She had nothing to wear since she’d left her clothing down at the pool house, so Jacob supplied her with a dark blue microfiber robe that was decadently soft and enormous on her. Jacob himself dressed in a pair of gray workout shorts and a plain black T-shirt. They stole through the now-darkened house, hand in hand, to Jacob’s enormous kitchens.
He opened the fridge, and she examined the well-stocked shelves hungrily. She lifted a damp cloth on a large container.
“Oysters,” she groaned longingly. Her stomach growled loudly. Jacob gave her an amused glance.
“Oysters it is, apparently.” He pulled the container of oysters out along with a fresh loaf of French bread and a bottle of champagne.
He’d been right about what she needed, as usual. Harper reanimated during the kitchen raid. They sat on two stools next to the cook’s wood-block prep table and proceeded to devour their simple meal. The oysters had a clean, briny flavor. The champagne was dry, crisp, and divine. Jacob entertained her by telling a story about the first time he tried a raw oyster at age sixteen while at a fancy cocktail party, where he’d been a fish out of water. He’d nearly thrown up on the immaculate party hostess and had to make a hasty retreat for the bathroom. The party hostess, who was the wife of the man he was working for, saved him further disgrace by halting him when he initially mistook the cloak closet for the powder room.
“I came this close”—he signified a fraction of an inch with his thumb and forefinger—“to losing my job along with the contents of my stomach all over dozens of rich people’s coats and furs.”
Harper laughed, shaking her head, holding a half shell in hand. “It’s amazing how they grow on you, isn’t it?” she said, nodding at the oyster. “My father first introduced them to me on a trip to Baltimore when I was fifteen.” She tipped an oyster into her mouth, savoring the flavor fully before swallowing. “I thought they were disgusting at first, too, but now . . .” She closed her eyes at the sublime taste. “I crave them. And these are especially delicious. What are you smiling at?” she wondered, grinning.
“Your carnality,” he replied levelly, ripping off a hunk of bread with those deft, powerful hands she loved. “You’re very sensual. I like it. A lot.”
She blinked and straightened on the stool at the heavy-lidded look he gave her before he bit into the bread with even white teeth and chewed. Recognizing her temporary enthrallment, she cleared her throat. He cast a spell effortlessly.
“So, did the infamous oyster incident happen at the house of the man who hired you to take care of his boats? The nice neighbor?”
He paused in the action of lifting his champagne flute to his mouth. “When did I ever say he was nice?”
Harper blinked at his sudden coolness. “I guess you didn’t,” she replied lightly. She regretting saying something that had dampened one of the most carefree moments she’d ever shared with him. But her curiosity was nudged by his sudden change of mood at the mention of the “nice neighbor,” as well. “I said it when you told me how he let you and his friends take out his boats. Was it Clint Jefferies? The neighbor?” she asked with a sudden burst of intuition, recalling what Ruth had told her about his former mentor and a big financial scandal.
He set down his crystal goblet on the table with a brisk thud, and she had her answer. She damned her curiosity, but merely looked at him calmly, refusing to back down.
“Where the hell did you learn about Clint Jefferies?” he demanded.
“I’m a reporter. I overhear a lot of things, even if I’m not directly involved in a story.”
His mouth went hard. He picked up a napkin and wiped off his hands. “So this is your reporter’s curiosity rearing its head again.”
He didn’t say ugly head, but she had the impression that’s what he was thinking, given his frown.
“I’m interested as a human being. I’m making conversation, Jacob.”
“I don’t talk about my past. Is that a problem for you?” he asked quietly. “For this?” he gestured between them.
He was asking her if it was necessary for him to share himself on a deeper level, given the temporary nature of their sexual relationship. She set down her champagne flute and wiped off her mouth.
“Is it because it’s painful? Talking about your past?” she asked.
“No. It’s because it’s not important to me anymore. I don’t want to emphasize it. I refuse to.”
Her gaze swung to his. His mouth slanted in anger. He scared her a little bit, in that moment.
“I told you once that I remake myself every day.” He waved down at himself with his bunched napkin and tossed it heedlessly on the butcher-block table. “This is it. This is who I am. This is what I can offer.”
“The moment,” she whispered.
“The moment,” he agreed.
Harper got up from the stool slowly. Their former lightheartedness might never have existed. The oppressive silence in the big, sleek kitchen seemed to press down on her.
“I think I should be going,” she said.
“Wait.” He grabbed her hand and stood, stepping into her. She glanced up at him, seeing his sharp frustration. For a few seconds, she wasn’t sure what he’d say. It struck her that he didn’t know, either, whether he wanted her to go or to stay.
“I’ll make the moments special, Harper.” He touched her jaw. There was a fire in his eyes, but she saw irritation and . . . concern there, too. “You agreed that you needed something to make you forget your grief, for a while, anyway. I told you I can do that. This is our time now. Don’t walk away when it’s just begun.”