To Each Her Own Page 17

  Erin kept discovering these things about him. Just when she thought she had him figured out, he surprised her with some new (sometimes incongruous) facet of his personality. She shouldn't be surprised by the wine, though. As much as he knew about cooking, it stood to reason he would know about wine, too.

  Jay wheeled up to his usual spot at the table and removed his baseball cap, tossing it to the nearest empty dinette chair. His blond hair was flattened a little, but on Jay even hat-hair could be charming.

  When Erin sat down and joined him, the aroma of the homemade sauce sitting on the table made her mouth water. Jay quickly plated their pasta, covered it with sauce, and then poured them some wine. Erin took a bite of the pasta and rolled her eyes with ecstasy as the heavenly flavor filled her mouth. “Oh, my God, Jay. This is awesome.”

  He smiled with satisfaction, his blue-gray eyes trained on her. His mouth was too full of his own bite to speak.

  “You're a freaking genius.” Erin wondered if he had some Italian mixed in with his blond-haired, blue-eyed, German-and-maybe-Viking ancestors. “Do you have some special, secret ingredient?”

  He sat back and shrugged. “Just the stuff you saw me chopping. Fresh tomatoes, onion, peppers, garlic, and a bunch of other shit I threw in—spices and herbs. I like to experiment.”

  That made Erin think again of Nana, and she smiled. “My grandma cooked like that. She never used a recipe for anything. Zac and I tried it a couple of times—you know, experimenting.”

  Faint crinkles at the corners of Jay’s eyes deepened. “Let me guess. It didn't turn out so well?”

  “No.” The memory turned Erin's smile rueful. “We almost burned down the house. Apparently,” she said with feigned gravity, “water is bad for grease fires.”

  Jay chuckled, and the sound of it rippled through her, like someone was tickling the back of her neck with a feather. Suddenly feeling self-conscious and trying not to blush, she rolled another bite of pasta onto her fork and said, “What about you? How did you learn to cook?”

  “I don't know. Just started messing around in the kitchen.” He picked up the napkin on his lap and wiped his mouth. “I had to change the way I ate after my injury. It's better if I'm careful about what I eat and drink and stay on a schedule, if I can. Sometimes it doesn't always happen because life gets in the way.”

  He looked down for a second, and then, as though he'd made a decision about something, he looked up at her, his expression frank. “The schedule helps, you know, with my bladder and bowel management.” He cleared his throat. “Do you . . . know about all that?”

  “Yeah,” she answered with a nod. “I know.”

  He colored a little, which was unusual. He was usually so confident. “Sorry. Probably shouldn't bring that up during dinner.”

  “It's okay. It's not a big deal.” She thrust the pasta still waiting on her fork into her mouth to emphasize her point. She knew he probably had to use a catheter to pee, and she knew what “bowel management” entailed: He had to use his fingers or a suppository to stimulate his bowel. She didn't care, and she didn't want him to be embarrassed or feel awkward about it. Everyone had to go somehow.

  Jay seemed relieved he didn't have to go into more detail on the subject, and his shoulders relaxed. “When I was married, before I got hurt, my diet was crap, and Jennifer wasn't any help. She wasn't exactly Betty Crocker. Her idea of cooking was Hamburger Helper and asparagus from a can.”

  Erin scrunched her nose. “Canned asparagus is disgusting. But what's wrong with Hamburger Helper?”

  “It comes from a box,” he said, like the answer was obvious.

  “Don't knock the box."

  He tilted his head a bit and shook it. “That shit is all preservatives, darlin'. It's bad for you. You should be more careful what you put into your body.”

  It warmed Erin from the inside out that he cared, and she smiled. “I'll keep that in mind, Dr. Oz.”

  “I'm serious.”

  “Trust me,” said Erin. “My body will go into convulsions if I put too much healthy stuff in it.”

  Jay rolled his eyes and pursed his mouth disapprovingly, but then he studied her, the ghost of his trademark smirk telling her he wasn't really annoyed—far from it.

