Chapter 17 Jack
I T’S BEEN A LONG TIME since I’ve had to jerk off in the shower and pray nobody hears me moan.
I’m too old to be embarrassed about masturbation but just old enough to be embarrassed that I couldn’t get the fucker to go down this morning. Thoughts of Clara’s creamy skin under my hands had tormented me all night. Her pulse punching into my palm. Blush-pink lips and green eyes looking up at me.
I almost caved. I almost said fuck it and did what I’ve wanted to do since the night I met her.
I had my opportunity in the woods, but I spent too long questioning it.
My body knew what I wanted and when I pulled my hips away, attempting to hide how hard she makes me, it snapped her out of whatever could’ve happened.
Apparently, kissing her when I have the chance to is too easy.
Instead, I’ve resorted to groaning her name into my bicep, one hand pushed up hard against the shower wall while the other grips me.
Imagining my hands in her hair when I slide between those pink lips.
I feel like they’re all I can focus on recently.
My thighs strain tight when the orgasm crashes into me.
My stomach flexes, my heart pounds, and the confusion about what I’m doing follows right after.
Maybe it’s been too long since I had sex and I’m not thinking clearly.
Maybe it’s just been that damn long since I’ve spent time with someone up here that I’m having delusions about what it might mean.
Maybe I’m just a man and she’s just a beautiful woman.
I hear her as soon as I leave my bathroom. She’s singing something I can’t work out. She isn’t loud but living alone has given me scary-good hearing. I tighten the towel on my hips and venture just far enough out of my bedroom door to see her in the kitchen.
Clara’s singing Whitney Houston, I quickly realize, and making pancakes.
I should call out and let her know I’m here but I want to watch her be so carefree a little longer.
Her body is moving completely off beat with the rhythm of the song and she’s trying to flip pancakes at the same time.
Her red silk pajama shorts sit high on her hips; the matching camisole hangs low on her back.
She scoops a pancake with a spatula and I realize how fucking creepy I’m being.
My door creaks as I push it open; she looks over and lets out a short scream.
She recovers quickly but the pancake falls off the spatula onto the floor.
Elf pounces on it but she doesn’t seem to notice, she’s busy staring at me with her mouth slightly open.
“Sorry!” I yell as I retreat into the safety of my room.
I pull on my sweats quickly and drag a towel over my wet hair, cursing myself under my breath. I’m going to get kicked off the emergency accommodation list. When I leave my bedroom again, Clara’s only humming to the music.
“Mornin’.”
“Good morning,” she says, not taking her eyes off the stove as I approach the kitchen.
I rub the back of my neck. “Sorry about earlier, I was trying to work out what you were singing.”
The apples of her cheeks are rosy pink. “That’s okay. I’d just forgotten what a naked man looks like, so you made me jump.”
“I wasn’t naked,” I protest. “I had a towel.”
“A tiny towel. A low, tiny towel clinging to your thighs.” She pops a blueberry in her mouth. “It was borderline nakedness. I almost had to call Donald for his net.”
“I’m sorry I broke your streak of only seeing fully clothed men.
” I don’t mean it. There’s a weird obnoxiousness brewing that I’m going to blame on testosterone and forced proximity that likes hearing Clara say she hasn’t been seeing guys naked recently.
“That guy who took you out last week never walks around after a shower?”
Asshole. Why did I just say that? I don’t want to know the fucking answer.
Clara’s eyebrows pinch together. “Guy? What are you… Ew, Jack. That was my little brother.”
Massive, massive asshole. “Oh. Flo suggested he was someone else.” I’m lying and simultaneously praying that Clara never brings it up with her.
Clara looks thrilled by the information. “Were you jealous?”
Ah, fuck. “No.”
She pouts playfully, then turns back to the stove. “That’s a shame. That could’ve been fun.”
It would be fun, but I can’t think about that right now while she’s living in my apartment. I look across the kitchen worktop at all her efforts. My eyes squint at the pancake sitting in the now-cooling pan. “Is that—is that supposed to be me?”
It’s a series of interconnected blobs with a skirtlike bottom and two chocolate chips for eyes. She picks up another blueberry. “Maybe.”
“Wow.” I pick up the spatula and tuck it under what I think is supposed to be one of my batter legs.
“Hey,” Clara protests, slapping my hand away lightly. “He’s mine.” She points to the pile of pancakes on the counter. “I made you the snowmen.”
