Page 14 of Loss and Damages

Jemma wants nothing to do with me, but it’s the perception that matters.

I also brought a bottle of red and a bottle of white.

I don’t know what she’ll fix for dinner, and it’s an assumption I might pay for.

She could have ordered pizza delivery for all I know.

She’s humoring me, tolerating me, and if I can convince her to attend the fundraiser tomorrow evening, it will be the last I see of her.

She’ll think, and rightly so, her duty to the Milano family has been fulfilled and she’ll owe us nothing more.

The thought turns me melancholy. There isn’t much I want that I can’t have.

Jemma Ferrell is one of few.

I drive myself out to her cottage, the wine and flowers laying in the seat next to me.

Again, I pretend I don’t see the tree that took my brother’s life or the fading skid marks that streak across the weathered pavement.

One day I might stop, press my hand to the tree’s trunk.

Feel the energy, the pain, run my fingers over the chips in the bark caused by the Aston’s front fender. But not today.

The road in front of Jemma’s gallery is empty, and I park right in front.

The sign says the gallery is closed and will reopen tomorrow at nine.

Two white rocking chairs, similar to the ones Jemma and I sat in at her cottage, face the road and have a small table between them.

It’s a pretty building, and I know without seeing it that Leo was more comfortable wearing jeans and standing on a ladder painting than he was dressed in a suit attending meetings at Milano Management and Development.

Until one day he’d decided enough was enough and walked away from all of it.

That included me.

I like the image of Leo that Jemma described better. At least he was happy with her. Something he never was with me.

I walk around the gallery, my hands full, and stop when her cottage comes into view.

Lush grass and hundreds of wildflowers grow between the two buildings, and a gravel path from the road leads to the side of her house where a beat up car is parked under a tree, a light blue Toyota something that has seen better days.

“It was my grandma’s.”

Jemma stands on the porch, a hand above her eyes to block the sun to see me clearly. She’s wearing a sundress, and she’s barefoot, which I find surprisingly charming. Her hair is pulled into a low side ponytail, hiding one of her lush breasts.

I bank a sudden rush of desire. I haven’t gotten myself off since that evening on Leo’s bed, the shame too thick and strong to tempt me again. How often did Leo lift up the skirts of these pretty dresses and have his way with her, bending her over the couch or the table?

My cock stiffens and I pause, watching her as she watches me, until I find a little control. If Jemma attends the fundraiser tomorrow evening, I’m going to have to find a quick lay before then or it’s all I’ll be able to think about.

Crunching over the gravel, I say, “What?”

“The car. My grandma left it to me when she passed away. I inherited all of this, actually, and it caused a rift between my brother and me for a couple of years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I walk up the porch steps, the wood creaking under my weight. Everything is painted the same shade of white like her gallery, except, I notice now, the trim on her cottage is a light blue like her car.

“He eventually got over it and admitted he wouldn’t have wanted any of it anyway. He couldn’t separate what she gave me from how much she loved him, but he knew she did. I can hold something,” she offers, reaching out her hands.

I pass her the bouquet of flowers. I don’t know what they are, I’d trusted the florist to put together something a woman would like, but Jemma doesn’t seem impressed, giving them a cursory glance before opening the storm door and allowing me inside.

“Leo didn’t have a will,” I say, stepping inside the cottage. I don’t believe she was angling for word if he left her anything, and she quirks her lips, confirming my suspicions.

“I wouldn’t think so. He was too young to think about dying. What will happen to his estate?”

“Our attorney’s handling it. Though the Milanos are wealthy, he didn’t have much.

He didn’t work for the company and wasn’t earning a paycheck.

Our mother supported him, and he had a small trust fund from our grandfather on our father’s side.

His assets will probably go to our mother.

They were close and no one will contest her claim. ”

Holding the wine bottles, I look around her cottage.

The living room is small, a coffee table positioned in front of a worn-out couch, an array of art magazines littering the scarred top.

A medium-sized TV is sitting on a squat entertainment center, but Jemma seems to be the type of person who would prefer to daydream or read.

Above a recliner that matches the couch, a huge painting hangs on the wall, a field of flowers dancing in the breeze on a sunny day.

