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CHAPTER ELEVEN

AMELIA

“He’s very good.” Jeanine walks in from the kitchen just in time to hear my question, a steaming casserole in her hands. She drops a kiss on the crown of Jake’s head, her eyes shimmering with motherly pride before setting the dish on the dining table. “He’s quite a catch, really. That’s why I don’t know why he hasn’t found himself a nice girl yet.”

Oh, I could tell her why… It could have something to do with the fact that her darling boy may have not-so-darling proclivities. But I’m not about to out her son when she’s gracious enough to have me over.

I sneak another peek at Jake. Between those broad shoulders and that annoyingly perfect jawline, I can see how he might be in “entertainment.” The man should come with a warning label. And he’s offering to pay for my hotel (which is very generous, in a sugar-daddy kind of way). So, while I don’t think adult film star for real, the image has possibilities. But he lives with his mum. Perhaps porn stars don’t earn as much these days, given all the amateurs posting their shenanigans online?

I turn my attention back to Jeanine. His poor mother. Though she does appear to love having him around. He seems very nice, helping her decorate and whatnot. Not that I’m saying porn stars can’t be nice to their mothers.

Carla enters with a basket of garlic bread, and Yvonne follows, carrying a bottle of wine, as well as a glass filled to the brim. Another sister marches in from the other side of the room, phone glued to her ear—the missing Helena? Yvonne offers her the glass, but Helena, still gabbing away, grabs the bottle instead.

“I promise she’s a lawyer, not an alcoholic.” Jeanine frowns after Helena, while the rest of us settle down at the table.

“Not yet, anyway,” Yvonne mutters, spinning around and heading back into the kitchen.

Helena ends the call and collapses into a chair, thumping her head against the wooden backrest. “Why? Why couldn’t I have gotten a double homicide to deal with instead?”

Jeanine heaps a generous portion of lasagna onto my plate, the tantalizing aroma of melted cheese and rich marinara filling my nostrils. Yvonne reappears with another bottle, holding it well out of Helena’s reach as she uncorks it and pours each of us a glass.

“This looks delicious,” I say, cutting into the pasta.

Jeanine beams. “It’s a family recipe.”

I take a bite, and flavors bloom on my tongue. My eyes drift shut as I savor them.

When my lids flutter open, Jake’s stare is hot on mine. Our gazes stay locked for another heartbeat before I avert my gaze, hoping people didn’t notice.

Conversation flows easily around the table as we tuck in. Jake keeps everyone in stitches throughout the meal. It’s clear his family loves him to bits, and I can see why. He teases them with a playful wit that never crosses into cruelty, an incorrigible rascal with undeniable charm.

As Helena starts on another story, I lean forward to grab a roll from the breadbasket. Under the table, my foot brushes Jake’s denim-clad calf. The simple contact sends my pulse skittering, and I jerk back. My knee knocks against the underside of the table, and I wince. Across from me, he smirks, eyes twinkling with mischief. I shoot him a withering glare, which only has the corners of his lips curling up farther, even as he turns to respond to something Beatrice says.

Determined to ignore the simmering tension, I try to focus on the lively chatter. But Jake Cunningham isn’t one to be ignored, and I find myself constantly sneaking glances his way.

Does he sneak out to do his job? Though if sex is his day job, then what the hell was he up to last night? Did he really need more sex? Or does daytime sex not count these days?

Suddenly, I realize Jeanine is asking me a question. Snapping out of my daze, my face flushes under her knowing gaze. “Pardon me,” I stammer, trying to regain my composure.

“I just said Yvonne mentioned you were looking for a job.”

I nod.

“What kind of work?”

“At this point, I’ll take anything.”

“Are you able to stay here? No visa issues?” Helena checks, in lawyer-mode.

“My father was from the US but spent time in the UK, where I was born and raised.”

“So, you’re part American?” Carla asks.

I incline my head. “I even lived in Savannah. Moved there with my dad after my parents divorced—that’s where he was from. But I was there less than a year before…um, he passed away. So back over the pond I went to my gran.”

“What about your mother?”

“Um, Mum wasn’t ready for me to return, so Gran had the pleasure.” I smile brightly so she doesn’t think it’s a big thing.

Jeanine takes another sip of her wine. “What kind of work did you do in England?”

“I worked at my Gran’s inn.”

“That must have been interesting. What did you do?”

“A bit of everything, really. I handled reservations and social media, made beds, waitressed. Washed dishes on occasion when the dishwasher broke down. But that happened more often than not. Which meant I was dishwashing rather often. Often enough that it could have warranted a full-time dishwasher…” I trail off.

Jake looks at me. “And you lived with your grandmother. At her inn.”

Wait, is this tanker of wanker suggesting that my living with Gran is the equivalent of him sponging off his mother? He smirks. Apparently, he is. Of all the nerve. “It was my place of work. I was there in a professional capacity.”

Jeanine takes my measure. “Did you enjoy working there?”

