“I’m immune to men who meander through life like it’s their playground. It’s a sin.”
“You’re forgetting who sinned first. Wasn’t it a woman who led a man to eat the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden?” He acts like bringing up Adam and Eve is the most natural discussion on earth.
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “So, every time you sin, it’s Eve’s fault?”
He laughs, and for some reason, the sound makes butterflies flutter in my stomach.
“What I do is not a sin. Sex between two consenting adults is nothing more than using what God gave us. That would be like saying eating is a sin.”
I let out a hard laugh. “That is called gluttony.”
“Eating too much is a sin. Satisfying the palate is survival.”
“Then, you’re claiming you need sex to survive?” I give him a deadpan stare.
“Pleasure,” he breathes in that low, husky voice. “The human soul needs pleasure or else it will surely die.”
I swallow and then take a heaving breath before grabbing my water. I need hydration. “Not buying it.” I try to sound unaffected.
He leans back as he wraps his fist around his glass. “Fine. If you can’t wax philosophical, then I’ll hit you with the facts. Men can get prostate cancer if they don’t have a release often.”
I rub my lips together, nodding my head and trying not to laugh. “Okay, fine. If science says so, then it has to be correct.”
He winks again as he brings the glass to his lips and drinks.
Leaning back in my seat, I bite my lip as I stare at this beguiling man who has an answer for everything and has bested me at my own game of questions. Not only is he handsome, but he’s also witty as all hell.
“Can I be honest for a moment?” I don’t wait for him to respond as I add, “You’re really cool to hang out with.”
A dimple appears on his cheek as he grins at my comment. “I knew you’d figure it out sooner or later.”
I smile as I finish my cocktail.
The bartender comes back, and we order five appetizers to share—mostly because Jake can’t decide on one, so we get all five. We talk for the next two hours. He’s funny when he tells me about some of the wild orders he’s made at the flower shop, like a John Deere tractor and Elvis Presley for a funeral. He even had a client order a thousand roses for a proposal, only to forget which one he hid the engagement ring in. The man called, furious that the flowers had eaten the ring. Turned out, it was found days later in a shoe.
I tell him about my book signing and the random things fans have asked me to sign. I’ll put my pen to anything, but I draw the line at a dildo. That’s just not cool.
Our conversation carries us back home as we take the scenic route along the canals, feeling the breeze whipping through the buildings.
When we get to our front doors, I chance a glance at Jake, who is staring at me with a smile.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says with a grin.
“And how am I looking at you?”
“Like I drank too much and talked your ear off.”
I laugh out loud. “Not you, me! I feel like I didn’t shut up all night.”
He leans against his door and looks back at me, totally serious. “I could listen to your stories all day.”
With a lick of my lips, I look away and roll my eyes. “Night, Jake.”
I turn my lock, and before I close it, he calls out to me, “Lace?”
“Yes?” I pop my head out my doorway.
“Break a wrist.” He grins as he steps into his apartment.
I laugh at the sentiment. “Thanks.”
After I close my door, I stare at my computer, my fingers itching to touch the keyboard. When I do, this time, the words flow in the best possible way.
Chapter Six
“Help me carry the wood into the house,” my mother says as I exit my car. She’s standing in front of a log splitter, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
I head over to her pile on the ground, not bothering for our usual hug hello yet since she’s in the midst of cutting logs.
“Look at you, all rugged,” I muse.
She smiles. “I prefer austere. It has a nice ring to it.”
With a giggle, I load the log holder that’s sitting on the ground and bring the bag down to the cellar, where she keeps her wood stacked against the wall. There’s a decent stockpile down here already, and this new wood will have to dry before she can use it.
When I get back outside, she’s grabbing a bunch of logs, loading them into her arms. “I bet I can carry more in my arms than you can in that bag.”
I squint my eyes in determination. “You’re on.”
I put the rest of them in the bag, and together, we bring the remainder to the basement.
Some of my fondest memories from my childhood are doing chores like this. She would somehow always make even the hardest of tasks into a game, so I wouldn’t realize just how hard life really was for this single mother and daughter duo.
“If you’d waited, I would have helped you split the wood,” I tell her.
“A good woman knows how to take care of herself. Besides, this keeps me active and sets my mind at ease.” She wipes her hands on her pants and looks up at the sky.
I love seeing my mom with her hands dirty. She has the feminine quality of a dancer with the hardened tone of an independent woman. Her long, thin arms bend as she leans back and stretches, which is graceful in its own way.
“September is late in the year for prepping wood. Where did this come from?” I ask.
“The neighbor had a tree cut down due to rot. He brought this
