Chapter 17 Janie
SEVENTEEN
Janie
I’m standing in front of my bedroom mirror, applying lipstick for a date I don’t even want to go on, while the man who torments me with irrational feelings is downstairs brooding like a storm cloud.
Apparently, this is my life now.
I take one final look in the mirror before snapping the lid on my lipstick. I’m wearing my green sweater and black jeans—like someone who goes out with stable men and has mind-numbing conversations about math lesson plans and parent-teacher conferences.
I’m definitely not the kind of woman fantasizing about broody hockey players who promise to ruin every other date for me.
Except that’s all I’m thinking about these days.
From downstairs, Aria babbles happily while Rourke talks to her in a low, sweet voice that stirs up troubling feelings in my heart.
I finally agreed to let him babysit after he gave me the world’s longest silent treatment—two whole days of grumpy hockey-player silence.
It was the peace offering I needed to ease the tension between us.
Now, hearing the two of them together sets off a soft ache in my chest.
I should be excited about my evening with David. He’s everything that makes sense—nice and dependable, the kind of man who would never cause a ripple in my placid life. He’d never make me question my life choices or keep me awake at night wondering what his hands would feel like on my skin.
So why does it feel like I’m putting on a mask for a play I don’t want to be in?
The doorbell rings at exactly six thirty—because David is as reliable as a metronome.
I call out, “I’ve got it!” before rushing downstairs, but I’m too late.
Rourke has already opened the door and is standing there, arms crossed, looking as friendly as a bouncer at an exclusive club.
Aria plays contentedly on the floor behind him, completely oblivious to the testosterone-fueled standoff happening in the entryway.
David, to his credit, keeps his pleasant smile in place despite Rourke’s obvious intimidation tactics.
“David, hello.” I try to squeeze past Rourke’s immovable body. My shoulder brushes against Rourke’s arm and the contact sends electricity through me. I ignore the part of me that still craves his touch.
I motion toward Rourke. “Sorry, have you met my…roommate?” The word feels wrong on my tongue. Just like this whole scenario does.
David’s gaze travels up Rourke’s imposing six-four frame, his broad shoulders, the sharp jaw, the way he fills the entrance. “Uh, no. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”
“Rourke.” His voice is flat, almost territorial. “I live here.”
“Temporarily,” I add quickly, shooting him a look. “Until his apartment gets fixed.” I nudge Rourke’s rock-solid arm in what I hope seems playful rather than desperate. “Isn’t that right, roomie?”
His gaze drags down my outfit, and there’s something dark and possessive in his eyes that makes my pulse stutter, something that says he doesn’t like sharing me with David Peterson, not even conversationally.
“Yeah,” he growls, then shifts his full attention to David with a glare that is definitely not welcoming.
“So, Farkle night, huh?” The way he says it makes the innocent dice game sound somewhat obscene.
“It’s actually quite fun,” David explains. “It’s a dice game based on risk assessment…”
“Fascinating.” Rourke’s tone suggests it’s anything but. “Anyway, just so you know, Aria’s bedtime is eight thirty sharp. Janie never misses it. If you want to stay on her good side, have her back by then.”
David checks his watch, then looks up in distress. “But that’s only two hours.”
“I know.” His mouth curls into a slow grin—like he’s already plotting how to ruin my night. “And time flies when you’re playing Farkle.”
“Rourke,” I hiss, heat flooding my cheeks. “It’s fine if I miss her bedtime occasionally.”
His eyes lock on mine, and there’s a challenge in them. “Is it, Bennett?”
He knows I’ve only missed Aria’s bedtime once—the night we were stranded in Santaville, when I woke up in his arms, shaken by a nightmare, and he made me feel safer than I had in months.
But right now, I can’t win this staring contest or let him see how much that night meant to me.
“Well, don’t let me keep you from all that”—Rourke pauses, studying David’s starched collar and his pressed khakis—“educational fun.”
I grab my purse and David’s arm before this night can get any worse. “We’re leaving now. Aria’s formula is in the fridge if she gets hungry, and there are diapers in the closet, and her favorite book is—”
“I know where everything is, Janie.” His gaze lands on where my hand is touching David’s arm, and something flickers across his face. Jealousy, yes, but also a trace of pain. His jaw feathers before he meets my eyes. “I’ll take good care of her.”
