In Your Dreams (Blue Heron #4)(58)

“Let’s talk about you,” he suggested.

“Still a pulsating wound, then?”

“No. It’s just that we’re at your ex’s wedding, and if there’s a raw, pulsating wound, it’s you.” His lovely date gave him the finger. “Come on, Em. How are you doing?”

“I’m just great, Jack. I’m a stuttering, lying, not-pregnant lesbian who puts raw chicken in her bra.”

He grinned. “I can’t tell you how many boxes that checks.”

“Shut up.” But she smiled as she said it. And it was kind of refreshing that she didn’t want to talk.

Her foot was propped up on the bed next to him, and he put his hand on it. Cute foot. Very clean and nice. Smooth skin.

Try not to think about that, Jack, the nobler part of his brain advised. We don’t sleep with heartbroken women.

“Is your heart broken?” he heard himself ask.

She made a face. “No. Not really. It was three years ago.”

“I remember.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You were moving in, and I helped you carry some boxes.”

“No, I remember. I just didn’t think you did. I bet you were an Eagle Scout.”

“As a matter of fact, I was. We’re trained to help damsels in distress.”

“If you ever call me that again, I’ll kick you in the soft parts.”

She had no idea how appealing she was.

He poured her some more wine. She might have said she didn’t know anything about wine, but she knew how to taste it, holding it in her mouth a second before swallowing, then licking her lips afterward. Even the way she held the glass said so, close to her breast, the red a deep contrast to the white of her—

Ah. She was speaking.

“Old Kevin...he was a peach. He was so nice, Jack. You have no idea. But that guy is gone, and I’m the only one who seemed to notice or care, and for some reason, that makes me feel really, really sad.”

“Sure,” he murmured, making sure he was looking at her face.

“All the things I loved about him...they seem dead now.”

“So this was something of a funeral,” Jack said.

Something flickered through her eyes. “Yes.”

His hand slid up to her ankle and rested there. “I’m sorry, then.”

She cleared her throat. “You know what sucks?” she asked. “I bought into the whole looks thing. I wore high heels and bought Spanx and I tried to look like them. The beautiful people. And the thing is, I like myself just fine. I’m tough, I’m strong, but get me next to someone like Naomi, and I stick raw chicken under my boobs and hope that Kevin will say something nice to me. And, of course, he didn’t. So I sold my soul a little, and for nothing.”

She looked at the painting on the wall and, very subtly, ran a finger under her eye.

Because she was crying. Not a lot, but, yep, those were tears.

Which was intolerable.

She took another bite of cake and didn’t look at him.

“You know,” he said gently, “we men don’t really pick you women because of your looks.”

“What does that mean?” she snapped. “Are you saying that Naomi has a stupendous body and a better personality?”

“Calm down, Simba. I’m saying that looks aren’t as important as you seem to think.”

“Said the Greek god.”

Jack smiled. “Besides, you’re very pretty.”

“Don’t make me shoot you, Jack. Go back to ‘You have a great sense of humor.’”

“I never said that. Let’s not get carried away.” She didn’t smile back.

Jack stood up and reached out for her hand. “Come on. Let me show you something.”

He tugged her up and led her to the mirror. Turned on the light.

Emmaline flinched. “Damn. How did I get chocolate there?” She looked down at her shirt and rubbed a spot of chocolate over her heart.

“Look,” he said.

“At the stain?”

“No, Emmaline. Look at yourself.”

“I’d rather not do this, Jack.”

“Don’t be such a baby. Look. See what everyone else sees.”

He stood behind her and pulled her hair back from her face.

“You probably do have a great sense of humor,” he murmured, breathing in the sweet smell of her shampoo. “And you’re very competent at handcuffing people, I’m sure. But you’re also beautiful.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Except when you do that,” he added. “Stop being so grumpy and take a compliment.”

“Where’s that Taser when I need it?”

“Shush. Look at yourself.”

His hands were on her shoulders now, and her skin was as smooth as silk. Women and their secret weapons. Yes, the br**sts and lips and earlobes were all ridiculously appealing, and then they went and threw in silky skin and the smell of oranges and honey.

Without quite meaning to, Jack slid his hands down her arms to her hands, and back up again to her neck. Her long dark hair was sweet and damp between his fingers.

“Are you putting the moves on me, Jack Holland?” she asked, her voice brisk. She didn’t move, he noted.