33 #PlainBrownWrapper

 

“You want to do what?”

 

Jon watched her eyes go wide with horror.  She was appalled.  Or maybe it was terrified since one hand fisted at the base of her throat with nothing to grasp.  Witnessing it brought him a twinge of remorse, since she’d thought herself safe with him tonight.

 

In his defense, the evening wasn’t exactly going according to plan.  He’d figured they would have dinner, wine, sex and then talk about his interest in Peabody’s.  Then he got irritated about… damn near everything, ending with her disposable approach to their friendship.  That he could at least blame on the fucking Peabody family, and in doing so, give Cookie her own slice of retribution.

 

After the way they treated her at the will reading and the few other things she’d told him, she deserved retribution.  He just needed to convince her of it.

 

“I want to help you run Peabody’s into the ground,” he repeated, warming to the idea.  “Think of how liberating it would be to have those shitty human beings under your control.  To show them how it feels to be undervalued.”

 

“I… I’m still trying to grasp why you were perturbed with me one moment and ready to vindicate me the next.”

 

“I was more perturbed with myself than you up until the last.  That’s when I decided we would both benefit from this piece of very expensive therapy.”

 

There may be no pendant for her to fidget with, but Cookie’s fist constricted and released repetitively against her sternum.  She was obviously agitated, so Jon propped an elbow on the table to catch her hand mid-flex and folded it inside his.

 

Wandering eyes slid to where they joined and blinked a couple of times before lifting to his face.

 

“What about Tori and Craig?  Peabody’s is a windfall for them.  And while ownership isn’t ideal for me, it certainly relieves the financial burden I’ve been carrying.  I can’t throw all that way out of spite.”

 

Okay, so maybe his impulsiveness meant Jon hadn’t thought through all the details.  Not everybody had millions to blow, even if her house was worth millions. 

 

“I, uh….  I didn’t realize you were carrying a financial burden.”

 

A delicate scrunch of the nose revealed her distaste.  “It’s not something I enjoy talking about, but my late husband left me in a difficult spot that I’m still recovering from.  Selling my share of the company would provide a welcome level of security.”

 

He wasn’t going to ask.  It was none of his business why or how she got left in a difficult spot.  She would tell him if she wanted to.  Otherwise, he was just being nosy. 

 

“How long ago did you lose your husband?”

 

“Seven years.”

 

Damn.  And she was still recovering?  That wasn’t a “spot”, it was being buried alive.  Had the husband suffered a long illness and accumulated a pile of medical bills?

 

You’re not going to ask about that.

 

Maybe not directly.

 

“What happened, if you don’t mind telling me?”

 

A frowning Teddi’s focus fell to where Jon’s thumb absently skated over her knuckles.  “He committed suicide.”

 

You’re a fucking idiot.  You know that, Bongiovi?  A nosy fucking idiot.

 

“Oh, Jesus.  I’m so sorry.  Sorry it happened and sorry to bring up bad memories.”

 

She shook her head and lifted a wooden smile that matched the emptiness in her eyes.  The complete absence of emotion was odd, he thought, but at least she wasn’t crying over his stupidity.

 

“Thank you, but it was a long time ago.  I’m no longer upset by his selfishness and my blindness in missing the signs.” 

 

“Okay.  Good.  But if you are, I’d be happy to listen to anything you want to share.”

 

“If I do that, you’ll think I’m a blabbermouth all the time, when it’s really just with you.”  A little bit of humor crept into the edges of blue irises and whittled the wood of her smile.  “Until just a moment ago, Tori was the only one who knew Truman didn’t die from a heart attack.”

 

He’d opened the door, but Jon couldn’t push her through it.  His curiosity would just have to suffer, but he did want to make one thing clear. 

 

“You’re only a blabbermouth when you’re harping about hashtags.”

 

The teasing transformed the curve of her mouth into a more natural one.  “Which is what we should really be talking about.”

 

“Of all the things we could talk about, that’s at the bottom of the fucking list,” he declared. “Let’s discuss Peabody’s.  Or give me the story about your husband and financial problems.  Hell, feel free to share some of those bribery ideas of yours if you want, but I’m not talking about hashtags.”

 

“Fine.”  Her free hand came to blanket his, and Jon found himself sandwiched between two squeezing palms in a hand hug.  “Truman had a gambling addiction that led him to take thousands in credit card advances.  He also acquired multiple mortgages on the home he owned before our marriage.  I can only assume dying was preferable to sharing that information with me, since he left that task to the banks and bookies.” 

 

“There was no life insurance?”

 

“There was, but he liquidated it in the weeks before his death.”

 

“Christ,” he breathed.  “It’s no wonder you hide in your house.  People haven’t done right by you.”

 

“That’s not entirely true, but I have had some challenges.” She gave him a reassuring pat on the back of the hand.  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather table the Peabody topic in favor of something lighter.  Our dinner conversation has been a bit weighty so far.”

 

And the weight of it rested on her shoulders and in the groove between her eyebrows.  She was starting to look like she had when he got here yesterday – as though she was responsible for the cares of the world.  It made Jon feel like a heel.