I open my mouth, ready to respond in the affirmative because it’s the answer I’ve always given. But…there are no expectations here. “It was all right, I suppose.” I start off slowly. “What I enjoyed the most about the work was putting together itineraries for the guests.”

“Was there a lot to see where you’re from? I love that England has so much history,” Helena says.

“There was. I loved personalizing plans for people. Sometimes I’d have to figure things out for newlyweds, other times for young families with children who’d easily tire, or would need activities to keep them occupied while their parents roamed. There were tours I put together for the history buffs and others more focused on nature—hikes and gardens. Many, many pub crawls. And of course, I’d alter them with the forecast. I had suggestions for rainy days and sunny spells, though it was mostly the wet weather ones that were the most popular. Possibly on account of it raining most of the time…”

I cut myself off, realizing I’m rambling again, and skim the room, prepared for glazed expressions. Instead, the entire Cunningham contingent listens, rapt, as if I’m imparting pearls of wisdom.

“Do you have any photos?” Carla asks.

“Of course!” I open up my Instagram account and hand over the phone. “Feel free to swipe through.”

The family crowds around, oohing and ahhing as they scroll through.

“Oh, who’s this guy with you? He’s a cutie. Boyfriend?” She flips the device, and my heart sinks. It’s a picture of Ben and me in front of The Church of St. Mary the Virgin. I should have taken a lesson from her and hung on to mine for a bit longer.

But since that ship’s sailed, I come up with what I hope is a blasé, “No one,” I mutter.

“Ex?” Jake asks, taking the phone from his mum. “Let’s have a look at this strapping young gentleman.” He squints at the screen, not seeming all that impressed. To be fair, I don’t get the appeal now, either.

I snatch it back. I really need to purge my social media of the Ben photos. Or maybe move them to a hidden folder. There are some great shots of various sights and tours I did, which I don’t want to lose. Too bad he’s ruined them.

All of this could have been avoided if I’d tackled my hymen-sized issue by going further afield. Or taking up one of the local volunteers. Robby Whitley had offered to “help” relieve me of my virginity as a favor, but given that he was married to Cecily Mason, the town florist at the time, I’d had to refuse.

Helena’s phone beeps, and she glances at it before thumping the device against her forehead. “Ugh. Marcus’s saying Jerry fell asleep while they were working on his math problems, and he wants me to help instead of waking Daddy up. Apparently, he sucks at homework.”

Jeanine shakes her head. “Children, so damned inconvenient sometimes.”

“Seriously.” Helena lifts her drink in agreement.

Yvonne picks up the wine bottle and nods at my empty glass.

“Oh no. My alcohol tolerance is on par with a lobster’s,” I declare, envisioning the headline in my mental newspaper: “Drunk Woman Loses Shoes, Humiliates Herself with New Friends, Makes Dubious Life Choices.” Oh wait, I’ve already done all that. Still, I shake my head. With my track record, I’m liable to make things worse. “Sloshed me is not pretty.”

Jake laughs. “It can’t be as bad as what these girls got up to.” He smirks at his sisters. “Remember that one night I held Carla’s hair after she snuck home late, puking her guts out in the bathroom?”

Helena snorts. “What I remember is how at breakfast the next morning, Jake pointed at her belly and announced another baby was coming—Beatrice vomited through her entire pregnancy with our eldest niece.”

Yvonne snickers. “Jake hadn’t learned about the birds and the bees back then…”

He certainly knows about them now.

Jake laughs. “Poor Carla immediately denied it and admitted to being wasted and not knocked up.”

“I don’t remember you being much better when you’d get drunk,” she retorts, scowling at her brother.

“At least when I was old enough to drink, I kept my vomiting restricted to the potted fern outside the side door and buried the evidence with a plastic spade.”

“No wonder it always smelled.” Jeanine’s nose wrinkles in disapproval.

I’m glad I’ve never been accused of puking in potted plants, though there was that one time when I tried to argue Velvet Underground’s influence on alternative rock with a disastrously off-key rendition of “Sunday Morning.” Ben’s face had been a masterpiece of horror and secondhand shame.

Conversation shifts to Helena’s son’s homework. I try my best to show interest, but I’m knackered and can’t stifle a yawn. I slap a hand over my mouth. “Oh, excuse me!”

Jeanine gives me a sympathetic smile. “Still jet-lagged?”

“I suppose so. I didn’t expect it to hit me so hard. I’d better head back to my hotel.”

“Are you sure?” Yvonne’s brows knit.

Though I’m reluctant to leave, I don’t want to overstay my welcome when everyone’s been so hospitable. “I think it’s best I go. I have another full day of job-hunting tomorrow.”

Jeanine is determined to send me off with leftovers, so I follow her into the kitchen, where she starts preparing them. Carla bustles in after us with a mountain of plates and loads the dishwasher. I express my gratitude for the delicious meal and say goodbye. Turning to Jeanine, she hands me not one, but two containers filled with food. Carefully, I stack them on top of each other.

