2. Adair
2
ADAIR
G igi is setting a pastry tray into the front display case when I rush in. “Sorry I’m late."
“Hey! It’s OK, I know you’re having a crazy week. How are things going? With Jack, I mean. Are you guys, like, roommates now? Or…”
I sigh into her unasked question. “No, it’s — we’re trying to make a thing of it.”
Her eyebrows creep up and keep going. “A thing? Trying? Addy, are you guys dating? You can just say you’re dating.”
I frown. “No, I — that just came out weird,” I say. “We’re together. I think.”
Gigi’s eyes get big like they do when she sees a baby in a grown-up outfit like a tiny tuxedo or something. “Aww, Addy — I’m so happy for you!” She puts down the dishcloth and spray bottle she’d just picked up. “Can I give you a hug?”
I feel guilty, like I’m lying to her. Or maybe to myself. Again.
J ack isn’t back from work yet when I get home. I settle onto the sofa to work on the mock-ups I’m making Paul for the loyalty program cards. When my phone lights up with a notification, I put down my pencil.
I read it through twice and get so giddy I’m practically bouncing. A romance-book convention I follow on social media just finalized its lineup and prices. There are a bunch of authors I’d love to geek out and meet in person, and since I’m not paying rent, I probably have the money to go this year.
As I read over the ticket packages again, though, my initial elation deflates. It’s still pretty pricey, and I know me: I’d want to buy more books there. But it’s hard to justify spending the money, especially since all the books I already own are currently in bins behind Jack’s sofa.
I sigh and look over the registration details again. The VIP tickets are already sold out, but the lower admission tiers are still available. I probably have a little while to decide.
My pondering is interrupted by my stomach growling. I check the time and shoot Jack a text. It feels a little weird to realize I don’t even know what hours he technically works.
Want me to get started on dinner?
He writes back quickly: Can you cook?
I snort as I stare at the message. I mean, I obviously haven’t starved to death. Against my better judgment, I type that back as my reply.
He writes back in seconds. Don’t worry about it.
I can’t tell if he’s annoyed. He didn’t use anything friendly like a smiling or winking emoji. Then again, he never uses those anyway. I tell him to let me know if he changes his mind, because I’ll be here.
OK , he writes back.
“Good talk,” I mutter at my phone, tossing it onto the sofa with a sigh. I pick my pencil back up but I can’t concentrate on drawing anymore. I’m turning over in my head my conversation with Gigi earlier. I hadn’t wanted to admit to her I still don’t know what Jack and I are.
I could just ask him, right? What could go wrong?
“ W hat do you mean, what are we?” Jack says the words like they’re in a language he’s struggling to learn.
I was still drawing when he came home. When I asked if he needed help with dinner he sort of grunted. I left the pad I’m using as a sketchbook on the coffee table and trailed him into the kitchen, where now I’m standing around awkwardly as he chops mushrooms. I tried to help, but he swatted my hand away from the knife block without a word. Bossy asshole.
I shrug and try to look nonchalant. “Gigi asked earlier when I told her I was living here. But when I tried to answer her, I realized I didn’t know.”
His brows go up. “What did you tell her, then?”
Do I tell him the truth? “I told her we’re together. But honestly, I don’t know what we are. I don’t know if you see me as a boyfriend, or...” I don’t want to say it, but I can’t leave out the other possibilities, “if I’m just a project or a charity case because you feel sorry for me.”
He blows out a hard sigh that matches his stony expression. I quickly backtrack. “I know we’re not boyfriends.”
His eyes darken. I should shut my mouth. But I don’t. “I’ve had this stupid crush on you almost since I met you, but I don’t want to make things weirder than I already have, especially because you’re being nice enough to let me stay here. Also, um, because I think you can barely tolerate me like half the time.”
I think I’m being very open and vulnerable, so I’m surprised —and a little annoyed — when Jack makes a pfft sound and rolls his eyes.
“What?” I challenge him.
“I’m not being nice . And no, I don’t think of you as a charity case or whatever other shit you were saying.” He pauses. “Or a roommate.”
My heart does a little skip.
Jack dumps the sliced mushrooms and some other stuff into a skillet and fires up the stove before he gets in my space like he did last night, standing toe-to-toe with me and looking down. “For whatever probably stupid reason, you’ve decided you like me.” He huffs out a laugh. “Figure I might as well take advantage of it.”
I’m not sure how to answer him. I realize it doesn’t matter when Jack pulls me against him as he brings his mouth down onto mine. Maybe he doesn’t want to use the word boyfriend , but he sure as fuck kisses like it — hungry and possessive and so damn good I shut my eyes and sink into the sensation.
I feel his other hand thread through my hair. When he takes his lips off mine, he yanks it to pull my head back. His dark eyes are hooded.
“I want to make you cry tonight,” he murmurs.
I shift my hips awkwardly as my cock snaps to attention. Jack rumbles out a low laugh before releasing me and turning to the food on the stove. A moment later, his eyes flick to me, his expression calculating.
“Strip.”
I open my mouth, but when Jack scowls, the question on the tip of my tongue dissolves. With a sigh of resignation, I pull off my heavy flannel before yanking my T-shirt over my head.
Jack flips around the spatula he’s using and gives me a poke in the ribs with the handle. “Not like that.”
“What?”
“Be sexy about it.” A challenge blazes in his gaze. “Put them back on and try again.”
“But I —” This feels absurd. “I don’t know how.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion,” he growls. “Even a dumb bunny should be able to figure this out.”
OK, then. I get re-dressed and try for what I hope is a sexy striptease, but I feel like an ass. When I take off my T-shirt, I try to be sultry about it, but I get hung up on an armhole instead. Jack snickers. My face is hot with embarrassment, but my dick has no such reservations. It pops up —already fully erect — when I give my hips a shimmy to pull down my briefs moments later.
“That’s more like it.” His deep voice is approving. I’m ashamed at how good this scrap of praise makes me feel.
“Grab plates and utensils, then sit,” he says.
“Like this?” I wave a hand down at myself.
Jack gives me a lascivious grin. “Yeah. Just like that.” He looks at my cock, which had started to settle down, and watches in silence as it swells again. I pull my lower lip between my teeth, the shame of my exposed position and the shame of how much I like that feeling multiplying in my mind.
Looks like I’ll be eating naked and with a hard-on.