8
Jesse drives an older model Kia.
For some reason, that surprises me.
I didn’t take much notice of his car when he babysat, but for some reason, I assumed it would be an SUV, maybe something stylish and expensive. But it’s not. It’s an older model Kia.
Watching him fold himself into it surprises me even more. For being so tall, he’s able to glide in and out of the sedan with grace. I’m still not convinced he couldn’t be an athlete. Someone who moves with such finesse has to be athletically inclined. He must be good at many things with a body like that. The thought heats my blood, and I jump a little when Jesse speaks.
“We’re gonna stop at the grocery store and grab some stuff for lunch,” Jesse says to me once we’re buckled in. “Hook your phone to the Bluetooth and you can be DJ.”
It’s ridiculous how thrilled I am at that statement. Getting excited over having control of the radio when someone else is in the car is pathetic, right? I take a deep breath and pull up the playlist Jesse sent me. I’ll listen to it and save the ones that I like. Surprisingly, I recognized several of the songs he’d included, several of which I’ve already saved to my own playlist. It makes me giddy to listen to the rest of them.
“I like a lot of these,” I say to him as I cue up the music and he pulls onto the road.
“Yeah? Which ones?”
“Christian French. Quinn XCII. Bishop Briggs.”
He nods. “Bishop Briggs slaps. Love her voice.”
I agree. Her song “Champion” has been one I’ve played frequently over the last few weeks, but I don’t tell Jesse that. Something about it feels too personal, too vulnerable. I don’t want him to read into it. I don’t want him to read into anything.
“My friend is obsessed with Harry Styles,” he says somewhat randomly.
“Yeah? She a fangirl?” I ask with a grin, but Jesse flicks his eyes toward me and smirks.
“He is definitely a fanboy,” he says. “Grew his hair out long because of Long Hair Harry, and now he’s thinking of chopping it off to be like Fine Line Harry.”
I must look confused because he adds, “Harry Styles hairstyle eras. When you have a minute, Google it. But be ready to fall down a rabbit hole.”
Jesse pulls into the parking lot of a grocery store, and we grab a basket as we walk in.
“How do you feel about charcuterie?” he asks, and I laugh.
“I love charcuterie.”
“Perfect. Let’s get stuff for a charcuterie picnic, then. I’ve already got a cooler and blanket in the trunk.”
A pleased smile creeps over my lips. “You planned for this? Were you so sure I’d agree to come with you?”
“Mmm, I hoped for it.” He smirks at me over his shoulder, then winks. “Some might say I manifested it.”
I laugh again. I’ve been with him for an hour and it’s already the most fun I’ve had with another adult in a long time. The effects of Jesse Hernandez’s superpower are intoxicating.
“Manifestation, huh?”
“Classic, I’ve been trying to manifest a lot of stuff regarding you lately.”
His voice is suggestive, and his gaze is heated. So much so that I have to look away and laugh it off before my brain short-circuits.
This is flirting, right? I’d have to be an idiot to think it’s not. The provocative looks, the teasing comments. This is textbook flirting.
But...is he flirting with me, or is he just a flirty person? I try to remember the last time someone flirted with me. So I have something, anything at all to compare it to... But all I can recall are those early days with Patrick, and nothing ever felt quite like this with him.
Nobody wants to be saddled with a bitch with kids.
No one is gonna want you.
Especially not some young college guy. Not one that looks like Jesse Hernandez. Especially not with everything that comes with me. I give my head a subtle shake, trying to exorcise myself of Patrick’s voice, but it doesn’t go easily. Not before I’m reminded of every flaw, every insecurity, every little thing that Patrick always made sure to point out.
I hate him. I hate myself more for letting him have this power over me.
“Get outta your head, Joss,” Jesse says, then he slings his arm around my shoulders. I stiffen at the touch, the heat and weight of his arm, the unfamiliar closeness, and he gives me a slight squeeze, then steps away. “This will be fun. I promise.”
“Yeah, of course,” I say, brushing it off. I grab a box of crackers and toss them in the basket. “Cheeses?”
“Cheeses.”
When we getto the state park, we decide to do some hiking before we break out the charcuterie. I grab Roxanne’s camera, and Jesse pops the trunk, pulling out a grey backpack with a blanket attached.
“What’s that?”
“Only the coolest fucking picnic basket ever. I borrowed it from my roommate.” He grins and unzips the backpack. Inside, he puts the stuff we picked up for lunch, packing with a strategic single-mindedness that makes me laugh. He flicks his eyes toward me with a half-smile. “What?”
“You’re so focused.”
“I’m trying to impress you, Classic, and anything worth doing is worth doing well.” He winks, then zips the bag back up and slings it over his shoulder, leaving me speechless. “Ready?”
We choose one of the hiking trails that runs through a heavily-wooded forest and follows a large creek, stopping frequently so I can snap pictures of any and everything. There are blooms popping up along the trail, all sorts of wildflowers that I can’t identify, and we’re surrounded by the trills of birdsong and the soft babbling of the creek. If this were a date, which it’s not, but if it were, it would be off to a pretty phenomenal start.
“So, Jesse Hernandez,” I say, peering through the viewfinder of Roxanne’s camera. I snap a picture of the landscape beyond the creek. “Were your parents big into wrestling?”
He barks out a laugh. “Ah, it’s been a while since someone brought up that comparison,” he says with a smile, trying to skip a few rocks across the creek’s surface. “It’s actually a fun story.”
“Oh, I’m intrigued.” I turn my camera and snap a few pictures of his smiling face. He’s balancing on two flat rocks with the sun haloing his body, the light reflecting off the water and bouncing off his chest like sparkles. It’s almost comical how attractive he is. “Do tell.”
“Well, first, you need to know that I’m technically Jesse Hernandez Junior.”
“Your dad is also Jesse Hernandez?” He nods. “But not the wrestler Jesse Hernandez,” I state, and he laughs again, shaking his head no.
“Nah. My dad is a blond-haired, blue-eyed beast of a nurse anesthetist. Not a 70-year-old pro wrestler from the 80s.”