Chapter Seven
Jasmine
"Icannot believe I'm back here again," I grumble, staring at River's house like he might jump out of the damn bushes and have me arrested again. Actually, he might. I think he's a little unhinged.
I mean, who the fuck has someone arrested and then immediately drops the charges just to prove a point? I don't even know what point he's trying to prove here! That he's insane? I already knew that! That he wants to date me? That he's not even remotely close to anything I expected?
I'm losing it. Literally losing it.
It's been three days since he had me arrested, and I'm in a tailspin.
I was awake half the night again, just replaying the look on his face when he told me that he's serious about me.
Part of me wants to fucking run in the opposite direction and never look back.
That would be the smart thing to do. But I'm here anyway.
Because no one has ever looked at me the way he does.
And no one has ever made me feel the way he does, either.
And no one has ever had me arrested and then dropped the charges in some desperate attempt to blackmail me into a date. It's literally the most unhinged thing I've ever even heard.
But I'm here now anyway.
I want answers, dammit.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
I think I know I'm full of shit before I ever ring his doorbell.
I'm absolutely sure I'm full of shit when he pulls the door open, dressed in nothing but a pair of sweats and his glasses, his sweaty hair plastered to his head.
Christ Almighty.
I'm here because, for the last three days, I haven't been able to think of anything except him. I've tried to forget he exists. I've tried to be mad as hell that he had me arrested. I've tried to go about my life like it never happened. Nothing is working.
"Uh…"
"My eyes are up here, princess."
"Yes, but your abs are down here," I mumble, earning a chuckle before he hooks a finger beneath my chin and tips my head back. My eyes lock with his behind his glasses.
"Mighty brave of you to show up on my doorstep again," he murmurs, grinning at me.
"Mighty brave of you to open the door without a bodyguard."
"You here to murder me?"
"Undecided."
"Want coffee while you decide?"
I absolutely, one-thousand percent should not follow this half-naked man into his house.
"Sure."
Look, I didn't say I wouldn't follow him into his house, just that I shouldn't.
He releases me and steps back, waiting for me to follow.
I don't even hesitate.
His house is beautiful, not that I'm really surprised.
He kind of seems like the anal retentive, a place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place type.
The white tile floors gleam in the early morning sunlight.
There isn't a single speck of dust on the furniture or hovering in the air.
Everything is just crisp, clean, and tidy.
"I'd ask if you're even human, but you're an ass, so I know you are," I grumble, glancing all around. "You could at least leave a pair of dirty socks on the floor to prove it, though, River."
"And spend an entire writing day thinking about the dirty socks on the floor? No, thanks," he chuckles. "If shit isn't where it's supposed to go, I can't focus."
"Of course you can't."
He leads me through the living room into a bright, sunny kitchen. It's bigger than my entire house. It's also stunning, with windows everywhere, overlooking the gardens out back. The scent of brewing coffee fills the entire space.
"Your house is beautiful."
"Glad you like it," he rumbles, striding across the kitchen to grab mugs from a cabinet. His back flexes as he moves, the muscles bunching and rippling. Jesus. How much time does he spend working out?
"You have a home gym, don't you?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Of course you do," I groan. "You probably spend three hours a day in it, too."
"Two."
"Ugh." I scowl at him when he turns around. "That's just inhumane."
"You don't work out?"
"I do…usually my mouth." Lilah and I go to the gym at least once a week. We both hate it and swear we're never going back, but we still go.
His gaze immediately drops to my lips, his eyes darkening.
"That is not what I meant."
"Oh, I'm well aware, princess." His lips curve at the corners. "You've been using that smart mouth on me since we met."
"You deserve it."
He just grins, sauntering toward the coffee pot on the edge of the island. "So…you're still pissed about jail, huh?"
"They fingerprinted me, River."
"They didn't submit them."
"How do you know that?" I demand.
"Because I made sure," he shrugs.
"I…" I just gape at him, thrown for another loop.
Who the fuck is this man? Definitely not a middle-aged college professor with anxiety issues, that's for damn sure.
I'm not even sure he's the insufferable ass I've been trying so hard to convince myself he is, either.
