily activities, but you weren’t. You embraced it.”

Jason shrugs. “He’s my brother. We shared a womb together. I would do anything for him.”

He sets the measured-out ingredients to the side and props his hip on the counter, facing me.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“You know how you said I was a sob baby?”

“Yes, how you cry about everything.”

“Yup.” He chuckles. “Well, the last time I full-on bawled was when I finally realized that Joseph would be able to go to all my games again. Well, at least all my home games. In my contract, I made a stipulation that he would have a permanent handicap seat dedicated to him and his guest so no matter what, he always had a seat at my game. When they said yes to it and made it happen, I lost it.”

I finish up the last potato and then turn to Jason. Talk about one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever seen, ever met. Jason is the winner. He has a heart you don’t see very often, one that’s genuine, positive, and so addicting that all you want to do is be surrounded by it.

And I not only want to be surrounded by his heart and his personality, I want to be consumed by it, and quite frankly? That fucking terrifies me. I feel this pull within me, warning me about getting too close, not to trust his pretty fa?ade, not to fall for possible hypocrisy. To deny my want. But then I consider how he stepped back when he believed he’d pushed me too far. How he squeezed himself into my life despite my often-bitchy charade, content to be my friend. Because what man does that voluntarily? It’s not him that has a hidden agenda, although I know without a doubt now that it’s not the stupid deal that’s driving my actions. My heart. After being very anti-relationship, very cynical that men had something I wanted, my heart is being lured in. Jason Orson is hypnotic. And I’m not sure I can deny that for myself. I want him to know how incredible I believe he is.

I reach out and take his hand in mine. Staring into his eyes, I say with full conviction and not an ounce of sarcasm, “You are one of the best men I know.”

“Thank you.” He smiles sheepishly. “Uh, we kind of got off course. Want to continue with this gnocchi?”

“Of course.” I pull my hand away and face the counter. Jason moves the ingredients closer and then stands behind me again, his chest to my back, his arms wrapped around me, his head next to mine.

Talking softly he says, “Okay, we’re going to mix all these ingredients together with our hands.” He takes mine in his and starts pouring the ingredients together directly onto the countertop. His lips practically kissing my ear, he continues, “Now we don’t want to overmix, just enough, and then we form a hole, a little nest for our egg.”

“Like this?” I ask, forming a “nest” like he said.

“Perfect,” he answers, his breath sending goosebumps down my body. “Mix it all together until it’s a dough-like consistency.” Together, we mix, and mix, and mix. Clumps form on our fingers, then fall off in disgusting chunks, but I’m comforted from the closeness of Jason and the way he seems to not back away but rather keeps his body as close to mine as possible. “Clumping is the worst,” he says, pulling at the dough clumps on my fingers. “But look, see how it’s forming a good consistency?” He picks up a pinch of flour and dusts the countertop, making it less sticky.

Once the dough is formed, he says, “Here comes the fun part. We have to roll it out and cut it up.”

He slides his dough-covered fingers up my forearms and spreads them out with a slight suggestion. He picks up a piece of dough and starts rolling it on the counter. Once it resembles a snake, he takes my hands and I roll with him.

“Isn’t this fun?”

I turn to look at him, his body covering mine, his head inches from mine. “It’s a lot of fun.” Before I turn back to the gnocchi, I give myself a second to stare at him, to hopefully portray in my eyes how quickly he makes my heart beat, how with one flash of his grin, he lights me up inside.

I swipe my lips with my tongue and he watches, so I do it again, but slower this time, just letting the tip of my tongue peek out. His eyes follow, darkening, narrowing.

From behind, I can feel his chest grow tighter, thicker with his breath.

His arms tighten around me and for a split second, when he leans a few inches closer, I think he’s going to kiss me, that he might actually want me. But before I can catch another breath, he clears his throat and steps away, leaving me cold and wanting.

Embarrassed, I go back to rolling while I hear him digging around in the drawers.

This is ridiculous. I’ve hit on men before. I’ve made the first move before. Hell, I’ve flashed men just to get them to take me to their room before. I’m no innocent. I’ve been around the block, and yet, for some reason, trying to make something happen with Jason seems next to impossible.

Is it because he’s too good for me? Subconsciously, I don’t think I deserve him?

Is it because if he lets me down, hurts me, I’ll lose all faith in men?

Probably a combination of all three.

“Sorry,” he says, coming back to the island. This time, he doesn’t get behind me to help, but stands to my side. Well, if that isn’t a clear-cut sign of disinterest, I don’t know what is. After all, it’s exactly what I did to him when we first met. Probably gave him too many lessons in how to give the perfect cold shoulder. Okay. “I was trying to find a knife.” He sets it on the counter. “This one should do. Just start cutting the roll into one-inch chunks and then we’ll set them to the side.”