  Her skin tingled when she noticed the intent way he was looking at her, and she grinned for no real reason, other than she couldn't hold it in anymore. God, what he did to her. She had to look down for a second to keep yet another blush at bay.

  “So, after Jennifer split,” she prompted, getting back to the original subject, “you got into cooking?”

  He traced his jaw with his fingers, making a rasping noise against his stubble. “Yeah. It wasn't like there was anyone else to do it, and it was kind of therapeutic in a way. Cooking relaxes me, gets my mind off things. It's a lot like science, like chemistry. It's all about discovering what ingredients work together and which ones don't.”

  “No wonder I'm so bad at cooking.” She made a face. “I suck at science, and I got a C in high school chemistry.”

  She took a sip of her wine and liked the way it went down her throat, warm and spicy. Jay had been right. It enhanced the taste of the pasta, made the flavors more intense. She vaguely remembered this from another life, when she'd been a different person, before things had gone all wrong. It was something pleasant she'd forgotten, like a really good pedicure. Or the era when MTV actually showed music videos.

  “It's not that hard,” said Jay, breaking into her reverie. “Once you know the basics of cooking, you can get creative. But the biggest thing I've learned? The ingredients have to be fresh, not from a box.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Erin said, but she was smiling. “Whatever your secret is, you're awesome at it. You should be proud.”

  He broke eye contact with her and muttered a sardonic “Yeah” before forking a bite of pasta.

  Erin frowned. “Why did you say 'yeah' like that?”

  He looked up at her. “It's nothing. Just something you said made me think of my old man.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I take it that's not a good thing.”

  Jay wiped his mouth and sat back. “He thought I was a pussy for taking up cooking. When it was clear I wasn't ever gonna walk again, he thought I should man up and try to overcome my disability—you know, do something macho like snow ski in the Paralympics or drag my ass up fucking Mount Everest. Needless to say, the cooking was a disappointment.”

  “God. I'm sorry.”

  Jay shrugged as if to dismiss it, but she could sense the pain behind it. “You know,” he said, “I used to be a mechanic in his garage. The original plan was I'd eventually become his partner, but he never wanted me back after my accident.”

  Her heart twisted.

  “I still could have done it—worked with him. I just needed to adapt a few things, mostly just get things within my reach, because everything's about height when you're in a chair, you know? But he wouldn't have it.” He stared out the kitchen window at the dark backyard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

  Erin's whole body tensed with biting fury. “Your dad's a jackass.”

  “No argument there,” Jay said, turning back to her and giving her an ironic version of his smirk. “But there's always a silver lining, right? At least the asshole never tried to hit me again.”

  Erin was disgusted by that and sorry for Jay, and it must have shown on her face.

  “Come on, darlin'. Don't look at me like that. I don't even know why I was thinking about it. It all went down years ago.”

  “How long ago was it?”

  He glanced away for a second, seemed to think about it, and said, “2005.”

  “That's . . . a long time.”

  “Yeah.”

  Something disturbing niggled at the back of Erin's mind. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine,” he said, watching her.

  Her stomach clenched. Jay was twenty-nine, and 2005 would make it eight years since his accident. Just like Panhead.

&nb
sp; No, no, no. It couldn't be. Was she the biggest dumbass on the planet or just paranoid?

  Jay said something to her, but she had no clue what it was. “Um, what did you say?”

  He smiled, and there was nothing suspicious about it. It didn't shout, I've been Panhead all along, and you've been duped. “I asked how old you were,” he said.

  “Oh. Twenty-six,” she managed to answer, but her mind was still on Panhead.

  No. Stop. She wouldn't go there. It would be mortifying, and she didn't want to ruin whatever good thing was developing between her and Jay by bringing up Panhead.

  So there were similarities. He wasn't Panhead. Jay wouldn't do that to her. He would tell her. And she didn't want to creep him out by admitting she was chatting from time to time with a wheeler from a dev website—which she would have to do if she asked him about it. She realized she was the one deceiving him, not the other way around, and she felt guilty. She would have to end her chats with Panhead.

