Page 15 of Never Pucking Ending

For the first time in an hour, I smile.

“Heard they were your favorite,” she tells me as I stare at the pink wrapped Hershey kiss in the center of my palm.

I let out a soft chuckle and unwrap it, popping the chocolate into my mouth and letting it melt against my cheek. “It’s better than a fucking Sour Patch Kid.”

She laughs, pinching my side. “I agree.”

I drape an arm over her shoulder. “Thank you for coming, Bells.”

Her arm hooks around my waist as we begin walking toward where I can see my dad and Nora waiting by the side exit. “I wouldn’t have missed it, Jess.”

I can tell she means that, no matter what’s transpired between us. And it’s the first time in days that I think we may actually be able to move past things.

I don’t know why I do it, but as we’re walking, I lean down and press a kiss to the crown of her skull. Her arm twitches around me as though she’s surprised by the moment of affection, but she doesn’t say anything.

Then again, I don’t think she needs to.

Her fingers dig into the material of my shirt as our parents greet us with a smile.

And I wonder if they ever suspected that I feel for her what they feel for each other.

CHAPTER FIVE

Belle

One of the perks that comes with knowing a professional athlete is the dining options that come with them. Gone are the loud restaurant dining rooms where you can barely hear the people you’re sitting next to, and in its place are private VIP lounges where you can’t get photographed as you’re eating. There have been one too many times unflattering pictures of me cramming something into my mouth have gone viral on the internet with ridiculous headlines that usually pertained to my weight.

I used to consider my outings with Jesse and our family as research opportunities long before Belle’s Place became a thing. I’d take mental notes of the things I liked and didn’t like for when I finally opened my own establishment. Privacy was amongst the most important, which is why all of Jesse’s friends and teammates would spend most of their time in the upstairs lounge at the club and away from the general public who would try getting pictures of autographs.

“This place is swanky,” Mom says under her breath, nudging my elbow as the hostess shows us to the private section we’ll be dining at. “Who would have thought little Jesse would get us into a steakhouse like this on little to no notice?”

I snort. When has Jesse ever been considered little? Maybe when he was five, but by the time we came into the picture he had hit puberty and a growth spurt that put him at well over six feet.

Mom sits next to Jesse’s dad, leaving the only two seats open across from them. Jesse pulls my chair out and waits for me to sit before he joins me, tucking his phone onto the corner of the table face down. The habit makes me smile. How many times did his father drill us about not using cell phones at the dinner table? We had to have them face down, so we weren’t tempted to look at them.

When the waitress takes our drink orders, I don’t miss the flirty eyes she shoots Jesse. Mom sees it too and hides an amused smile behind her water glass as she takes a sip. We share a look, both of us rolling our eyes as the twenty-something-year-old bats her thick lashes at him before turning to go to the bar.

Frank remains focused on the menu, not paying any attention to his son’s newest admirer. “The steak looks good here. Although it may be too late in the day to do surf and turf.”

I bite down on my lip to hide my grin over his obliviousness. Jesse catches on, bumping his leg against mine as if telling me to behave myself. I mimic the movement, but he catches my knee in his palm and squeezes once. I expect him to let go after we share a small smile, but he holds onto it as his eyes go down to the menu to scan it.

I’m about to say something when I stop myself, glancing down at where his large hand slides up and settles on the spot just above my knee. My thigh is by no means small, but his hand encompasses it like it’s a twig. The thought of those long fingers doing anything else on my body is not what I should be thinking about in a public place, but my mind goes there anyway. The little slut.

“What are you getting, Bells?” he asks, humor in his tone that tells me he knows I’m gawking at him.

Clearing my throat, I turn my head to the menu and say the first thing that I see. “The chicken marsala.”

Mom’s head pops up with a deep frown wrinkling the corners of her mouth. “Honey, you’re allergic to mushrooms.”

Jesse coughs out a laugh, his fingers digging into the sides of my knee still trapped under his grasp.

I want to smack him. “I forgot,” I murmur weakly, wincing at how unconvincing I sound. Skimming the page, I land on the next best thing. “I think I’ll do the chicken cordon bleu. Can’t go wrong with that.”

Mom nods in agreement, listing a few dishes she thinks looks good before asking us if we want to share an appetizer.

Jesse doesn’t release my leg, not even when the cute blond comes back over and starts passing out our drinks. Moscato for me and Mom, whiskey sour for Frank, and an ice water with lemon for the man beside me.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?” the waitress asks, stepping closer to Jesse. She looks like she’s trying to stick her chest out, but the uniform top doesn’t do well showing off what’s obviously underneath.