23
That night, after once again whining about my lack of raise to Margie and Avery on a group text, I crawl into bed with my copy of Pirate Duke, rereading my favorite parts, my own favorite parts reacting to the memory of Jack reading that passage.
I don’t see Jack that evening, and my resistance to leaving my bedroom—to possibly seeing him after asking him to lunch—makes me feel a little like a coward.
Despite entering my bed at a very reasonable hour last night, I had a hard time sleeping, and it shows: dark circles under my eyes, a crabby disposition, and an exhaustion coffee hasn’t put a dent in.
I am in no mood for Jack’s cheer right now.
And he’s definitely cheery. I can hear it in his voice. I long to dive back under the covers.
I step up to The Hole, and he grins at me. “Come on over, please?”
I sigh aggressively and walk through to his side of the wall. “What? I’m not done with breakfast.”
His face is serious, and his hands are behind his back. I narrow my eyes as I watch him.
“Penny, we’ve known each other a while now.” His voice is a warm rumble. It does things to the hairs on the back of my neck, like the thunder before a summer storm. “And I know it hasn’t always been exactly friendly between us. But…”
Where is this going?
Jack gets down on one knee. I draw in a breath.
What. The. Fuck.
He pulls a small circular saw from behind his back, the cord hanging from it as he holds it up as an offering to me. “I rented a circular saw to help this project along.”
“You’re such a dick,” I say, releasing my breath in a wheeze. I feel like crying, and I don’t know why. Maybe because with my track record, the closest to a proposal I’ll ever get is this circular-saw bullshit. God, I really didn’t sleep at all last night, did I?
Jack chuckles. “You didn’t think—” He feigns horror. I plant my palm on his face and push with all my might. He loses his balance and tips over, laughing.
His laughter is aggravating as shit. Which makes me think of another irritation, and the source of my restless sleep.
After having a series of decidedly dirty dreams all week where Jack featured pretty prominently, I decided to download an app to see if I really do moan in my sleep. I listened to the recording after I got tired of reading last night, and the answer is yes. Yes, I do.
Jack hasn’t said anything further about hearing me moan, and I’m not about to ask. Plus, I’m not entirely sure the moans are all from sexy dreams. I also have the occasional nightmare. Lately, the two have been one and the same.
My phone rings: Mom. I send it to voicemail. She texts.
I ran into Brian again, and he said he’d love to hear from you. I got his number for you since I haven’t heard anything further about that guy you said you were seeing. I told him you’d give him a call. Such a nice boy.
My hands shake. Jesus. To be able to pry, insult, manipulate, and control all in three lines. Talent. I pocket my phone.
“My mom. She’s trying to set me up with a guy. Forced me into grabbing coffee with him last time I was down to visit,” I share.
“Forced you? How does that work?”
“If you’d ever met my mom, you wouldn’t have to ask.”
Jack scratches his eyebrow, and it’s clear there’s something sticking in his craw. His eyes drop to my lips, and I unconsciously dart my tongue out to lick them. Maybe it’s not his craw something is sticking to.
“And I don’t know why I shared any of this,” I snap, desperate to break the spell he’s casting.
“Maybe it’s because you wanted me to know.”
“Riiiight.”
“Attempt to make me jealous? Let me know you’re in demand?” he says, weirdly upbeat.
I blow a raspberry.
“Scoff all you like. We both know you lied when you said you didn’t like me.” He smiles, and his sidelong glance makes me blush. But there’s an earnestness to the cockiness. A speck of vulnerability?
“I—” I clear my throat, debating, gathering my courage to me like a tattered blanket. “I like you. Okay?”
“Oof. Took a lot out of you to admit that, didn’t it?” Jack’s grin is face-splitting. “Here’s a secret, you incredibly infuriating woman: I like you, too.”
My heart jolts, invisible electric paddles sending awareness rampaging through me. My pulse rockets to what has to be an unsafe level. He likes me. He’s standing close. He’s taking my hand, tangling his fingers with mine. Oh God. He’s tipping my face up to look at him.
I know, as sure as I know anything, that Jack wants to kiss me. I see the question in his eyes. I swallow hard.
“I like you,” I stammer. “A lot. And I find myself…sometimes…wanting to maybe do things with you that are of an R rating. Or NC-17. Or maybe—”
“I got it,” he says, his voice low and extra gravelly. Oh fuck is it sexy when it gets like that.
I shift from leg to leg, looking down at our entwined fingers. “But. I am bad with guys. Like, really bad. You heard my mom. And I’m pretty sure I would fuck it up, and things would be ten times worse than they were before we…liked…each other. No, don’t argue, it’s true. But! I started therapy!”
I wrinkle my nose, aware that I announced my therapy the way someone would announce a silver bullet during a werewolf hunt.
“And I know it’s not, like, a magical cure, but I’m working through some stuff.
And… And when I’m done with that, if we still like each other, I’d maybe, sorta, not vomit in my mouth if you were to try and do whatever you were thinking about doing a second ago.
” Have to throw a joke in there, you freak show.
Jack doesn’t laugh at my joke. He doesn’t react at all at first. But then he lifts his gray gaze and tractor-beams me in with it. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. I understand. I hope therapy goes well.” He lifts my hand, turning it palm-up, and drops a slow kiss on the sensitive skin of my wrist. And holy shit does it ring my bell. “Back to work, slacker.” He releases me, and I have to force myself to move.
The work to take down the rest of the wooden slats does go way faster with Jack using the circular saw, and our breaks are few and far between.
