CHAPTER36
“You were very cool on the cell … efficient as ever and serious about the whole thing. I think it was the first time I figured you and I were going to be best friends.” He’s laughing at the memory as my heart skips a beat at the ‘best friend’ comment and warms slightly. He has said something similar several times before. I guess the feeling is mutual. I never really thought about us being real friends before this promotion progressed, but I guess we are.
I remember that night well; I had tried to gauge his seriousness and even attempted a rational, factual conversation while skimming Google for answers. I was cringing the whole time and wondering what the hell he was on. I shake my head, grinning too.
“Only you could pull the freaky one in a nightclub full of normal women, Jake,” I point out, relaxing once more.
“She ended up going home with Daniel, and he still doesn’t mention it.”
I burst out laughing, unguarded and heartfelt, and that does make me feel better. Daniel still gives me the creeps, and the thought of him tied up in a baby’s crib with some strange, diaper-wearing crazy makes me laugh. Jake is chuckling too.
He leans over, topping up my now empty wine glass; we’re only halfway through our food, and I hadn’t noticed how much I’ve drunk already. His bad influence on me has turned me into a wine-with-food type of person. He always orders by the bottle wherever we go to eat. I never drank much before Jake.
I pick up my fork, starting to eat again now that my appetite has improved along with my temper. I’m feeling light and merry now, and ravenous once more.
“I like you when you’re like this,” he nods over at me, a happy expression on his face, eyes almost twinkling.
“Like what?” I look up innocently. The steak is so tender I’m savoring every mouthful, appetite fully restored.
“More relaxed. PA persona on hiatus. When you forget to play cool.” It sobers me slightly; he has a way of making me forget myself when we are kicking back and, much like now, it startles me. I don’t like letting that mask drop; I don’t like people seeing too deeply, especially not him.
“It’s hard to focus when you ply me with alcohol,” I return, a little too quickly, trying to reel in my controlled facade once again, pushing the glass away from my plate.
That’s enough wine.
“Maybe that’s why I do it,” he smiles softly, but it makes me suddenly uncomfortable. I ram food into my mouth and stare across the restaurant looking for a diverting topic.
I gesture toward the far window with my fork, and he turns to look at what I’m pointing at; spotting the movie star too, he looks back at me shrugging.
“He’s an asshole,” Jake says, dismissively. “I’ve met him. He’s a bit of a diva and, I mean, look at him; he’s wearing a goddamn flower brooch. If that doesn’t scream closet gay, then I don’t know what does,” he shrugs nonchalantly but, for some reason, this makes me laugh unexpectedly and causes me to choke on my half-chewed steak. I erupt into a coughing fit, which has me grabbing for my wine in an effort to dislodge the lump in my throat before I die.
“Jesus, Emma! Don’t have a coronary over seeing some asshole Hollywood big shot.” He’s laughing at me now, and I throw him a pained look. I gasp for air, thumping my chest to push my steak down and inhaling heavily.
“Fuck you,” I manage weakly with a smile.
“Swearing at your boss is good grounds for dismissal … gross misconduct,” he jokes and tops up my glass again with a wink, highlighting the fact I just drank it all without meaning to.
“So, fire me,” I throw back, slugging down my red wine and finally clearing the food that was still caught in my throat half killing me, not caring about intake while choking.
“Can’t fire my future wife!” He acts shocked and grasps his chest in mock horror before putting his fork down on his plate, also finished with his food. I ignore the wife comment, another frequent joke he makes.
“Dessert?” he gestures at me with a questioning brow. I shake my head; I’ve drunk too much wine, feeling a little tipsy now, and I need to get out of here. I need coffee.
“Back to the grind, bella.” He offers me his hand as I get up, tossing my napkin on the empty plate. I take his hand without hesitation and let him pull me with him, then immediately wonder when this stopped being weird, when we started holding hands so casually.
How many times have I let Jake touch me without repulsion coursing through me? Or questioning it?
I walk behind him contemplating this fact, staring at our loosely joined fingers. It’s become something as familiar as being around him now. Maybe it is just the nature of our relationship: platonic and safe. We are real friends.
The innuendos about sex, the best friend comments, and wife jokes are frequent, but I know it is all play. Jake is never anything but a complete gentleman, well, minus the man-handling, but even that is not so bad. I’ve never had a platonic relationship with men of any age, and now that I’m examining it, it makes me feel slightly strange."
