“Homemade cookies. Cakes. My grandma made this chocolate cake that’s to die for.” Her smile grows. “I can bake a mean apple pie too.”
“A mean one versus a nice one?” I tease, wanting to make her laugh. I don’t like thinking about her sad.
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. My grandma’s recipe is the best apple pie I’ve ever tasted. I even make the crust from scratch.”
“Wow, I’m impressed.” I take a step closer to her, catching her scent, warm and sweet. “So tell me. What’s a guy gotta do to get you to make him a chocolate cake from scratch?”
“You don’t like apple pie?” she asks, her eyes going wide when I draw even closer to her.
“I prefer cake, especially ones that are to die for.” I smile. “I like the frosting part best.”
She laughs. “I bet you were the kid who always stuck his fingers in the frosting bowl when your mom wasn’t looking.”
“My mom has never baked a thing in her life. Besides, I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen when I was a kid. I’d just get in the servants’ way.”
Her laughter dies and she stares at me as if I’ve sprouted three heads. “You had servants? As in plural?”
“My family still does.” Hell, we have the housekeeper here, not that I want to admit it to her. Nadia comes in twice a week and cleans this place up. Once a week, she shops for us, keeping the fridge and pantry full. I don’t know what we’d do without her.
“Wow.” She edges away from the oven, away from me, her hand sliding across the smooth granite countertop. Her nails are short and painted a deep red and her fingers are slender. I imagine them on me. Touching me. “I can’t even wrap my head around what that’s like.”
No one can. Tristan gets it since he comes from the same world. Gabe’s family is wealthy too. It’s why we’re such close friends. We understand each other, what it’s like to be us. Not many people can wrap their heads around it.
The doorbell rings, startling us both, and I turn toward the living room, listening as I hear Tristan answer the door, Gabe’s voice ringing through the house.
“I’ve brought the party, motherfucker! So gimme a beer!”
Jesus, he’s obnoxious when he wants to be.
Jade sends me a look. “Your friends?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “Look, I didn’t invite them. This is all Tristan’s thing. I had nothing to do with his plans.”
“What did you plan for tonight?” She raises a delicate brow.
“We were just going to hang out,” I say innocently. The way she’s looking at me…she makes me sweat. And not necessarily in a good way. “Maybe have some ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” she asks incredulously.
I sound like the biggest idiot ever. This girl makes me say stupid things. “Well, yeah. Or whatever you want. We have a pretty full pantry.” I wave a hand toward the living room, where I hear more people entering the house through the front door. How many people did Tristan invite anyway? “Or we could go hang out with everyone and watch the baseball game. You a Giants fan?”
“I’ve always been more of a Dodger fan,” she admits with a wince.
I clutch my chest. “That’s it. Sorry. This won’t work. Giants and Dodger fans don’t mix.”
Laughing, Jade shakes her head. “Fine then. I’m out.” She makes like she’s going to leave but I grab her right at her elbow, curling my fingers around her arm, smoothing my thumb over her skin.
“Kidding,” I say, my voice soft, my gaze locked with hers. “Let’s go see what everyone’s up to.”
She nods. “Okay.”
Pleasure ripples through me. She didn’t try to pull out of my touch once, and she’s sober.
We’re making progress.
There are six girls in this living room, including me, and only five guys. Meaning the odds are off and they’re all glaring at me because I’m the one sitting next to Shep Prescott. He doesn’t pay attention to any of them, despite them constantly trying to get his attention. They call his name, they ask him questions, they offer to grab him another beer, did he want anything from the pantry? Or they keep trying to pass him a joint.
He took a couple of puffs when Gabe offered him a hit but other than that, there’s been no smoking on his part. Not that I care. I’m not a big smoker of weed. I’ve tried it a few times but it’s harsh on my throat and always makes me cough no matter what I do. So I tend to avoid it.
I do sip from my second beer as I sit next to Shep on the couch, hyper aware of his close proximity. Our thighs touch. His arm is slung around the back of the couch, his hand dangling precariously close to my shoulder and I swear I feel the occasional brush of his fingers in my hair. He’s extremely focused on the game. Yelling when there’s a bad play, a good play, it doesn’t matter. He’s really into it.
Me, on the other hand? I’m really into watching him. He’s very…relaxed, and I figure it’s from the weed. He keeps asking if I’m okay, if I need anything, if I want another beer.
He’s treating me like the girls are treating him. And it’s kind of awesome.
Fine, it’s really awesome. I swore to myself I wouldn’t fall for his act. I thought he was a world class player. In fact, I know he’s a world class player. But for some reason, he’s into me and I’m going to enjoy this for as long as I can.
I think this might be the beer talking.