To Hiss or to Kiss (13 page)

Jorge laughs again. “I’d say we start with five minutes and go from there.”

“Oh, that’s not so bad. I was picturing an hour of silent torture.”

“You’re nothing if not direct.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Just stating a fact.” He pauses. “So how about we try after dinner?”

“Definitely after food. And I’m not the only one who can be blunt, mister.”

We are pulling up to his driveway, but he glances my way enough that I can see his raised eyebrow. “Touché.”

My stomach grumbles as Jorge comes to a stop and switches off the engine. “Thank God we’re finally at your house.” I pat my stomach. “How long will it take to cook dinner?”

“I left it in a heated oven. Should be good to go.”

“Awesome. What are we having?” I move to follow Jorge inside the house.

“Swiss chicken and wild rice pilaf.” He holds the front door for me.

“Yum. Dessert?”

“Yes. I’ll be putting in some sticky toffee pudding to cook while we eat the main meal. I figured you’d have a sweet tooth.” He swats my butt as I walk past him, then holds up my bag. “I’ll just take this back to the bedroom first.”

I snatch it from him. “No way. You get dinner served. I know my way.”

Jorge chuckles at my back.

“Someday you’re gonna laugh at me one too many times, mister.”

Jorge responds by continuing to laugh and walking to the kitchen.
Fine
.

I stalk to the bedroom and dump the bag, then hurry back to the kitchen. I’m way too hungry for any games. Jorge is pouring batter into ramekins. The table is set with delicious-smelling food.

“Since you’re practically drooling, feel free to start without me.” Jorge fills a second ramekin.

“I will.” I waste no time digging in.

To his credit, Jorge refrains from laughing. I guess he’s learning.

I’ve already cleaned half a plate by the time he gets the ramekins in the oven and seats himself to start eating. “The meal is good. Thanks.”

He stares at me with a bemused expression. “I’m glad you’re, uh, enjoying it so very, very much.”

My eyes narrow, but that raised eyebrow of his begs me to kiss it. Dammit. I shovel more food in. I’m way past being a lady. I think I’ve been this way since I was somewhere around one minute old.

“You’re grumpy when you’re hungry.”

I choose to ignore his comment. “When will dessert be ready?”

Jorge laughs. “About twenty minutes, plus some time to set.”

“That long?” I pout a little.

“It will be worth it. In the meantime, you can watch me finish eating and maybe participate in some witty dinner conversation.”

“Does it have to be witty?”

“I suppose not. Tell me about your job?”

I watch him spoon a forkful of rice between his luscious lips. “Well, that’s a short conversation that won’t give you much time to eat. I work in an office as an assistant, with all the filing, phone work, and time at the computer that implies.”

“You don’t like your work?”

“It’s fine. It’s just a job. I’m not one of those people who hates her job. I just don’t love it, either. I guess I’m blithely ambivalent about it.”

“So not what you wanted to be when you grew up?”

“I never really wanted to be anything in particular. When I had to answer that question in school, I’d just pick the jobs of my dad or a neighbor or something. Still haven’t found my calling. What about you? What exactly is it that you do?”

Jorge shrugs. “My family is what they call old money.”

“So you basically do nothing?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I am in charge of the family holdings in the eastern United States.”

“Oh.” I try to assimilate that I’m dining with—OK, and have slept with—a bazillionaire or something. “So what does holdings mean exactly?”

He gestures around him. “This property for one. We maintain many properties around the world. I also oversee our investment portfolio in the United States, which is our main source of income in this country. My brother is integral to running a high-tech firm in Europe, and in Central America, we have converted our landholdings into ecotourism.”

“Huh.”

He chuckles. “It’s not as impressive as it sounds. None of us live extravagantly, fine scotch aside. This was my grandmother’s home her whole life. I usually fly coach or drive. I only show off at the necessary parties.”

That comment makes my eyebrows quirk. I’ve never actually met someone who had “necessary parties” to attend. It’s so
Real Housewives
. “So is the wealth on your mother’s or father’s side?”

