Jake sees my face and gives a slight shake of the head. I force myself to relax. He’s right. I wouldn’t be doing myself any favors by causing a scene.
From the doorway, Mulder’s wife consults with the caterer before turning to address the group. “Dinner is served!”
15
Jake
Last summer I tagged along with Brooks and his parents to Italy for a couple weeks. The Weston family owns a villa in Positano, one of the wealthier regions on the Amalfi Coast. The coast was stunning, but Brooks and I explored other areas as well, including Naples and Pompeii and the infamous Mount Vesuvius. I imagine living anywhere near a volcano would be insanely stressful. I’d constantly be shooting wary glances at it, wondering when it was going to erupt—and knowing it can erupt. Knowing it has the power to wipe away an entire civilization, because it happened to Pompeii.
Tonight Brenna is that volcano.
The amount of times that steam has practically rolled out of her ears is almost comical. I’d laugh at her barely checked rage if it didn’t match my own.
Theo Nilsson is a cool dude, but the Mulder brothers? Not so much. Ed, in particular, is the supreme jackass that Brenna claimed he was. He cuts his wife down at every chance. He’s rude to the catering staff. And worst of all, he’s dismissive of Brenna and every word she says.
On the bright side, dinner is fantastic. I love to eat, so I’m all about this menu: fried scallops, stuffed cod cakes, roasted cauliflower. Jesus. And the pan-roasted white fish that serves as our entrée is to die for. Though if it were up to Brenna, Ed Mulder would be choking on his fish and dropping dead at the table.
“How long have you and Jake been together?” Lena Nilsson asks Brenna.
My fake girlfriend manages to find a smile for Nils’s wife. “Not long at all. Just a few months.”
“We started dating at the start of winter semester,” I supply.
“And how does her father feel about that?” Mulder says with a chuckle.
Her father. Rather than pose the question to Brenna herself, he asks me, and I notice Brenna’s fingers tighten around her fork. She looks like she wants to take that fork and stab Mulder in the eye with it.
Instead, she answers for me. “My father doesn’t know.”
His eyebrows sweep upward. “Why’s that?”
“We’re keeping the relationship under wraps for now. Our hockey teams have been competing against each other all year, and now we’ll be facing off in the conference championship.” Brenna reaches for her crystal water glass. “We decided it was best not to make waves at the moment.”
I look around the table with a grin. “So I’m sure it goes without saying, but on the off chance you run into Coach Chad Jensen, don’t mention you saw me with his daughter.”
Lena smiles broadly. “That’s so romantic! Forbidden love.”
Brenna tenses at the L-word. I wink at my soon-to-be-teammate’s wife and say, “The best kind.”
“Lindsay, these centerpieces are gorgeous,” Karen Mulder remarks, changing the subject. “Did you make them yourself?”
Mulder’s silent, elegant wife nods demurely. I get the feeling she doesn’t talk much. I also get the feeling that’s the way Mulder prefers it.
“They’re beautiful,” Brenna agrees, eyeing the three stained-glass bowls that contain an array of fresh flowers and sprigs of baby’s breath.
“It’s flowers,” Mulder cracks. “Hardly deserving of this fanfare.”
His brother Dave guffaws.
“Ed,” Lindsay says tightly, and it’s the first time she’s conveyed any negative emotion toward her husband. Any emotion at all, frankly.
“What?” He polishes off the rest of his white wine. “It’s a centerpiece, sweetheart. Who cares? It amazes me the crap that you deem important.”
Brenna puts her fork down. I see her nostrils flare, her lips part, and I slide my hand under the table to cup her thigh.
Her mouth closes. She turns toward me, but I can’t decipher her expression. Meanwhile, her thigh is warm and firm beneath my palm. I can’t help myself. I give it a slight caress.
Brenna bites her lower lip.
I hide a smile. Then I stroke her thigh again. I wish I could stroke other parts of her, too. That tight sweater looks so good on her, and my fingers are itching to play with her tits.
Fuck me. I’m desperately hoping this night ends with a hookup. That’s why I asked for a real date, because I’m wildly attracted to her and want nothing more than to sleep with her. The last few times I’ve seen her, my body has responded on a primal level.
And I’m not even hurting for sex, for chrissake. I fooled around with a chick from Boston College last week. We met at a party, hit it off, and she offered me a ride home and proceeded to suck me off in her car. Afterward, we found ourselves in the backseat, and judging by the stars in her eyes when I finally lifted my head from between her legs, I think she was pretty satisfied.