“It’s a whisky sour,” she says, watching me. “My grandparents had one together every night before supper.”
“The porch swing grandparents?” I ask, before I can remind myself that I don’t care, and that exchanging small talk with Jenny Dawson over cocktails seems as strange as it does…nice.
“Yeah,” she says with a little smile. “Ironic, really, that I decide to make this drink on the same day you decide to make the porch swing. Our timing is off—I should have waited to bring you a drink on the day the swing was finished and hung so we could have enjoyed it.”
The mental image of sharing a drink with Jenny Dawson and all her warm laughter and gentle voice is more appealing than it should be, and also so fucking unrealistic that I strike.
“Your cocktail’s not half as good as your blow job,” I say, taking another sip of the drink.
Fuck. Fuuucck.
Jenny looks stunned, but only for a second, because the shock’s replaced almost immediately by hurt, and I just…Fuck.
Without a word, she turns on her heel and leaves the work shed.
I swear again, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck, trying to convince myself that it’s better this way, better if she hates me, because then she won’t get any ideas. And I won’t either.
But the pain in her eyes…
I can’t.
“Jenny,” I call. “Hold up.”
She doesn’t, of course, doesn’t even slow down as she strides back toward the house. But she’s in high platform sandals that slow her pace, so I have the advantage. I catch up to her easily. “Jenny.”
She ignores me, and I maneuver myself in front of her so that her options are to run into me or stop.
She stops.
But she doesn’t meet my eyes, and then I hear it…
A sniffle.
My stomach bottoms out, and before I can think better of it, I’m reaching out, hooking my forefinger under her chin and pulling her face up to mine, hoping I’m wrong.
I’m not.
Jenny Dawson is crying.
She jerks her head back and wipes angrily at the tears on her cheek. I guess anger is better than hurt, but the fact that she doesn’t want me to see her cry makes it all the more devastating.
I’m no stranger to a woman’s tears. It took me years to figure out that Yvonne’s frequent crying outbursts were deliberate and manipulative, meant to wrap me around her little finger and get her way.
Jenny’s tears are different. They’re real. I know they’re real. And they make me want to punch something. Mainly myself.
“Why do you do that?” she asks. “Why do you work so hard to convince me that you’re not a good guy?”
“Because I’m not,” I say automatically.
“Yeah,” she says with a little laugh. “I’m getting that, believe me.”
It’s what I want, but I feel a sting of regret anyway.
“Look, princess—” I break off, unsure what I want to say. “This thing with us, it’s got to stop.”
“You didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to stop me last night.”
My cock twitches at the memory, but I shake my head. “We scratched our itch. As you said, we’re even. Anything more than that will end badly.”