Anything For You. Kristan Higgins

      “Wow. Congratulations.”

      “Yeah. My dad’s been divorced from my mom for ten days. Married to Gail for nine.”

      “Speedy.”

      “He didn’t want the family honor stained by bastardization.”

      Jess laughed. “Interesting definition of family honor. Not that I’m one to talk.”

      “I’d say you know quite a bit on the subject.”

      She swallowed. Took another sip of wine, and put the glass back down exactly in the spot it was in before.

      “Are your parents still married?” he asked, more because he was afraid she was going to leave than because it mattered.

      “Yep.”

      “That’s good, I guess.”

      “That’s not the word that leaps to mind. At least I got Davey out of there. My father thinks it’s funny to get him drunk, and my mom was teaching him to make cocktails.”

      Jesus. His own father didn’t seem so bad, suddenly. “You’re an awfully good sister.”

      She gave him a wry smile. “So I’m brave, I’m honorable, I’m a good sister... Where’s my Nobel Prize?”

      “You’re also incredibly beautiful.”

      She rolled her eyes. “Freak of genetics.”

      So mentioning her looks was off-limits. “And smart.”

      “I almost flunked out of high school, Connor.”

      “Good grades don’t mean much. I was valedictorian, and I’m a cook.”

      “I thought Jeremy Lyon was valedictorian.”

      “No. Salutatorian.”

      “You sure? Jeremy’s so perfect. I can’t see you beating him out there.”

      Fucking Jeremy. Every female in town, from Connor’s own mother to his three-year-old cousin, was hung up on him. Oh, hang on. Jess was smiling. She was teasing him. Got it.

      She was finished with her meal, and had drunk half her wine. But she wasn’t making any noises about leaving, either.

      Connor had had a few girlfriends in the two years since they’d slept together. Two. He’d had two. One and a half, really. No one who’d really...impacted him, as much as he would’ve liked that.

      Not like Jess.

      He looked at her a long minute. “Remember when we, uh...hooked up? When you came to the Institute for that class?”

      “No, Connor, you were just another notch on my bedpost.” She straightened out her fork and knife to the three o’clock position on the plate. “Yes. Of course I remember.”

      “I didn’t sleep with you because of what you said, you know.”

      “What did I say?”

      “That I slept with you because I could. Because you were Jessica Does.”

      “But that is the name you used.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, still keeping up with the cool-chick-with-an-edge attitude.

      “It just...came out.” A crap answer, and yet the truth. That stupid name had been given to her young, and it had been liberally used throughout high school. Jess herself had used it.

      “So why did we sleep together?” she asked.

      “Is ‘because we’re both red-blooded American heterosexuals’ a good enough answer?”

      The corner of her mouth hinted at a smile. “I mean, why did you bother? I’m guessing you have to beat the women off with a club.”

      “Some days, sure. I try not to be too rough.”

      “So why me, then?”

      Was she serious? “I liked the way you ate dessert.” No game, he had absolutely no game. “And you smell nice.” Proof of his sorry, no-game state.

      “Right now I smell like Irish Spring. You’re really living the cliché on that one, by the way.”

      “A present from Colleen.”

      “Ah. Well, most of the time, I smell like restaurant food and other people’s wine and whatever Davey’s wiped on me.”

      “I like food. And wine. Not sure about what Davey’s wiping, so I’ll have to stay neutral on that. But you and I have a lot in common, Jess. We both work in restaurants—”

      “Don’t. You’re a Culinary Institute–trained chef who has his own restaurant at the age of twenty-three. I’m a waitress.”

      “So? It’s hard to be a good waitress.”

      “It’s really not,” she said.

      “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you. I bet you’re a horrible waitress.”

      “Just stop saying nice things.”

      “Okay. You’re a really shitty dancer.”

      She laughed.

      She didn’t laugh enough. Or maybe she did, but he didn’t get to hear it enough.

      “And your outfit had no imagination,” he added. “Mrs. Adamson, at least she tried.”

      Jessica Dunn laughed again.

      Before he’d really planned on it, he leaned in, slid his hand around her neck and kissed her as gently as he knew how. Her lips were soft and full, and he was an addict, just like that, not just wanting to kiss her, but needing it like he needed breathing.

      Then she kissed him back, and light seemed to spark through his veins, hot and electric, and God, she felt so good, her slender, vulnerable neck, the silky, damp hairs there. He teased her mouth open and tasted her, and she was suddenly gripping his shirt in both hands.

      He probably shouldn’t be doing this. Maybe this was...uh...what was the phrase? It was hard to think with his mouth against hers, their tongues sliding...

      Oh. Right. Taking advantage.

      He pulled back. Ran his fingertips along her jaw, the tender, smooth flesh just below.

      Her pupils were dilated, making her eyes look darker, and her mouth was slightly open.

      And then, just like that, she was back to the three-feet-away zone. Without so much of a flicker of an eyelash, the wall came down.

      Someday, he was going to figure her out.

      “Connor,” she said calmly, “you don’t want to sleep with a stripper.”

      “You’re not a stripper. You got fired.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. Twice. The Irish Spring smelled better on her.

      She swallowed. “I should get back to Davey.” But she didn’t leave, either. And she was staring straight ahead, at his chest, not at his face. It was as though she was waiting for him to convince her otherwise.

      In fact, it was almost like she was shy.

      Jessica Dunn, who’d beaten up boys twice her size in middle school, then slept with most of them in high school, and yet who also seemed like an ice princess, totally untouchable...seemed shy. Even if her tongue had been in his mouth a few seconds ago, even if his shirt had been fisted in her hands.

      She liked him. He was almost sure of it.

      He wanted to say a hundred things, about taking care of her, and wanting her so much he ached, and how his chest felt punched when she came out onto that runway tonight, and how if he didn’t kiss her again, fast, it might kill him, and if he couldn’t sleep with her again, it would definitely kill him.

      “Who stays with Davey when you’re out?”