From here, I can’t see the name of the artist who painted the enormous canvas, but the sheer size and the hundreds of flowers must have taken him or her a very long time to complete.

“That’s a pretty painting. A local?”

She pauses and flicks her gaze to it. “Yes. It’s the field behind the cottage. I...had it commissioned.”

“It’s well done.”

She smiles, her eyes softening as she looks at it again. “It is.”

There’s a quiet that hangs over us, almost as if we’d decided to give Leo a moment of silence.

I clear my throat. “I didn’t know what you’d be cooking, if anything,” I tack on, remembering my pizza delivery speculation.

“I’m frying steaks. I hope that’s okay. Besides a girl that helps me part-time, I run the gallery alone and I didn’t have time to run into town.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mean to be an inconvenience.”

She laughs. “You don’t give a crap if you inconvenience anyone, as long as you get what you want. I’m not stupid, Mr.— I mean, Dominic. I may not have an MBA, but I know how you do business.”

I set the bottles on a breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the living room.

She doesn’t have a table, and I pull out a stool and sit at the counter to watch her float around the room.

Settling on the thin cushion, I rest my elbows on the white and grey granite.

“That’s business, Jemma. I run my personal life a bit differently. ”

She tilts her head, and she looks sweet, the flowers in her hands, her low ponytail swishing over her breast. This is where Leo would be, right now, if he were alive, and I would have been none the wiser.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I don’t know how to prove it to you.”

“You being here proves it just fine. Last night could have been the end of it, but you had to push. I still don’t understand what you think tonight is going to do. It’s hard enough trying to move on without you badgering me.”

I need all my strength not to rear back in surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was dragging you down.”

She slides a clear glass pitcher out of a cabinet and places it in the large sink.

She’s silent as water streams into the pitcher and doesn’t speak as she arranges the flowers.

The bouquet looks like a photo in a country magazine, and like her bare feet, I find the simplicity pleasing.

She sets it aside on the breakfast bar and pokes at a flower.

“I see him, in your face. It’s not easy talking to you. ”

“We look nothing alike. He took after our mother. I favor my father’s side of the family.”

Impatiently, she shakes her head. “Were you deliberately looking for differences? So you felt better about not getting along? He’s there, in your eyes and your jaw. Not your lips, but your smile.”

“I haven’t—”

“Not a happy smile, a sad one. It’s the same on your mouth as it was on his. You were brothers. There’s more alike than different, you just don’t want to see it. I do, and it hurts.”

She looks from the bouquet to me, tears sparkling in her eyes.

“Jemma, I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s fine. If you want to open the red, I’ll get wineglasses and my corkscrew.”

“All right.”

I busy myself uncorking the wine while she sets a frying pan on the stove and seasons two steaks. They look like New York strips, and for the first time since Leo passed away, my stomach growls in sincere hunger.

Out of a different cabinet than where she retrieved the pitcher, she pulls out two large russet potatoes, rinses them in the sink, shoves a fork deeply into both, and places them in the microwave.

I’m so taken with her movements, the whole reason I wanted to share dinner with her, I forget to pour the wine.

“Letting it breathe?” she asks, eyeing the bottle in my hand.

The steaks start to sizzle, and so does my blood.

“No.”

She freezes, her gaze locking onto mine. There’s electricity in the air, the same as last night when I grabbed her hand. That was a huge mistake. My mind hasn’t let me forget how soft her skin is, how fragile her fingers are.

She pokes her tongue out of her mouth and licks her upper lip. I’m instantly hard. I want my tongue there, on her lips, tasting her.

Ashamed I can’t control my feelings, or my cock, I lower my eyes to the wineglasses, and my hand shaking, begin to pour.

Jemma was Leo’s girlfriend, and out of all the women in the state of Minnesota, this one slip of a girl is the last one I can put my hands on.

They had something special. I can see it whenever she speaks of him.

I can’t tarnish what she had with my brother.

I won’t let myself.

I slide a glass toward her.

“Thanks.”

She takes an appreciative sip, sets the glass next to the bottle, and turns the steaks. The microwave beeps, and she opens the door to stop it. Gracefully, she puts plates, forks, and steak knives, a container of sour cream, bacon bits, and salt and pepper shakers on the counter.