“Mother’s. And this was where my father was raised. He met my mother while studying in Scotland. With the name MacKay, my father’s family obviously has ancestors from Scotland, and that was a draw for him. My mother grew up in Belize, and since it is a former British colony, it is customary for the wealthy to send their children to the United Kingdom or United States for college. My family owns a resort in Belize and supports a large nature preserve with an emphasis on preserving jaguar habitat. My uncle still runs the place.”

“Huh. Guess that makes sense, uh, given your, uh, abilities.”

Jorge tilts his head in a very catlike gesture. “I suppose it does. My mother’s family is originally from the area of the preserve. I grew up in nearby Belize City for the most part.”

“If you’re from Belize, why does your accent sound slightly Caribbean? Shouldn’t you speak Spanish?”

“I do speak Spanish, although English is the official language in Belize and the most prominent dialect has a strong African influence. Hence the accent that sounds Caribbean. The Spanish never actually completely controlled the area that is now Belize, but they were around. My mother’s ancestors, always the opportunists, ensured they had ties to those in power over the years. Even now I have extended family on my mother’s side who have always lived in Scotland, as well as the United States.”

“Wow. I guess I missed all that history in high school.” I feel slightly embarrassed at my complete ignorance and turn to sarcasm. “So visiting Ohio must have been a real joy?”

He laughs. “I love Ohio. You have four seasons here, unlike Belize. I do love Belize, too. But I have many great memories of spending holidays and summers with my grandparents right here at this house.” He leans over and grabs my hands, using his other to tilt my chin up so I have to look in his eyes. “So how about you? From where do you hail?”

“The greater Toledo area. My parents divorced when I was ten. Then I stayed with my dad. He still lives there.” I shrug, not really comfortable talking about this. I haven’t spoken to my mother since she left. I’ve never even met any of her relatives. I see my dad a few times a year, which consists of him buying me dinner and discussing the Detroit Lions and/or Tigers, depending on the season.

“Only child?”

“That I know of,” I mutter, before thinking better of it. I’m trying
not
to talk about my mother. “And you?”

Jorge quirks a questioning eyebrow at me. “I have a sister and a brother. And before you ask, I am the only one in my immediate family who shifts. My uncle also does.”

“So if Belize isn’t Spanish, how’d you end up with the name Jorge?”

“Good question. For some reason there is a tradition in my family of naming those with shape-shifting ability with a Spanish name. I really don’t know why, but it’s been that way for many generations.”

“So your family can tell when a baby’s born whether or not he or she is a shape-shifter?”

“Only other shifters can. We can smell it.” He pauses but cuts in when I go to ask another question. “Do you wish to not talk about
your
family?”

I nod, suddenly feeling like I want to cry. God, what is it with this man bringing out the crier in me? I haven’t cried this much since I was a hormonal teenager.

“Perhaps we should try the meditation then.”

I nod, wondering if he didn’t bring up all this family stuff just to make meditation look more appealing. I’d much rather learn meditation techniques than ponder my dysfunctional relationship with my dad.

“Sit so you’re very comfortable, but keep your back straight, feet flat on the floor.”

I position myself as requested.

“Now close your eyes and focus on breathing in and out. Fill your whole chest and abdomen with each breath.”

I want to say something snarky, but deep breathing really is relaxing. I feel myself quieting internally.

“Now, let your mind wander as it will, and just let the thoughts float by.”

Huh? Maybe if I count while I breathe.

One, two, three, four, five
, I count in and then the same out.

No, now I’m just counting. This is ridiculous.

I’m interrupted by a mental tap and realize Jorge is trying to speak to me.
“Yeah?”
I ask mentally.

“Just checking on you. You’re frowning.”

“Yeah? Well this
is
rather odd.”

He smiles into my mind.
“Yes, it is. Don’t judge, just be. It can take practice. You’re doing fine.”

I mentally nod and try to let things go. I start to watch my thoughts like a TV show, and suddenly what he meant becomes clearer. I’m just watching the crazy reality TV show that is my mind.

Wait, I can watch my mind? Then who am I?

“Who indeed?”
Jorge voices in my head.