“Thank you—” but before I can finish, Jeanine catches me off guard, wrapping me in a hug, containers and all. Temporarily forgetting Americans’ enthusiasm for hugging, I stand there frozen, unsure of how to react. Overwhelmed by her kindness, a lump forms in my throat. Gradually, I allow myself to relax into her embrace. When I thank her once again, my voice is thick with emotion. She simply squeezes me tighter before releasing me with a warm smile.

I return to the dining room to find Yvonne scribbling out intricate math formulas on the back of a cardboard bat while Helena looks on, chewing on her lip.

“Does this make sense?” Yvonne asks, circling one section over and over.

“No,” Helena admits, the lines between her brows deepening.

“Ugh.” Yvonne sighs, putting the pen down. “I don’t understand why you don’t get it.”

Not wanting to interrupt their mathematical showdown, I call out, “It was so lovely to meet you both!”

Yvonne, eager for an escape, begins to rise from her seat. “Right, I’ll go with you.”

But before she can make a break for it, Helena’s hand shoots out, catching her arm in a vise-like grip. “Leave, and the next time you decide to ‘borrow’ a street sign after a night out, we’ll see how well you fare with the public defender, Willie Wilkins.”

Yvonne must have a high likelihood of criminal activity in her future because she drops back into her seat, defeated.

“I’ll see Amelia out,” Jake offers, getting to his feet.

“My shoes?”

“I’ll grab them.”

Before I can follow, Yvonne’s voice halts me. “Give me your number!” She holds out the pen.

I cross to her side and obediently scribble it down beside some mathematical formulas that make me want to back away slowly and promise to keep in touch. After final hugs from both Helena and Yvonne, I head to the foyer.

Luna gives my takeaway boxes a hopeful sniff. “Ah-ah, missy,” I warn, hoisting them out of her reach. “that’s what got us into this pickle in the first place.” I scan the room, trying to find higher ground to park them.

“Sit.” Jake commands, reappearing a moment later. I drop into the seat, but instead of relieving me of the containers so I can put on my shoes, he drops to one knee in front of me, retaining custody of my footwear.

My mouth falls open, and when he takes hold of my foot, I instinctively jerk it away. He calmly retrieves my calf, his green gaze pinning me in place with a chiding look before returning to the business at hand. The business being my foot. My goodness, he really is Prince Charming.

I sit in shock as he deftly laces up one trainer before repeating the process with the other. As he finishes, he grazes the bare skin between the hem of my jeans and the edges of my sock with his thumb, sending my breath swooping past my belly, through my knees, and pinging into my toes. A totally normal reaction, but I gasp.

He looks up with a grin that should be outlawed. “All good?”

“Good. Yes. Very good.” My voice is all sorts of breathless. He springs to his feet and offers me a hand. My brain has short-circuited—that’s why I spend an extra second gawking at it. Once I gather my bearings, I shuffle the two containers under one arm and accept his help. Does he hang on to my hand for longer than necessary? I yank it away once I’m upright, pretending to need both hands for the food.

His smile doesn’t falter, but he remains silent as he opens the front door, signaling for me to exit. I step out into the crisp October breeze then pivot to make my farewells, but the door’s shut, and he’s standing by my side.

“Umm. Goodbye?” It comes out a question.

“Let me take you to your place.”

“Uh… I’m not very far away. Just the Carmine Street Hotel. Truly. You should go inside. Don’t you have skeletons to see to?” I quip.

One corner of his mouth quirks up as his piercing green eyes lock on mine with an intensity that feels like it’s peeling back my layers.

A sudden gust of wind whips my hair into a frenzied mess, sending strands into my face. I shake my head, trying to dislodge them, but Jake leans in. His hand brushes the tangle away gently. His fingers linger on my temple, and tingles skitter across my skin.

He releases me and takes a step back. His smirk has my blood boiling even while my heart trips over itself.

I swallow hard. I’m not disappointed. Relieved. That’s me. I pull myself together, ignoring that tiny, lingering sense of regret.

He tilts his head, giving me a slow, appraising look that sends another jolt of electricity through me. “So, you need a job, huh? What if I could help?”

“And how exactly do you plan to help?”

He winks. “I’m a man of many talents.”

My mind immediately conjures an image of a naked Jake, handcuffed to a bed, directing me while I pole dance in nothing but a sequined thong. I banish the thought and narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not sure I should be taking career advice from someone in…entertainment.”

Jake chuckles, the sound rich and teasing. “It’s not that kind of entertainment.”

Maybe not, and even though I know I should shut this down and leave, those green eyes keep me rooted in place. I can’t trust myself with him; give him an inch, and he’ll have me wrapped around his finger in no time.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, didn’t you say you’d take anything?”

Somehow, I find an ounce of self-control and shoot him a withering glare. “I draw the line at fluffier!” With that, I spin on my heels and march down the stoop.

His laughter follows me, but I refuse to turn back. No doubt about it, the man’s dodgy. So dodgy. The whole situation is dodgy.