He's something else. Diabolical, unhinged. Beautiful.
"What brings you to my doorstep today?"
I hesitate for a long moment, fidgeting with my hands the way Sarah Tolliver, our clerk, does when she's nervous. I don't even do nerves, but this man has me ready to jump out of my own damn skin. "I have questions."
"So do I."
"I get to ask mine first."
"Fine. Shoot," he says, pouring coffee into two mugs.
"Why'd you drop the charges?"
"Never intended for them to stick."
"Then why have me arrested at all?"
He carries my coffee over to me. "Because every time I bring up a date, you panic. Figured if I gave you enough incentive to agree, we could cut through that."
"I do not panic!"
"You do," he murmurs, taking a sip of his coffee. "Why?"
"Maybe I have a thing about not getting involved with people I admire," I mutter, stubbornly refusing to look at him. "And maybe I like your books enough to want to keep that innocence alive."
"Ah, so you think I'll turn out to be a total dick, and you'll never be able to read me again, is that it?"
"Something like that." I shrug, taking an experimental sip. The coffee is actually good. Strong. "In my experience, heroes rarely live up to the name. Why risk a good thing?"
"You consider me a hero?"
"What? Hell no."
"You're so full of shit."
"Whatever. Why don't you like meeting readers?"
He leans back against the island. "I did a meet and greet at a major bookstore a few years ago, and the store decided to do this big giveaway.
Anyone who bought the book was entered to win my entire backlist. Things got out of hand.
People were pushing, trying to get to the front of the line.
I felt like a goddamn sale item on the rack, and that was before it turned into a brawl.
A reader ended up with a nasty head injury.
I haven't done one since," he says, his voice soft.
"I didn't sign up to be the reason people get hurt. "
"I didn't know that," I whisper, watching his face.
"Not many do, but I decided then and there that I wouldn't do another book event. I'm just a motherfucker who writes. Meeting me or winning my books isn't worth all that," he says.
"You know that wasn't your fault, right?"
"They were there to meet me. Whether it was my fault or not, I still bear some responsibility." He meets my gaze, and I can tell he means it. He'd rather never do another book event than see someone else get hurt trying to meet him.
And honestly, I'm not sure what to do with this information. I was prepared for his reason to center himself, whether it was justified or not, but this isn't that. This is him, taking a step back to protect people who matter to him.
"Why do you want me to speak at your book club so badly?" he asks.
"For the same reason that everyone at that event was so eager to meet you," I say, holding his gaze. "You write women like you understand what it's like to be us, and I've got an entire book club full of women who could use a little encouragement from someone who sees them clearly."
"There are a thousand female authors better suited for that than I am, Jasmine," he says. "They don't need a man to build them up. No woman does."
"You're right. They don't. But you aren't a man to them.
At least, you aren't just a man," I clarify.
"You're an author who writes women just like them, women they adore.
That's who they need. It has nothing to do with you being a man.
It has to do with the way your words make them feel and the pieces of themselves they see in your characters.
You make people feel seen, River. You know how rare that is? "
"It's what an author is supposed to do."
"No, it's what a good author does," I disagree. "There are thousands of books out there that readers fail to connect with because they just can't relate to the characters."
He stares at me for a long moment. "I'll concede that point," he finally says. "But I still don't think I'm the right person for the job. In fact, I think the right person is standing in front of me."
"What? Me?" I laugh incredulously. "I'm not an author."
"You don't have to be an author to connect with people or to move them, princess. You're smart. You're eloquent. You're passionate. And you very clearly care a helluva lot. I'm guessing you already make your book club feel seen in ways you don't even realize."
Do I? Maybe. But that's part of the job. The other part is bringing in authors to talk…and I'm not an author. I don't even want to be an author. I prefer reading, thank you very much.
"I still think you should do it," I grumble.
"It'd be good for them, and it'd be good for you to see that not every event ends in chaos.
" I eye him pointedly over the rim of my mug.
"You can put safeguards in place to ensure that nothing like that happens again without enacting a strict 'no public appearances' boundary. "
"I'll consider it."
"What?" I gape at him. "Seriously?"
"Yes. Seriously."