Page 10 of Merging Wright

“Nothing,” she mutters.

“No, just say it. I know you have all these little nicknames for me. Just say it to my face, Jane.” I don’t know why I’m egging her on. Perhaps I want her to bite back. I need to fight, but I also want the pushback she gives me.

Her lip chewing turns to aggressive bites, and I want to tug at that lower lip with my own teeth. Then, I want to press my mouth to hers, take the pain of those nips and suck at that sensitive skin.

Whoa!

I scrub a hand down my face, exhaling heavily in an attempt to calm down. What am I thinking? I do not want to kiss Jane. I cannot touch Jane. But something niggles inside me, hinting I might need that mouth. I could use her touch.

Yeah, that isn’t going to happen, and I reach for the radio, turning the dial to mute the volume.

Then, I call Tucker. What I need is someone to talk some sense into me or at least distract me from thinking about foolish things like kissing my pretend wife for real.

7

Playlist: “I Don’t Know About You” – Chris Lane

[Jane]

Sometimes I cannot hate Mach more. Like when we stop for lunch. He wants to order something to go. I can’t drive and eat a salad, and I tell him this. He doesn’t want to listen, and I simply stalk away from him, seating myself at a table in the highway diner. We’ve been driving through Ohio toward Dayton, and the view has been flat. Cornfield after cornfield surrounded us, and I don’t know how my sister was able to trek across the country from Chicago to Los Angeles. Then again, the cross-country scenery shifted, and she had an eager companion, although he was reluctant in the beginning.

The irony strikes me.

I am not happy to be traveling with Mach right now, and I’m certain he’d leave me on the side of the road if he’d be willing to drive this 1976 pickup. I don’t understand what his apprehension is, but there’s definitely a story behind the antique and him. A hundred times, I’ve wanted to ask his thoughts but dismissed questioning him. My riding companion has distracted himself with phone calls, his laptop, and staring out the side window.

He lost his grandfather. He’s been given this truck. He’s been asked to come home.

Those things in and of themselves feel overwhelming and I’m trying to be compassionate. When we lost our granddad, the hole in our family was deep and wide. After our father left our mother with four young children, she flailed. My older brother Garrett assumed the title of man of the house, but Granddad really owned it. As Mom was useless for years, wallowing in misery that our father abandoned her, I fell next in command.

Her hard lessons never left me. A man will never stick with a willful woman.

Eventually, Garrett had both feet out the door, ready to sprint once he left for college. Mae, Lindee, and I went off to our respective schools and didn’t return to Missouri either. In a sense, my mother was left behind all over again. She’s been alone most of her life, just like me. As much as I’ve not wanted to end up like her, I’m slipping into her shadow of loneliness.

“What can I get you, honey?” A kind-voiced server pulls a small pad of paper from her apron.

I remember my waitressing days when I was a teen. The summer job feels like a lifetime ago. “What do you recommend?”

“Burgers are always safe. The turkey club is one of my favorites. Real filling. And we have split pea soup today.”

I gag a little. I hate split pea soup.

The curvy woman leans toward me and lowers her voice. “I’d also recommend getting yourself one of him, but he’s not on the menu.” Her head tilts toward Mach as he stands near the pie case by the front door.

“Unfortunately, he’s already with me.”

The woman tips up a brow and then chuckles softly. “Well, hold onto him, honey. He looks like a keeper.”

He’s a tosser. I almost tell her, but something stops me as Mach leans his head forward, pointing at something in the case.

“I’ll take the chef’s salad.” The waitress shakes her head. “And a diet cola.” I can’t go too wrong with raw vegetables. The soft drink will be my splurge item for the day.

When Mach approaches the table, he carries a small plate in each hand. He sets one before me.

I stare at the offering before glancing up at him. “What’s this?”

“Apple pie. It was the last slice in the case.”

“I . . .” I don’t know what to say. Apple pie is my favorite, especially with the crumble on top like this one has. Heat this up and add a dollop of ice cream, and you have a dessert worthy of an orgasm. Pie is my go-to comfort food, but I have no idea how Mach would know this. He wouldn’t know this, so I dismiss the gesture as luck and thank him for it.