Hypnotized, I can’t stop watching her.

“I’m afraid it’s not fancy,” she says, adding a dish of butter to the rest.

“Is this what you would cook for Leo?” Since I said this visit was going to be about my brother, I need to turn our conversation to him and not focus on my growing attraction to this little artist.

She lifts a shoulder. “This and that. He liked pasta, as you can imagine.”

“Because we’re Italian?”

“Because some of his fondest memories were of the two of you eating dinner together as a family, and he said those meals were made using family recipes that have been passed down from generation to generation. I’m not one to stereotype. Please don’t think that.”

“I’m sorry.”

She serves and blushes. “I didn’t ask you how you like your steak prepared. I assume everyone likes medium rare like me...and Leo.”

“Medium rare is fine. It looks great, thank you.”

Jemma sits on the bar stool next to me, but she twists sideways, looking through the storm door over my shoulder.

“Are you expecting someone?” I ask.

“Sometimes my neighbor, Gloria, stops by on the way home from her souvenir shop. Her house and store aren’t on the same plot of land like mine are.

She’s my mother’s best friend and she wouldn’t pass up the chance to stick her nose into my business if she sees your car in front of the gallery.

I think the time has passed for her to ride by, though, so we’re safe. ”

“She visits often? Did she meet Leo?” I cut my potato open and add the butter, sour cream, and bacon bits Jemma set out. It’s a simple meal, but it will do and maybe all my stomach can handle.

“Yeah. She was convinced he was going to ask me to marry him at the benefit tomorrow night.”

I stop cutting my steak, my knuckles turning white as I grip the utensils. “Is that what you think?”

“No. I don’t know why he wanted me there, but it wasn’t to propose. We didn’t have that kind of relationship. I wish you would listen when I tell you that.”

I set my fork and knife on my plate and swivel on my barstool to look her straight in her gorgeous face.

“Jemma, I don’t understand. He came out here to see you all the time.

He spent hours with you. You were the last person to see him alive.

Yet, you keep claiming you weren’t romantically involved.

What else could you be when he spent more time with you than someone who works a full-time job? ”

She trails her fork through her potato, the tines digging narrow grooves in the sour cream.

“We clicked, but it wasn’t romantically.

Leo craved affection, and I’m not going to lie and tell you I didn’t give it to him because I did.

He liked to hold my hand while we took walks, he liked to cuddle while we watched a movie, though we didn’t do that very often.

Mostly we laid in my bed and talked. Yes, we would lie together.

Dressed. For some reason he liked watching me get ready to go to sleep.

The ritual of it, I think. He’d lie on his side and play with my hair. ”

“Did he kiss you? Did you ever make love?” I hate asking. I don’t want to know the answers.

She opens her mouth then closes it again, thinking through what she wants to say.

“I told you the first time you stopped by, and maybe the second time, too, that we never had sex. I’m not pregnant in case you feel the need to ask me that again.

He wouldn’t kiss me, he would...nuzzle my cheek with his lips.

That would be the best way I can describe it.

If he needed sex, and I say if because I have no idea if that was something he did need, he found it elsewhere.

Leo was lonely. We were very good friends.

Best friends. I shouldn’t even tell you this, but. ..”

“But what? I think I have the right to know.”

“He was looking for something your family wasn’t giving him. I don’t need to be a therapist to understand that.”

“He was on good terms with our mother and extended family.” I’m not going to take the blame for anything.

She scoops up a bite of potato. Our dinner is getting cold. “If that helps you sleep at night, then who am I to say anything? He needed you. He needed his father, but— Forget it. Leo’s dead and everyone is going to have to live with the regret that we could have been more and we weren’t.”

I scoff. “It sounds like you’re the only one who doesn’t have regret when it concerns my brother.”

“I have regret. I don’t think Leo was going to ask me to marry him, but I couldn’t read his mind.

If he truly was going to propose at the fundraiser, I would have said no.

” She lifts her gaze from the bite of potato she has yet to put in her mouth.

“I don’t want to marry for affection or common interests.

I want to marry because I’m desperately in love and he loves me, just as passionately.

Leo and I didn’t have that. Not even close, and we never would have. ”