 

“Yeah, sure.”  Slipping free of her grasp, he picked up their plates.  “Come talk to me about whatever you want while I do dishes.”

 

She popped up, grabbing the opposite edge of the china in a gentle tug-of-war.  “While I understand from numerous interviews that dishes are your thing, I’m not prepared for you to do mine.”

 

“But you cooked.”

 

The breath she released through her nose was sheer, if subtle, exasperation.  “Let go of the damn plates, please.  I can be finished with them before you download Twitter.”

 

“That wouldn’t be hard, since I’m not downloading it.”

 

He would swear that even her eyes huffed when they found his.  “You’ve asked me to flush millions of dollars away, and I haven’t said no.  The least you can do is pretend to consider my proposal.”

 

There was no consideration.  From the moment she started spouting kinky sex scenarios that hit him in a very personal place, the decision was made.  He didn’t understand how she could possibly know what his dark desires were, but she’d nailed at least one of them.  Jon had never told anyone he wanted to stifle his voice during sex, but somehow Cookie – Gypsy – figured it out. 

 

He was interested to see what else her intuition sensed. 

 

“How about we just leave the dishes?  I’ve been dying to know if you’re wearing panties under that dress.” The bold statement startled her into releasing the plates, which he then swept away and took toward the sink, saying over his shoulder.  “Five minutes to do these dishes, and I’m gonna find out.”

 

“You’re a stubborn man.”  Her sigh was infused with a hint of laughter.  “And a devious one.  Scrape the leftovers into the disposal.”

 

“Nobody just walked up and handed me a platinum album,” he said over the running water while guiding pasta remnants into the trap.  “Never would’ve gotten one without being stubborn.”

 

The rest of the wine was emptied into their glasses, which she brought to the island before placing the bottle into the recycle bin.  “I was making an observation, not maligning your character.  Tenacity is part of the magnetism that draws women to you.  We like the thought that you’ll stop at nothing to get what you want – particularly if it’s us.”

 

“Ha,” Jon snorted in harmony with the quiet disposal hum before flipping the switch to silence it again.   “I hate to be a buzzkill, but there are very few women that are worth the effort I put into making music.”

 

“As far as I can tell, Dorothea was the only one you considered to be.  The rest….  Forgive the crude pun, but they came easy.”

 

Not all of them had come easy, but they weren’t worth the time investment they demanded.  When a woman required more work than his work, he generally lost interest.  Thus, his post-divorce dating drought.  If they were all as comfortable to be with as Dr. Cookie in all her nervousness, he might date more. 

 

Then again, why bother?  He was enjoying the Cookie/Gypsy anomaly.

 

“I’m sticking around for a while.”

 

“Stay as long as you like,” she invited, misinterpreting his intention.  “Spend the night if you wish.”

 

Jon shut off the water once the plates were rinsed and opened the dishwasher.  Cutting a brief glance her way, he pulled out the bottom rack and clarified, “I don’t mean tonight.  I mean our friendship.  You can expect me to come back again.”

 

“So, you’re agreeing to my incentive program?”

 

He finished loading the plates and silverware and stood upright, lifting the appliance door shut in the process.  Propping a hip against the island, he folded his arms and mused, “Probably, but it’s not why I’ll be back.”

 

“Oh?”  She swirled the pale wine in the bottom of her glass and studied the reflections created by pendant lights hanging overhead.  “Then why?”

 

The reasons were plentiful.   First and foremost, he didn’t have to go through that “getting to know you” bullshit, which is another thing that turned him off to the idea of dating.  She already knew more about him than most people would discover in five years’ time, which should scare the bejesus out of him if he didn’t find it so damn convenient.

 

Besides that, she was smart, thoughtful, comfortable to be with, amazing in bed, easy on the eyes and could cook.  She wasn’t demanding, except when it was for his own good, and there was an intriguing personality lurking behind all that beigeness.  He wanted to tear away the plain brown wrapper and get a better look at it.

 

So there really wasn’t a singular reason, other than, “You.” 

 

Her attention snapped from the wine to his eyes.  “Don’t.  Don’t try to build my self-esteem because you believe it to be lacking.”

 

“I’m not,” he vowed, stepping around the island and gently taking away her glass.  “There’s something about you that I’m drawn to.  I get a taste, thinking it’ll be enough, but then the flavor changes.”

 

Black pupils eroded her irises as Jon stroked knuckles along a jawline that leaned into the touch.  “You’re supposed to be arrogant, controlling and self-centered.”

 

“I am.”

 

“No,” Teddi denied quietly, hitching her chin up as he gradually bent closer.  “You simply use those things to protect your poet’s soul.”

 

“Poet’s soul?”  They were so close that her breath mingled into his soft laugh.  “There’s nothing poetic about the things I’m thinking right now.”

 

“Thank God for that.  Poetry doesn’t belong in bed.”

 

Jon grinned against her lips. 

 

Yeah.  He needed to get rid of the plain brown wrapper.