Jesse (Damage Control 2)

“Exactly my thoughts,” I mutter.

Jesse sighs, shakes his head, bites his lip on a smile. He’s unnervingly cute like that, and so sexy I ache deep inside from wanting him so much.

Holy crap. Not good. “A latte for me, too,” I say quickly and push my chair back with a screech. “Be back in a bit.”

“I’ll come with you,” Ev says and grabs her purse, but I shake my head.

“Need a minute,” I whisper, and she stills, her eyes narrowing. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Jesse is staring hard at me, his gaze almost tangible, and I know everyone is looking, wondering why I’m taking off like that.

“She just needs the restroom,” Ev says, turning to Jesse, and he blinks, as if coming out of a daydream.

“Of course. That way.” He turns and points, muscles flexing on his bare arm, making his colorful tattoos dance. “If you want, I can show you, I’m going that—”

“No, it’s fine,” I snap and stride past him in the indicated direction. “No need.”

“Jesse, stay,” I hear Micah bark, and I have a weird urge to laugh as I bolt between tables, spot the ladies toilets and run to hide inside.

***

Someone taps on the restroom door as I wash my hands, stalling. It’s a quaint little restroom, like the café that houses it, with flowery wallpaper and a wrought-iron mirror. A vase with dried flowers stands on a low table.

The knocking comes again. The handle starts to turn.

“Just a minute!” I shout and turn off the faucet, then reach for the paper towels. “Don’t—”

A bass voice rumbles through, startling me so badly I let the paper towels fall to the floor. “Hey, Embers, just making sure you’re okay.”

The handle turns again, this time all the way—because of course the lock wouldn’t work, typical of quaint little places—and the door opens.

“Wait!”

Too late. Jesse is standing in the opening, filling it from side to side and bottom to top, one muscular arm casually braced on the frame. “So are you?”

Unconsciously I step back, retreating until I hit the toilet. “Am I what?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Okay. Are you okay?”

He’s blocking the door, and I feel cornered, trapped. My heart is trying to climb up my throat. “I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

“Why are you scared of me?” He gives me his easy grin, and I want to scream. “I told you, I—”

“Back off, Jesse.”

“Sure thing.” A dark flash goes through his bright eyes, and his mouth twists briefly. Then he nods and gives me a ghost of a smile. “No problem.”

He retreats, lifting his hands, and then he’s gone, lea

ving the doorway empty, my escape route free.

I have a sudden, strange yearning to call him back, tell him why I’m acting this way. Antisocial by default, made worse by past events. Retreating into my shell when people are around. Hiding.

A yearning to tell him where my terrors crawl out from, where they are born, in that black pit of the past on which I tried to put a lid and failed.