Frankly, there isn’t much difference between the blobs of the snowmen and the blobs of my limbs. “Have you ever seen a snowman before?”
“I’m rusty, okay?” she says sheepishly. “I normally eat breakfast on my way into the office. Never feels like there’s any point just making them for me.”
“It looks great. I can’t remember the last time someone made me breakfast.” Or saw me almost naked before 8 a.m. “Thank you. Sit down, I’ll grab the syrup, it’s on the top shelf.”
“Are you working today?” Clara asks when I take a seat with a couple of options.
“Yeah. I can’t afford not to. I’m really behind with Holly orders and my regular stuff. Flo didn’t tell us she was posting the video and I didn’t have the maximum order cap set on the website. Got flooded with new orders before I realized and set it to out of stock.”
Clara pours coffee from the pot into a reindeer mug I know she’s dug out from the back of the cupboard and pushes it in front of me, then does the same to her own matching mug. “Do you have the stock?”
“Mostly. Around half my orders were canceled when the Davenport doll and its price was announced.” She pokes at her pancake version of me with her fork. “I have some more stock coming in December. What’s your plan today?”
“Sit at the window and watch the snow. Maybe strike off a few things from my Christmas movie list. If your Wi-Fi doesn’t suck maybe I’ll do some scheming for the greater good.”
“Christmas movies in November is illegal, Clara. December first is the earliest acceptable time to start,” I say seriously.
“You need to find some handcuffs then, because I watched The Muppet Christmas Carol three days ago. Zero regrets.” I don’t need the image of Clara handcuffed distracting me from working today. “If I’m being super honest, I watched Love Actually in September.”
“I can’t listen to this,” I tease. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. November-appropriate movie recommendations included.”
M Y EMAIL INBOX IS FULL of order update requests that vary in levels of hostility depending on if it’s related to Harry’s or Holly.
Dad would say that this isn’t a way to run a business, but Dad sent me a picture of sunny Florida this morning while I’m stuck here in snow, so he doesn’t get to dictate how I run my business right now. Badly, is how I’m running it, and that’s my choice.
My workshop is cold as fuck even with the heater blasting and I’m struggling to get motivated, but I make myself look busy when I hear paws and feet on the stairs.
There’s a light tap on the door before it opens. “Jesus, it’s cold in here.”
“No kidding.”
Clara turns to close the door behind her. Her gym leggings cling to her long legs, the black fabric scrunching above the curve of her ass. This isn’t helping my ability to concentrate, and I can’t decide if it’s better or worse than what she wore at breakfast.
I’m telling myself that the reason I can’t get her off my mind is because she’s in my space, not that I’m pathetic and horny and haven’t stopped thinking about this woman in one way or another since I met her.
“I made us lunch. I was going to bring it down but then I thought maybe you don’t allow food in here. Also, I’m now worried if you turn into an icicle down here people will think I locked you out or something. Don’t you have a heater?”
It’s amazing that a simple offer of lunch is enough to make me slow-blink.
I’m starting to like this coexisting-in-one-space thing; I can’t remember the last time it felt like someone was looking after me instead of the other way around.
“The heater is on. It’s just a piece of shit. You didn’t need to make me lunch.”
“I wanted to. Keep your expectations low—it’s only tomato soup and grilled cheese.” I follow her out the door and keep my eyes on the stairs instead of her ass as I let her and Elf go ahead of me. “Am I allowed to ask how work’s going?”
The word no is on the tip of my tongue. “Only if you want to hear me complain.”
We take our seats at the table. Clara sits to my immediate right instead of opposite me like last night and this morning. I warm my hands on the side of the steaming bowl of soup. “That bad?” she asks.
“No. I hate the admin side of work and my inbox has become unmanageable. I can’t face tackling it so it’s getting worse every day.”
Her face is practically angelic as she smiles innocently.
“Why do you look like you’re plotting something?”
“No plotting, just ideas. Hear me out before you immediately turn me down, okay?”
My suspicion is at an all-time high. “I’ll try.”
“Let me clear your inbox for you. Wait, wait, wait!” She holds up her hands to stop my oncoming interrupting.
“I’ve dealt with customer service problems since I was in high school.
We can agree on a script because most things will be the same couple of questions.
I’ll work downstairs and run any answers by you that fall outside of it.
I’ll be so quick, Jack. Then you don’t have to worry about it. ”
“Don’t you have your own job to do?”