Chapter 12
Jo
Time moved as though the second hand ticked through pudding instead of air. And rather than having that time to myself propped behind the desk at All Booked Up this afternoon during my shortened shift, just a little over twenty-four hours after I’d twisted the ever-loving life out of my ankle, I was staring blankly at a computer screen while Adam bustled around the store.
Yes. Adam.
Him of the good girl fame.
The one who’d been so problematically sweet to me yesterday, I was left in a hazy trance, the sensation of his lips on my hairline like burning ash sinking into parchment, and his words lingering in the air.
Good girl.
Good girl.
Good girl.
“Jo?”
Speak of the devil, the man in question’s voice penetrated my brain so suddenly I jumped, spilling my water in my lap and banging my knee on the desk.
“You okay?” he asked, hustling around the counter to reach me.
“Yes, sorry. I’m just spacey today, I guess. I’m fine—seriously.” I waved him away, and after one disbelieving look, he returned to where he stood across from me at a safe distance. “So, what did you need?”
I sounded kind of rude, honestly, but he’d startled me while I was sitting there hearing his voice say those words on repeat. And the context for his being here made it all worse—not only had he been a freaking angel yesterday, but he’d shown up right when I did today and insisted on “hanging out” at the store. He just so happened to hop up and help reach a book that required a ladder for Mrs. McGuinn, and he found himself bored an hour in so asked if he could, for his own entertainment, stock the newest arrivals.
Basically, he was doing everything in his power to conquer my ability to ignore my crush on him, and the worst part? I genuinely believed he didn’t realize what he was doing.
He couldn’t possibly.
Or he never would’ve kissed my forehead.
And he definitely didn’t understand the far-reaching undertones of his innocent little good girl comment. He couldn’t know the very bedroomy context of the phrase. No, sir. Unless he’s secretly trying to wear down your defenses with covert romance-coded comments… No.
“I wanted to make sure you have me listed as an alternate pick-up person at the market.” He tapped a pen cap-side down and then slotted it into the little jar sitting on the counter.
“Yes, I do.” I still sounded grumpy, so I softened my tone. “And thank you. For all your help today, and the upcoming errands.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
And then he was off, tidying and emptying waste baskets and bossing me into telling him what else I needed done before we locked up. Then he wrapped an arm around my waist and escorted me upstairs, but not before I saw the twinkle in his eye that said he was contemplating carrying me, which I flatly did not allow.
A girl could only handle so much.
Plus, he’d carried me down part of the mountain yesterday and that was enough.
“You’re stubborn, you know that? I could carry you up in less than a minute,” he said, eyeing me with arms crossed, halfway up the staircase as I slowly ascended.
“Yeah, but that can’t be good for you,” I said, hoping to hide how winded I was. Apparently, the last twenty-four hours had taken it out of me.
“It can’t be good for me to carry you up a flight of stairs?” he asked, a little smirk hidden in his expression.
I glanced up at him, then focused back on the next step. “Yeah. I mean… I’m a normal-sized human woman. And you’re… you’re…” I exhaled, feeling the exhaustion of the day, my injury, and these dang stairs weighing on me.
Then his arms slipped around me and things went sideways as he lifted me, cradling me to him and taking the stairs in rapid succession so we arrived at my door in seconds.
“Okay, rude,” I said as his clean, minty scent filled my awareness.
“I’m rude? You were just about to say I couldn’t carry you up the stairs because I’m too old, weren’t you?”
I gasped as he plucked the keys from my fingers and, one-handed, opened my apartment door. In a few long strides, he’d reached the love seat, then unceremoniously set me down, but he didn’t move away.
Instead, he dipped his head to catch my eyes. “I’m doing just fine, by the way.”
I rolled my eyes because I was feeling like a petulant child. “I was not going to say you’re old. Why on earth would I say that?”
He pulled away and set my keys on the counter, then returned and took my purse and set it next to them.
Hands on his hips, he called me out. “Fine. What would you have said?”
“I don’t know! I was trying to find an excuse to keep you from carrying me up the stairs, and I figured everyone has a bum knee or a bad back or something, but I don’t know what your deal is, so I just… I don’t know.” He wasn’t actually mad, but he gave me a genuinely skeptical look that had me continuing. “Honestly, I don’t even know how old you are, but I wouldn’t think of Bruce or Tristan or Wilder as old, so why would I think that of you?”
No, in fact, I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about the age gap between us and confirming for myself that he must fall around Wilder’s age and therefore was no more than twelve years older than me.
Twelve was… considerable. But not untenable. Not laughable or ridiculous. And clearly not a barrier to friendship between us.
“I’m just messing with you, Josie.” His soft smile waned as he added, “Though I am considerably older than you.”
“Fine. How old are you?” I asked, not really interested in having him explain he was too old for me. Clearly, he had no interest in more than friendship, even if he was throwing around forehead kisses and good girls and being all kinds of solicitous and helpful.
“Just turned thirty-eight.” His gaze didn’t waver.
“Good for you,” I said, feeling an unreasonable relief that he wasn’t already in his forties. It didn’t matter anyway.
“And you? How old are you, Jo?”
I didn’t like the part of me that resisted telling him. Again, why did it matter? He didn’t want a future with anyone, so clarifying that we did have a substantial age gap wasn’t going to make him any less of an option.
“Twenty-eight.” I resisted the and a half figuring it might make me seem a bit juvenile. But I liked the fact that at least part of the year, we’d only be nine years apart.
And that’s the kind of cuckoo-bird thinking that’s going to have him running for the hills.
He nodded, as though he’d known before I said it, or like it confirmed something he’d suspected. As he moved around the kitchen, my thoughts spiraled. Did I act young? Childish? Maybe so considering how much whining I’d done since I got hurt.
“Better get to the post office.” He handed me a bag of ice and tipped his chin toward my ankle, where I’d elevated it on the coffee table. “I’ll be back in about an hour, and I’m bringing dinner.”
He grabbed my keys off the counter, presumably so he could let himself into the building and the front door without me moving from my love-seat throne.
The door swung shut, and I bit my tongue to keep my flippant response where he could hear me, but eventually, it had to come out, so I whispered it to myself. “If I eat the dinner you bring me, will you kiss me and call me good girl again?”