Chapter Thirty-Six Emily
Chapter Thirty-Six
Emily
The shower water is scalding but it’s nothing compared to Jack’s palms as they scrape deliciously around my skin. We’ve done nothing but couch rot all day. He was pretty sullen at first, but after bingeing nearly an entire season of The Golden Girls (his choice) with his phone nowhere in sight, his spirits lifted. Lifted enough to have sex on the couch—which admittedly makes almost everyone feel better. And now, he’s sudsing me up like his life depends on it. He’s already washed my hair and conditioned it, peppered my entire body with kisses so sweet I could die, and now he’s washing me. Head, shoulders, knees, and toes. He keeps squinting because he’s not wearing his glasses or his contacts. Scrumptious. I love him.
I turn and loop my arms around his neck and say it out loud.
He smirks. Kisses me, and then says, “Mm. I love…your nipples.”
“Romantic.”
He laughs. “You already know I love you. It’s time I wax poetic about these nipples you once asked me about and I couldn’t give proper feedback on. But now that I’ve really been up close and personal,” he says, covering me with his hand, “I just need you to know that I’m a big fan.”
“Oh god—you’re never going to be able to be mean to me again, are you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s insufferable. You’re just going to be nice from now on?”
“I would honestly love to be very nice to you every single day.”
We eventually—after another delayed interlude where I’m a little nice to Jack—step out of the shower. I move right into a fluffy towel that Jack is holding open for me and then he wraps me tightly like a human burrito. He kisses my head and pats my toweled ass as I shuffle past and sends me on my way. But on my bed, I find a little gift. One of his Mr.-Rogers-wannabe knit sweaters. He must have run home and grabbed it for me before he joined me in the shower.
Five minutes later, clad in his oversized sweater and a pair of comfy shorts, I meet him in the kitchen. I’m dressed for winter and he’s only wearing his glasses, boxer briefs, and green beaded necklace. We both have wet hair, and he’s…making dinner. He does a double take of me in his sweater when he sees me walk in and then his attention is back on his task at hand, but with a quiet grin.
“What are you making?” I ask, watching him chop veggies.
“A little scrambled-eggs-and-veggies hash. Is that good with you?”
“Absolutely.” My stomach growls as if to punctate my answer. “I’ll crack the eggs.”
Jack stops me with an extended forearm and then points away from the kitchen. “No. I’m cooking you dinner.”
Here’s the thingy-thing, though—I’ve been here before. And when I can’t make a polite face while crunching through the unborn-chicken housing in my food, Jack might get offended. “It’s no big deal. I’ll just do the eggs.”
He sees through my easy-breezy. “Get your ass out of the kitchen, Goldie.”
“Jack…”
“Emily, I swear to god, if you insult me any further by suggesting I can’t crack a damn egg without getting shells in the mix like your other nitwit boyfriends, I will—why are you smiling?”
“Because…you’re still you. You’re not nice to me all the time. It’s just…it’s a relief. I like bickering with you.”
He breathes out a smile. “I’m going to make you dinner. Okay? I’m going to make you dinner because I love you and I want to take care of you sometimes. And I will in no way allow any eggshells on your plate because that’s just disgusting. All right?”
“Can I…can I at least hang out?”
“Do you mean silently judge my process while I work? Yes. You may, but only because you’re pretty.” He’s leaned over now and has picked up Ducky, who looked as if she was about to jump on the counter. He’s holding her like a toddler on his sturdy hip bone and cracking eggs one-handed into a mixing bowl. Not a single shell falls into it and Ducky looks like the happiest cat in all the land.
I take in the sight of Jack Bennett standing in my kitchen in nothing but the necessities, holding my cat and cooking me dinner. His hair is a messy damp ode to the sex we just had, and his grin is an ode to the sex we will have again.
When he’s finished cooking and we carry our plates to the table, I finally ask him the question that’s been burning through me. “Are you okay?”
He stretches out his long legs under the table. “I don’t know how I feel yet, to be honest. I mean, in a way I was ready for the world to know. I had already decided that I would announce it. But it sucks that this is how everyone found out. It kills me that he gets some credit for what I busted my ass for all on my own.”
“Can I say something?” I ask, taking Jack’s hand.
“I love when you say things.”
“I want to murder your dad.”
Jack barks out a laugh. Oh, it’s wonderful. I love when he finds me funny. I love when my sharp, rude humor tickles his fancy in the same way it does mine. How did it take me so long to realize that what I saw in Jack as competitiveness was mostly us deeply relating?
Jack tugs my wrist so that I’m pulled into his lap. “Don’t worry about me. Because one person in my life you haven’t met yet, and I can’t wait to introduce you to, is my agent, Jonathan. He has been in my corner since day one and will absolutely make sure my dad doesn’t get away with this. In fact, I’m willing to bet he’s already concocted two different PR responses to my dad’s video. A message where I’m grateful to finally have the news out and excited to meet readers and booksellers and other authors, brushing over what happened with my dad and not mentioning him at all. Or one where I’m thankful to finally have the news out, and I also publicly renounce my dad and explain that he did not have permission to share the news.”
I slide my hand around the side of Jack’s hair— brunette tonight from the shower. “Which one will you pick?”
He’s thoughtful for a minute. Kisses me once and then smiles. “The second one. I’m done absorbing his shit, and I’m ready to be a little authentic.”
I’m so proud of this man I could burst.
“Now I have a question for you.” He leans back in his chair, hand relaxed across my thigh. “Are you going to move forward with your book?”
I breathe in, hold it, and let it out. “Yes. I am.” A look of relief sweeps over Jack’s face. “I…agree with some of the things Colette said and I’m eager to get to my corner table this weekend and start working on it. But there was a lot I don’t agree with as well. My sisters are reading it now and they promised to give me honest feedback—so maybe if their opinions align with Colette’s, I’ll consider changing those parts; but if not, I’m going to keep it how I want it and hope to find an agent who sees the same vision I have for the story.”
“That’s an excellent plan. And again—I’m so sorry if I pushed you to submit it before—”
I cover his mouth with my finger. “That was a good experience. I learned from it. And the only thing you’re guilty of in that situation is being the most supportive person I could ask for. Onward and upward, right?”
He nods, softly smiling at me. “I think we’re going to be okay.”
“I think so too.”
And the next morning, when I feel the bed dip and watch Jack grab his pants and silently pad toward my door, I don’t even panic. I don’t even fear that he’s changed his mind and is leaving me. It’s a monumental moment in Emily Land.
“Where are you going?” I ask, and he pauses and turns to me with a smile. He makes his way back to my side of the bed, pushes my hair back from my face, and leans down to kiss my cheek.
“Someone’s coming to look at my bike.”
My eyes fully pop open now. “Because it’s so pretty?”
“Yes. And because he wants to buy it.”
“Jack!” I sit up.
He silences me with his finger like I did for him. “It’s been fun to drive but make no mistake, that bike is not important to me. You are important to me. And I only had it for so long because…” He pauses and swallows, clears his throat, and tries again. “I’ve never felt important to someone else before. And now that I am—I don’t take that lightly. You’ve endured so much grief already. I won’t needlessly be the cause of any more of it in your life. The bike goes.”
I smile and then bite his finger. Just a little. Enough to make him grin.