Page 17 of Pretty Desperate (Pine Village #6)

KAMERON

I just put the finishing touches on tonight’s meal when there’s a knock at the door. My heart leaps in my chest, beating a little harder now that she’s here.

It’s been like this since she left the restaurant last night.

The thought of seeing her again makes me…

happy. Eager. Grateful. Because, while I have friends, it feels different with Jillian.

Maybe it’s because we’re both business owners, and we understand exactly what it takes to make it succeed.

Not that any of the others don’t, because they do.

Logan owns the hardware store and Marcus owns the auto repair shop.

Gabe is a doctor, owning half of the practice. But it still feels different.

Better.

It’s hard to explain, really. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours trying to figure out why I’m drawn to her so much, but I really haven’t figured anything out.

I’m attracted to her. I don’t know when it happened, but it did.

Jillian went from another business owner I know in town to someone who makes my heart race and my dick hard.

As juvenile as that sounds, it’s true. I’m a forty-year-old man, and yet my body reacts like I’m seventeen again.

I clear my throat and adjust my pants, trying to do anything I can not to pop an erection right about now.

But the moment I open the door, all thoughts of keeping calm fly straight out the window.

She’s wearing a pair of blue jean capris and a pretty blue top, both pieces of material conforming to her delectable curves.

Her hair is down, and all I want to do is slide my fingers through those soft locks as I kiss her.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she repeats, still standing on my porch. After a few seconds, she holds up a cake carrier. “I brought dessert.”

I would rather eat you…

Shaking my head to clear that thought from my brain, I push open the screened door. “Come in,” I insist, stepping back.

As she passes, entering my living room, I catch the clean scent of her detergent, the fruitiness of her lotion, and the sugar that seems to always be hanging on her skin. “Thank you.” She glances around and adds, “You have a lovely home.”

“Thanks,” I reply, clearing my throat once more. Things always seem a little drier when she’s around. “Dinner’s ready.”

She smiles brightly, her green eyes sparkling with anticipation. “I’m starving.”

“It’s nothing special,” I tell her as we enter my kitchen. “Just chicken with sides.”

“Well, it smells amazing, and I never consider anything you make nothing special. Everything I’ve had has been excellent,” she states, placing the cake carrier on the counter and pulling two small containers out of her bag. “Can I put these in the fridge?”

“Of course. Do you want wine?” I offer, not knowing what she’d like to drink. “Or I have water, Coke, or lemonade.”

“Actually, lemonade would be perfect. I drove tonight, so I probably shouldn’t drink.”

I nod, walking over to the fridge and retrieving the pitcher of lemonade. I pour two glasses and take them to the table. “Have a seat.”

She smiles and slides into one of the chairs. “Freshly squeezed?” she asks, a hint of humor in her eyes as she reaches for the glass I place in front of her.

I snort a laugh. “Hardly.”

“I just figured since you do everything else from scratch, maybe you squeeze your own lemons for lemonade.”

“Nope, never have tried it,” I reply, taking the lids off the dishes on the table. “This lemonade comes from a can that was in the frozen section,” I confess, earning a laugh. “It was how I grew up drinking it, so that’s how I’ve continued to make it.”

She shrugs and takes a second sip. “It’s good, so it doesn’t matter where it comes from.” She looks at the casserole dish in the middle of the table. “What’s this?”

“It’s my take on Million Dollar Chicken,” I inform her, scooping up the first smothered chicken breast and slipping it on her plate. “There’s also buttery mashed potatoes and roasted carrots.”

Jillian’s eyes are wide. “A girl could get used to this,” she murmurs as she takes a scoop of both the potatoes and the carrots.

I wait, watching as she cuts into her chicken, making sure she scoops a bit of the baked topping with her bite.

“Oh my God,” she practically groans, slowly chewing her food.

She closes her eyes and appears to be savoring her first bite, and I can’t help but smile.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Soooo delicious,” she says as she cuts a second bite. “So, what’s Million Dollar Chicken, and how is yours different?”

“Well, the traditional Million Dollar Chicken is a chicken breast, coated in a cream cheese mixture, crumbled bacon, green onion, and Colby Jack cheese. I alter my recipe with a little extra flavor, as well as stuffing the chicken with a creamy spinach, bacon, and Monterey Jack cheese spread.”