  “Tell me about your bike,” Erin said quickly, changing the subject before Jay picked up on the fact that she was having an internal freak-out.

  He watched her for what seemed a second too long and said, “What do you want to know?”

  She half-shrugged. “I don't know anything about motorcycles. Are you rebuilding it from scratch?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  “It's a Harley, right?”

  “Yeah.” He sipped his wine.

  She hesitated, not sure if she should ask him the question she'd been wondering about since the first time she'd seen him working on the bike.

  He grinned wryly. “Let me guess. You want to know why a dude with paraplegia is restoring a bike he'll never be able to ride?”

  She was a little embarrassed but curious enough to admit the truth. “Yeah.”

  “It's okay.” He spoke with a bit of his usual smirk but then grew pensive. “I don't know. It's symbolic, I guess.”

  “The bike's symbolic?”

  “Yeah.” He sat back in his chair and loosely gripped his tires. “It's the bike I broke my back on.”

  “Oh.”

  “I figure if I can rebuild it, I can rebuild my life, too.”

  “Oh,” Erin said again. What he'd just said was kind of profound, and she was moved by it. She wasn't sure what to say.

  “It's stupid, right?” He sounded uncertain—a rare thing for Jay. He ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, I sound like a pussy. Maybe my old man was right.”

  “No, he wasn't,” Erin said softly, a little in awe of him. “I think it must take a lot of strength to face something so painful. But I don't get it. I mean, it looks to me like you've done a pretty good job of rebuilding your life. You make a decent living. You've moved on and done well for yourself.”

  He nodded. “In some ways, yeah. But I've been injured a long time, and it's still taken me all this time to even be able to look at it—the bike.”

  “I would think that's normal. I can't believe you even kept it.”

  “Yeah. I guess that is kind of strange.”

  “Maybe a little,” she said with a smile, “but I get it. It's a symbol of your survival.”

  He nodded again. “I started restoring it last year, and it gives me this feeling of satisfaction to see that I'm making progress. It was pretty much a hunk of scrap metal.”

  Erin tried not to wince. The thought of Jay being on that bike when it was turned into scrap metal made her feel ill.

  “Restoring it is just something I have to do, like a personal quest or some shit like that.”

  She smiled. “So, what will you do with the bike once you're finished?”

  He shook his head. “I don't know. I thought about giving it to my little brother, but it's got bad mojo now, you know?”

  Erin nodded. “You could sell it.”

  “Yeah, but I don't know that I could sell it to someone in good conscience without telling them about the bad mojo. It would be sort of like trying to sell a haunted house.” After a beat, a slow, caustic smirk spread across his handsome features. “Maybe I'll give it to my dad.”

  She laughed. “That's a great idea.”

  His smirk softened into a grin that made her stomach flutter. God, he was a gorgeous man, and she wanted to be closer to him. As if he had read her mind, his grin disappeared, his face became intense, and his eyes locked onto hers. He pushed his chair out from the table and held out his hand. She placed hers in his warm rough one, and he pulled her onto his lap in one smooth move.

  Erin put her arm around his shoulders and looked down at him. With her free hand, she cradled his face. She loved the feel of the soft-yet-scratchy golden stubble on his jaw that tickled her palm.

  “I'm gonna kiss you now, if that's okay,” he said, his blue eyes darkening sensually.

  Her heart did a somersault. “Um, yeah. A kiss would be good.”

  He smiled and worked his fingers into her hair, making her scalp tingle. Then he brought her mouth to his. Her senses were overwhelmed: his spicy, clean scent mixed with the aromas and flavors from their dinner, his thick, soft hair brushing against her arm, and his hard, muscular chest against her breast. His mouth was hot, and his tongue played with hers in a dance that seared her insides.

  When they came up for air, she hugged him tightly, burying her head in the curve of his shoulder. Her heart was beating wildly, and she felt flushed and breathless. “Thank you,” she whispered next to his ear, and then she pulled back a little to see his face.

  His eyes were still hooded and filled with the heat of their kiss. “For what?”