I guess on some level I know I’m not just my mind. This is getting way too philosophical. I go back to watching my mind dart around about all kinds of random stuff—how I need to go grocery shopping, how I miss my cats, the stack of filing left at work, worry for the dogs. On and on it goes.

The sound of the front door opening and closing interrupts my thoughts. My eyes fly open as my head snaps around.

Jorge is gone. I start to get up, but I hear him in my mind.
“Chloe, stay in meditation. I’m experimenting with your range.”

I re-close my eyes, trying to settle in again. I find myself deep breathing without really thinking about it. Maybe I’m a natural at this meditation thing.

A chuckle in my head.
“Yes, you are
extraordinary.
”
There’s a slight tease in his voice I choose to ignore.

“Where are you?”

“You tell me.”

“Outside.”

“I’m serious, Chloe. Can you feel my energy?”

I try to throw out my senses but I’m just picturing what I’ve seen of the outside of his house. My frustration rises.

“It’s OK. Just listen to my voice. Give yourself time.”

That reassurance sort of helps with my frustration, but not as much as I’d like
.
I force myself to stop dwelling and focus on his voice.

“That’s good, Chloe.”

“You sound quieter.”

“Just focus on my voice.”

He continues a litany of encouraging words as I try to focus on his voice as instructed, but it just gets fainter. I’m having trouble keeping my frustration at bay when my thoughts are interrupted by my rumbling stomach. Then the smell of the sticky toffee pudding sinks in, further breaking my concentration.

“Chloe?”
Jorge’s voice sounds louder now.

“You’ve moved closer?”

“Yes, I’m headed back now. It seems I lost you there for a while.”

“Yes, I’m obviously not so much of a natural at this after all.”
I don’t like letting people down, which is exactly why I usually avoid people and their expectations.

“You did very well for your first try.”

The front door opens and closes, and then Jorge is walking into the kitchen. He kisses my cheek and switches back to speaking aloud. “Hey, that was impressive. Monks take years to learn what you can already do without trying.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, there’s still sticky toffee pudding.” The oven timer goes off as if on cue. “I also might have some hand-whipped whipped cream in the refrigerator.”

Well, what girl can resist that? “I’ll get it.” I smile in anticipation. And I won’t let my lack of skills let those dogs down, I promise myself. No matter how much I have to work at it. I’ve got some vacation time coming. Maybe now’s the time to take it. I’m pretty sure I have a place to stay. And that thought turns my smile a little more devilish.

“Thanks.” Jorge pulls out the puddings. They smell heavenly.

“How long do they need to set? My mouth is watering.” I finally find the whipped cream, and I pull it out and set it on the table.

“Just five or so minutes.”

“I’m game for a crumbly mess I can eat now. I’ve always been more about taste than presentation.” I make my way toward a ramekin.

Jorge laughs and playfully swats away my hand. “No ruining my perfectly beautiful puddings!”

“Now who’s being high maintenance?” I dodge for a potholder. At this point it’s just fun to annoy him.

He jostles with me. “I take pride in my work. Nothing wrong with that.” He finally grabs my arms and I recall him snatching me in the dark several nights ago. It feels like I’ve known him much longer than that.

“Fine. But I’m gonna need a distraction.” My voice drops into lower tones.

“That”—he lowers his mouth so it almost touches mine—“can definitely be arranged.” He kisses me softly at first, then with increasing vigor.

My lips part and he sweeps his tongue inside. Who needs dessert when you’ve got this?

Before it seems possible, another timer goes off. Jorge pulls back. “Dessert is ready.”

“Mmm, this wasn’t so bad as a distraction.” My growling stomach makes it clear I still want dessert. I try not to blush.

“I hear your stomach thinks otherwise.” He laughs, going to turn out the puddings onto plates.

I pile mine with whipped cream. It’s so good I am moaning with pleasure while eating it. It’s not great sex, but it’s pretty damn close. For once, I decide not to be quite so blunt and keep that thought to myself.

Following dessert we resume practicing my psychic skills, which don’t seem to show any improvement. After Jorge goes out of range and comes back in several times, I want to scream from frustration but contain myself to beating up one of the pillows on Jorge’s couch.