Read Online Flirting With Forever by Kim Boykin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kim Boykin
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deviate from the schedule for a half hour.
First up this morning, breakfast 7:00a.m . At seven on the dot, he knocked on my door. Jake’s a tall guy, maybe six four, so he looked funny pushing a squatty little room service cart. But he was gorgeous. Well-worn jeans. The black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest made me think he’d been a swimmer at one time. He looked so good, maybe he still swam. He ran a hand through his dark chestnut hair that turned up at the nape of his neck and then pushed the cart to the bench at the foot of my bed.
“Good morning. Hope you’re hungry.”
Even up until I left for New York, I was very married. If Jim had come home, regardless of my career, I’d probably have canceled the tour and would be back in Charlotte, trying to make amends instead of ogling Jake Randall. But who in their right mind wouldn’t?
I was sure wherever Jim was, he was moving on, so why shouldn’t I? Of course there was no chance for me with a guy like Jake, not for anything lasting. But a fling with a younger guy? Could be just what I needed to move on too. Could I actually do it? With fantasy Jake? Definitely. With the real Jake? No chance.
I wasn’t twenty-five, or even thirty like Jake. The surprise party Jim and Marsha threw for me before Christmas confirmed I was old. Lots of party decorations with the same tired jokes about how very old forty was. They’d slipped a Does This Shirt Make Me Look Forty t-shirt on me and crowned me with an Over the Hill tiara. Don’t get me wrong, it was a fun night, and being saluted by a crowd of Jim’s friends who were in their fifties and sixties, I still felt young.
But looking at Jake Randall? Yep, I might be officially old, but when he smiled at me, my heart reminded me I wasn’t dead. And when his eyes slid over me, every molecule inside me tingled.
“Morning, Jake. Thanks for breakfast. You get demoted to hotel staff?”
He grinned and pushed the cart over to the bench at the end of the bed. “Are you going to sit and eat or just run that smart mouth of yours?” Well, I didn’t expect that. Playful Jake. In my bedroom, dangerously close to my bed. He took the little silver dome off of my breakfast—eggs, grits, toast, bacon—with the exception of the grits, a duplicate of what I had at the café the morning I met him. He had the same thing, sans grits.
“I guessed on the grits.” He pulled the chair away from the desk and sat down across from me.
I picked up the carafe before he could and poured our coffee. “You guessed right. Can’t imagine why y’all don’t eat them up North.”
“They do, with cream and sugar.” He was smirking so hard, he could hardly get the fork in his mouth. “You can find anything in the city.”
“They. But not you?” Still smirking. “What’s so funny?”
“I’ve been waiting for your southern to come out with me. You turn it on with Erin and when you’re at the signings, but you act like you have to hide it with me.”
“I beg your pardon. I most certainly do not.”
“Relax. I like your southern.”
Okay, now I was blushing, heart beating ninety miles an hour. “I’m not sure I trust anybody who doesn’t like grits. Have you actually tried them?”
“Once. On spring break in Florida when I ran out of money. I still have nightmares.”
“Florida has so many Yankees, does it qualify as the South? I don’t think so. Nope, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve never had real Southern grits.”
“If the southernmost state in the union isn’t the Southern enough for you, then no, I haven’t had real grits. But I hated them so much, they made eating my flip flops sound good. Really good.”
“Bet I could make you like them.”
“I bet you could too.” He leveled me with a look that was all heat and then grinned that my face was ten shades of red. “You seem good this morning. After last night, I was a little worried.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t fall apart again or embarrass you
First up this morning, breakfast 7:00a.m . At seven on the dot, he knocked on my door. Jake’s a tall guy, maybe six four, so he looked funny pushing a squatty little room service cart. But he was gorgeous. Well-worn jeans. The black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest made me think he’d been a swimmer at one time. He looked so good, maybe he still swam. He ran a hand through his dark chestnut hair that turned up at the nape of his neck and then pushed the cart to the bench at the foot of my bed.
“Good morning. Hope you’re hungry.”
Even up until I left for New York, I was very married. If Jim had come home, regardless of my career, I’d probably have canceled the tour and would be back in Charlotte, trying to make amends instead of ogling Jake Randall. But who in their right mind wouldn’t?
I was sure wherever Jim was, he was moving on, so why shouldn’t I? Of course there was no chance for me with a guy like Jake, not for anything lasting. But a fling with a younger guy? Could be just what I needed to move on too. Could I actually do it? With fantasy Jake? Definitely. With the real Jake? No chance.
I wasn’t twenty-five, or even thirty like Jake. The surprise party Jim and Marsha threw for me before Christmas confirmed I was old. Lots of party decorations with the same tired jokes about how very old forty was. They’d slipped a Does This Shirt Make Me Look Forty t-shirt on me and crowned me with an Over the Hill tiara. Don’t get me wrong, it was a fun night, and being saluted by a crowd of Jim’s friends who were in their fifties and sixties, I still felt young.
But looking at Jake Randall? Yep, I might be officially old, but when he smiled at me, my heart reminded me I wasn’t dead. And when his eyes slid over me, every molecule inside me tingled.
“Morning, Jake. Thanks for breakfast. You get demoted to hotel staff?”
He grinned and pushed the cart over to the bench at the end of the bed. “Are you going to sit and eat or just run that smart mouth of yours?” Well, I didn’t expect that. Playful Jake. In my bedroom, dangerously close to my bed. He took the little silver dome off of my breakfast—eggs, grits, toast, bacon—with the exception of the grits, a duplicate of what I had at the café the morning I met him. He had the same thing, sans grits.
“I guessed on the grits.” He pulled the chair away from the desk and sat down across from me.
I picked up the carafe before he could and poured our coffee. “You guessed right. Can’t imagine why y’all don’t eat them up North.”
“They do, with cream and sugar.” He was smirking so hard, he could hardly get the fork in his mouth. “You can find anything in the city.”
“They. But not you?” Still smirking. “What’s so funny?”
“I’ve been waiting for your southern to come out with me. You turn it on with Erin and when you’re at the signings, but you act like you have to hide it with me.”
“I beg your pardon. I most certainly do not.”
“Relax. I like your southern.”
Okay, now I was blushing, heart beating ninety miles an hour. “I’m not sure I trust anybody who doesn’t like grits. Have you actually tried them?”
“Once. On spring break in Florida when I ran out of money. I still have nightmares.”
“Florida has so many Yankees, does it qualify as the South? I don’t think so. Nope, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve never had real Southern grits.”
“If the southernmost state in the union isn’t the Southern enough for you, then no, I haven’t had real grits. But I hated them so much, they made eating my flip flops sound good. Really good.”
“Bet I could make you like them.”
“I bet you could too.” He leveled me with a look that was all heat and then grinned that my face was ten shades of red. “You seem good this morning. After last night, I was a little worried.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t fall apart again or embarrass you
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