Chapter 15 Clara #2
“Good idea.” He looks past me to the window; the snow is really starting to come down. “The weather’s getting pretty bad out there. I’m going to close up early since no one will be coming in. You ready to face the music?”
I pin him with a look, then roll my eyes.
Tommy bent over laughing when I told him who’s taking me in in my hour of need.
After he stopped laughing he did say if I end up with the urge to strangle Jack in his sleep, I can snooze in the chair in front of the fire here.
I wouldn’t be the first person to fall asleep there, apparently. “I’m ready.”
“I’ll give you a ride. The temptation to run away might be too strong and Flo will call Jack to find you. Then he’ll call me to help the search party, and I have book club tonight.”
“It isn’t canceled?”
“I can’t think of anything that would convince Miss Celia to rearrange. Zombie apocalypse, maybe, but I’m not certain that’d be enough.”
I close my computer and cross my arms on top of it. “Well, I can’t interfere with book club. I promise not to run away.”
“Appreciate it.” He puts the strap of my bag over his shoulder and spins his keys around his index finger. “I don’t want Miss Celia putting a mark against my name for not being there.”
The second we step outside I’m assaulted by my own hair whipping into my face over and over until I throw myself into the passenger seat. Tommy cranks the heater all the way up and turns the radio low.
I ask him about the book he’s reading and he confesses he hasn’t finished yet. Another thing that could earn him a mark from Miss Celia. The drive only takes a couple of minutes. The snow hitting the windshield is oddly hypnotic but I’m glad I’m not walking in it.
Tommy pulls up behind Harry’s. There’s a red front door beside a larger delivery shutter.
He kills the engine and climbs out, grabbing my bag from the backseat.
“I’ll show you up,” he says when I try to take my bag from him.
He’s making sure I don’t get him in trouble with Miss Celia by running away.
I follow Tommy up a set of stairs, noting another door on the right that I presume goes to Jack’s workshop.
Tommy walks straight in when he reaches the top of the stairs, not bothering to knock, and I feel awkward following him.
Which leaves me clumsily lurking on the top step.
He looks back at me, eyebrows pinched together in confusion.
Am I really behaving like this because of one mostly friendly trip to the woods? Yes, apparently. It’s almost like you shouldn’t press your body against someone who is only just learning to tolerate you.
As soon as I brave walking across the threshold I’m tackled by the wiggling body of Elf. “Hi, buddy,” I coo, crouching to cuddle him. It results in a chin to my brow bone but it’s worth it. “Have you had a good day? Did you have lots of naps? Did you watch the snow?”
Each question is met with a wet tongue against my ear, or forehead, or hand. I don’t care. I love him.
“He isn’t going to answer you, y’know.” Looking over to the kitchen, Jack, whom I temporarily forgot about, is tossing a salad.
It’s strange and domesticated, and, if anything, it makes me feel a little suspicious.
“He did have a good day though. He did have lots of naps, and he did watch the snow.”
“Good to know.”
Jack looks to Tommy, who’s watching us interact like we’re on National Geographic . He puts my bag behind the couch. “You staying for dinner?”
“Can’t. Need to finish my book.”
“He doesn’t want a mark from Miss Celia,” I add, freeing myself from being climbed on by Elf.
I take a slow look around the room. Plush brown couch in an L shape with an older-looking black leather couch that I would bet is for Elf.
Lighter scatter cushions propped up against the ends of the brown couch with a cream blanket neatly draped over the back.
Whereas the leather couch is covered in older, darker blankets.
In the center is a coffee table with sleek, clean lines that looks like it belongs in Architectural Digest .
Design books are piled in the middle, a huge three-wick candle beside them.
Jazz music is playing from a speaker below the television.
And he’s cooking. From scratch, judging by the kitchen surfaces being covered in vegetable peels.
My face isn’t on a dartboard anywhere so I can only assume he removed it before I came over. Tommy says his goodbye and I debate asking him to stay for moral support.
This might be the first time I’ve seen Jack out of work clothes. He’s opted for gray sweatpants and a black Henley. His gray baseball cap is on backward, flattening down his hair. He looks relaxed and comfortable. I feel very out of place.
“If you keep staring at me, I’m gonna start to feel self-conscious,” he says, looking up from cheese he’s hand-grating.
I walk over and lean against the empty side of the kitchen counter. “Sorry, seeing you in your natural habitat is weird to me.”
He smiles, not taking his eyes off the cheese. “Seeing you in my natural habitat is weird to me. I made spaghetti Bolognese for us. I hope that’s okay.”
“I love spaghetti Bolognese, thank you.”
“I know you do.” There’s a vague flash of a memory. Talking about food the first time we met, me declaring it my favorite meal. Him telling me it’s the most boring Italian dish. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
My eyes narrow. “Why are you being so nice? Is it because I’m a damsel in distress with nowhere to stay?”
“Damsel, my ass. We both gotta eat.”
There’s a slight blush on the apples of his cheeks that tells me he’s lying. “Did you poison it?”
He rolls his eyes and throws a pinch of cheese into his mouth. “No.”
“Glass?”
“Do you want the damn spaghetti or not?” He grips the edge of the counter with both hands; his biceps flex as his hands tighten.
It’s a simple question that requires a one-word answer.
But my eyes move up his arms and across his hard chest. Eventually they reach his face and the smug amusement is enough to snap me out of my temporary lapse in restraint.
“Yes, please. Where can I wash up?” He nods toward a door on the other side of the room. “I’ll be quick.”
I hear him sigh as I rush to hang my coat up by the door and scuttle to the bathroom to wash my hands. There’s something incredibly personal about being in someone’s bathroom, especially when that person is Jack.
I feel like an intruder in his space, in his life, more than ever.
Drying my hands on a towel, I take one last look in the mirror and promise that no matter how much I get the urge to, I won’t start a food fight.