“Well, it’s amazing,” she says before switching to eating her potatoes and carrots.

“Do you like mushrooms?”

“Love them. Mushrooms, green peppers, and sausage on my pizza,” she confirms between bites.

I keep my facial expressions neutral, but barely. Why, you ask? Because that’s exactly how I order my pizza on nights I don’t want to cook anything for myself. “I, uh, make this mushroom and cranberry stuffed pork tenderloin that’s one of my favorites.”

Her eyes dance with excitement. “I would definitely try that.”

I nod, digging into my own food. “Good. Maybe I’ll make that soon.”

A light blush creeps up her neck. “I’d like that.”

Spending time with Jillian isn’t a hardship, that’s for sure.

Our entire meal is both relaxing and enjoyable.

She’s engaging and witty and doesn’t seem to be bothered by any probing questions.

Really, I want to get to know her better, because with each passing minute, I like what I see, and I’m not just referring to her gorgeous good looks.

After dinner, she helps me clean up the leftover food and place it in the fridge. Once the dishes are in the sink, I ask, “Would you like a tour before we have dessert?”

“Absolutely,” she replies eagerly. “Your home is beautiful,” she adds as we head into the living room.

“It’s more space than I need,” I confess.

“When I made the decision to return to Pine Village and start my restaurant, I jumped at one of the first available places on the market that didn’t require much work.

I was going to be putting so much into my business, the last thing I wanted to do was come home and have to work here too. ”

“Makes sense,” she replies, following me toward the opposite end of the house.

“Three bedrooms,” I tell her, noting the two doors toward the front of the house. “One is my home office, and the other a guest room. Honestly, no one has ever used it, but I didn’t want it to just sit empty, so I threw an extra bedroom set in there and called it a day.”

She smiles, taking in the plain, basic bedroom.

“This is better than I have. My place is only two bedrooms, and the second is a storage room/guest bedroom/home office/workout room. And by workout room, I mean I have an old treadmill there where I throw my off-season clothes since the closets are full.”

I can’t help but smile at the description.

“In my defense, since my family lives here, the only person to use my guest room is my friend, Olivia, when she comes to visit. Though, she got married last year, and I don’t see them both crashing in my twin-sized daybed anytime soon,” she says with a cute little nose-crinkling grin.

“I don’t know, her husband might enjoy sharing a small bed with her,” I find myself saying, the innuendo heavy.

She shrugs. “Maybe, but I need space. That’s why I have a king-sized bed. I like to spread out, and often, I sleep on the hot side, so I don’t want someone all up in my business.”

Images of Jillian spread out in bed—naked—plague my brain. Her brown hair feathered across the pillow, her smooth leg hanging out of the blanket. I can picture it so clearly, despite the fact we’ve never shared a bed, and I have no clue how she actually sleeps. But in my dirty mind, it’s naked.

With me beside her.

We step out of the guest room and cross the hall.

There are two doors on this side too, one for the bathroom and the other for my bedroom.

I start to feel a little hot under the collar at the thought of her being in my private space.

This is where I sleep, read late at night when I try to unwind from a long, hectic day, and dress.

I rarely invite people in here, especially since I haven’t dated much in recent years, but here I am, wanting to have her in my bedroom.

“Wow,” she says as we cross the threshold. “This is gorgeous.”

“I admit, I didn’t do much to the room. The couple who lived here before me had it remodeled, and I left it.”

“Do you use the fireplace?” she inquires, walking over to the whitewashed brick fireplace and running her hand across the dark wood mantel.

“Actually, yes. During the winter, I do. I read to unwind, so I’ll use it to warm up the room while I read and relax.”

She nods, taking in the space. “I would too,” she says, walking over to my reading nook.

There’s an oversized chair there, as well as a small table.

The previous owners built bookshelves, and while I don’t have them filled, I do have a decent selection of historical nonfiction books, as well as biographies.

“I like to read, but since I go to bed so early, I don’t have a lot of time to indulge. ”

“Well, I’m usually so wired at the end of a long day, I have to do something to calm my mind. I usually read after taking a dip in my hot tub and then showering.”

Her eyes widen. “You have a hot tub?”

With just a smile on my lips, I walk over to the French doors and release the lock. She follows as I open the door, stepping out onto the back patio area where my hot tub is housed.