For a moment, regret lines his face, like I’m someone he wishes he had the right to protect. Like he wants to be the one taking me out tonight, the one making me smile, the one bringing me home.
Before I can grab my coat, both Rourke and David reach for it, but Rourke moves quicker, pulling it from the hook and holding it open for me without a word.
I hesitate for just a second. This feels too much like something a boyfriend would do.
But David is watching, and refusing now would create more tension, so I slip my arms into the sleeves. Rourke’s fingers brush the back of my neck as he settles the coat on my shoulders, and the contact sends shivers down my spine as his hands linger for just a moment longer than necessary.
“Have a good time,” he murmurs next to my ear, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “Try not to think about me.”
My breath catches in my throat as my knees buckle slightly. I force myself to step forward, reaching for David’s arm to steady myself.
“Ready?” David asks, oblivious to the nuclear reaction crackling in the room that has nothing to do with him.
“Yes.” My voice falters, and I blow my daughter a quick kiss before leaving.
But as we walk down the front steps, I can feel Rourke tracking me through the window, and it takes everything I have not to turn around and run back to him.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to play Farkle with David Peterson. I want to be home with Rourke, watching him make faces at Aria. I want to curl up on the couch next to him and fall asleep against his shoulder.
I want everything I’m too scared to hope for.
As David opens his car door and starts talking about tonight, I realize I’m about to spend the entire evening pretending to be interested in the wrong man while my heart stays home with the right one.
The Sully’s Beach Elementary staff Christmas party is exactly what you’d expect from a group of teachers letting loose on a Friday night: wholesome games where nobody cheats, punch that’s as ambitious as pineapple juice and ginger ale, and conversations that somehow always circle back to work.
“So then I told the parent that homework is actually good for developing the frontal lobe of the brain!” David is saying as we sit around a table playing—you guessed it—Farkle. “And she said, ‘But he’s only in third grade! Does he really need to use his frontal lobe yet?’ Can you believe that?”
“Mmm,” I murmur, watching Sheila from second grade roll the dice. “That’s…frustrating.”
But I’m not really listening. I’m thinking about Rourke at home with Aria, probably reading her a story or rocking her as he holds her against his chest…
“Janie? It’s your turn.”
I blink back to the game to find everyone at the table staring at me. “Sorry, what?”
“To roll,” David says with his patient teacher smile. “Are you okay?”
“Just tired,” I mumble which is only half true. I’m always tired, but it’s definitely not helping that my thoughts are consumed by the man I left at home. “Long week, I guess.” I roll the dice without much enthusiasm.
That’s not it, and I know the truth: I’m thinking of when Rourke whispered in my ear Try not to think of me while simultaneously rewiring my brain to only think of him.
Because it’s basically what I’ve done all night. It’s like he knew he could infiltrate my thoughts with one phrase, distracting me when I’m not even with him.
“That’s five hundred points!” announces Sheila. “Which means…” She tallies the totals. “You and David won!”
“We make a great team!” David fist-pumps the air while a few teachers groan, and I discreetly check my watch. Seven fifty-five. We’ve been here for almost an hour and a half, and I’m already figuring out how early I can leave without being rude.
“Want to get some punch?” David asks, standing.
“Sure.” Because what else am I going to say? Admit that I’d rather be home watching my distracting roommate play with my daughter?
Because if I could ninja-sneak out of this place, I would in a hot second.
At the punch bowl, David launches into a story about another parent-teacher conference gone wrong, and I nod and make “uh-huh” sounds at appropriate moments while mentally comparing him to Rourke.
David is predictable. Dependable. Harmless as a gnat.
While Rourke is reckless and dangerous. Endlessly intriguing. And makes me feel like I’m jumping out of an airplane without a parachute.
David talks about standardized testing and classroom management strategies. Rourke makes me forget my own name when he touches me. And when his eyes travel the length of me, it’s like dragging a match across my skin…
“…don’t you think?” David finishes, looking at me expectantly.
“Um, sure,” I say, having no idea what I just agreed to.
He smiles and touches my arm, and I feel…
absolutely nothing. Not even a slight flutter.
Just the awareness that an object brushed my arm the same way you might feel a mosquito, and it doesn’t make me want to melt into a puddle or make my heart buck against my chest like a wild horse. Not the way Rourke’s touch always does.
This is bad. Very, very bad.