  She grazed her fingertips over his lips. “For . . . ” She trailed off and looked down, feeling shy all of a sudden. Reminding herself she wasn't a sixteen-year-old girl, she looked him in the eye and gave him a tender smile. “For being such a gentleman. For respecting me. For—I don't know—courting me, I guess? And for being patient.”

  He pulled her in for another kiss, this one short and deliciously sweet. When he spoke, his voice was silk against her skin. “Trust me, darlin'. You're worth the wait.”

  Chapter 20

  emanomaly: So, I'm sorry, but I can't chat with you anymore.

  Panhead: Why not?

  emanomaly: You're not going to believe this, but it has to do with my roommate.

  Panhead: The wheeler? What does he have to do with it?

  emanomaly: Things have changed with him.

  Panhead: Changed how?

  emanomaly: How to say this without jinxing it . . .

  Panhead: Say what? Are you starting to like him?

  There was a pause.

  emanomaly: Yes.

  Jay's heart expanded. He worked the wheels of his chair back and forth as he stared at the screen of his laptop, trying to keep from pumping his fists in the air like a dork. Chopper, who was lying on his papasan cushion next to Jay's bed, pricked up his ears and opened one eye.

  “She likes me,” Jay said to him, arching a brow. It wasn't like he didn't already know, but it was nice to have definite confirmation.

  Chopper was unimpressed and closed his eye. Grinning, Jay shook his head and got back to typing.

  Panhead: Wow. You like him?

  emanomaly: It's a bad idea, I know. I'm an idiot for getting involved with him, but I can't help it.

  Panhead: Why does that make you an idiot?

  Emanomaly: Because every single relationship I've ever had has ended shitty, especially the ones with wheelers.

  Panhead: That doesn't mean this one will.

  emanomaly: True. But the odds are stacked against me. You'd think, at some point, I'd see a pattern and stop.

  Panhead: You can't be alone forever. It goes against human nature. You should take the risk and go for it.

  emanomaly: Yeah, well, I guess I'll see where it goes. That's why I can't chat with you anymore.

  Panhead: He doesn't want you to?

  emanomaly: He doesn't know, and I don't want him to. I would be embarrassed if he knew I w
as chatting with someone from the dev website. He says he's okay now with the dev thing, but I don't feel right about it. And I don't want to lie to him.

  Yeah. Lying was bad. Jay shoved back the guilt jabbing at his conscience and let relief trickle in. This was the perfect solution. He wouldn't have to tell Erin anything. The Panhead/emanomaly thing could die a quiet death, both sides mutually agreeing it should end, and Erin never had to know he was Panhead. He'd been trying to find a way to tell her, but it never seemed to be the right time.

  Things had been going so well with her. She'd even opened up to him about a few things, but the fact that she'd never mentioned her writing told him she still didn't quite trust him. The last thing he wanted to do was tell her he'd been lying to her for weeks. She already had trust issues. Maybe she would understand; maybe she wouldn't. But he didn't want to do anything to ruin what was budding between them. Why take the risk if he didn't have to?

  Panhead: I understand.

  emanomaly: I'll miss chatting with you.

  Panhead: Me, too. I guess this means I won't get to read any more of your writing?

  emanomaly: Oh! I forgot. I got the comments you e-mailed about my novel. Thanks. They were REALLY helpful.

  Panhead: It's a great story. There's only a few things I would change from the wheeler's perspective. Most of the stuff, you nailed. The wheeler dude is believable and realistic, and the mystery part is good, too.

  emanomaly: Thanks!! You don't know how much that means to me.

  Panhead: It's just the truth.

  emanomaly: So . . . I have other stuff I've written.

  Panhead: About wheelers?

  emanomaly: No. Nothing like that. Just stuff I've started but never finished because I thought it was crap. One is a thriller. One is a romance.

  Panhead: Can I take a look?

  emanomaly: You really want to, or are you just being nice?

  Panhead: I really want to.

  There was another long pause, and then, finally, something popped up.

  emanomaly: I'm grappling.

  Panhead: With what?

  emanomaly: Well, in order for you to read more of my writing, we have to keep chatting.