The echo of our earlier conversation hangs over both of us like a hot fog.
Jack orders us sandwiches for lunch, grinning when I inspect my chicken sandwich and find it perfectly sans mayo.
I order us Indian food for dinner, refusing his money, since he refused mine.
We’re just about to get back to our work when we’re derailed by the sound of a knock at his door.
A feminine voice sounds on the other side.
Anna appears with a tearstained face, a red nose, and jerking shoulders from weeping-induced hiccups. She looks beautiful and tragic, a willow branch bent by a windstorm.
A brunette tendril has escaped her severe bun. She brushes it back, draws in a deep breath, and cries out, “I broke up with him,” before launching herself at her brother.
I melt back into my apartment to give them privacy, but with most of our wall gone, I can’t help catching snippets of their conversation—nonsensical outbursts of love and hurt and hate and regret from her, and murmured comforting words from him.
Jack hugs Anna close, letting her cry it out.
And then he wipes her tears and sits her on his barstool while he makes her tea.
He says all the right things and then chases them with ice cream. He is sweet and tender, and it causes an ache to blossom in my chest.
I am hiding in my bedroom with the door open because I am not at all nosy. For the moment, things seem to have quieted. I text Avery:
Anna broke up with her fiancé.
Avery responds with a gif of a man who goes from sobbing into a napkin to dancing in jubilation.
I shake my head.
Avery Vaughn, I thought you were a gentleman. Give the girl a proper mourning period.
No. I am but a gentleboy. Not yet a gentleman. Teach me, Dime Store Yoda.
Avery…
Relax. I’ll be her shoulder to cry on… Do you want to be my best man?
I can tell even through the phone that Avery is ecstatic.
Who are you? Avery Vaughn would never chase someone who was taken.
I haven’t pursued her. I pushed her away when she was taken. And I was mainly kidding just now, but even if I wasn’t, she isn’t taken now, so maybe stop with the judgment? When have I judged you? I can’t try a different path when the one I’ve been on has gotten me nowhere?
Okay, okay. Good lord.
Woof. That’s the closest thing to a fight Avery and I have ever had. I hold my breath, waiting for his response.
There is a long pause. And then:
Is she okay?
There’s the Avery I know. Though he told me her fiancé sounded like a colossal ham sandwich—boring, boorish, undeserving of her—he is still worried about her feelings.
I hear Jack offering up his bedroom to Anna. After tucking her in, I hear him puttering around in the destruction that is our living rooms, although it’s clear he’s trying to keep the sound to a minimum.
I exit my bedroom and look around. I tried to clean a bit as unobtrusively as I could, but this place is still a mega-disaster. Jack looks around wearily and sighs.
“You so want to vacuum, don’t you?”
“More than I want oxygen, yes. But she passed out right away, and she’s a light sleeper. And she wanted to be alone, so I won’t be bunking with her. I’m going to be huffing this dust in all night.” He removes the sheet he threw over his sofa and eyes it dubiously.
“You can sleep with me. My bed, I mean. Not with me,” I hear myself say, like the babbling monster I am.
He stops, goes very still. “First lunch, now bed?”
“You’re the worst. Offer retracted.”
“No, it’s not.” Beneath his weariness, there is amusement in his expression, and something else I can’t put my finger on. He crosses his arms and appraises me. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
The way he says it, in an almost-growl, hits me south of the equator. Hard. “Why? You— If you can’t behave yourself, I can always go crash at Margie’s and you take my bed. Just don’t go through my underwear drawer.”
“No, I can behave. Was worried about you keeping your hands to yourself, actually. Even with the therapy.”
I make a scoffing noise, halfway between a laugh and a snort.
“Your friend’s probably got Lara over, anyway.” He says it without any kind of inflection, albeit in a slightly rushed way. He saw Margie and La exiting the bathroom at the party. He knows they’re getting hot and heavy. “So… Okay, then. Thanks.”
I am very conscious of my breathing when I say, “Right. Okay, then. I’m going to go shower…”
We regard each other until I force myself to pad to my bathroom. Where I take a very cold shower.
What the hell have I just done?
You were trying to be nice.
Was I?
I close my eyes and let the water run over my face. This is a very bad idea. Bad, bad Penny.
When I come out of the bathroom, Jack is emerging from his. His hair is damp; he’s wearing shorts and a shirt. I find myself wondering if that’s his normal bedtime attire or if he’s being modest for me.
Even though it’s just sleep, I’m nervous as a virgin. I give him a half smile and call out, “Right this way, m’lord.” Control yourself, you moron.
He gives me a wry glance and follows me to my room. Once in, he looks around at all my little knickknacks and photos. It’s cozy and tranquil, everything designed to suck you in and hug you close and make you feel safe.
“Stop being nosy.”
“Only fair since you snooped in my room.” At my affronted look, he says, “Picture on my wall? Oh, and you missed a ton of coins under the bed.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right.”
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly Sahara-dry. “You— You can have that side.”
He gets in on the left side of the bed, and I flick off the lights, then slide in on the other side, the sheets cool against my legs and arms. Why did I choose shorts and a tank top?
I push my bedroom-fashion regrets aside as we face away from one another.
Jack’s bed is a full, maybe to accommodate the weights and crap in his room, so he wouldn’t have had much room if he’d bunked with Anna.
Mine is a queen. Bigger than his, but still.
There isn’t much space separating us. His body heat is a burning brand at my back.
“You have a lot of plants in here,” he says.
“Your eyes work. Congrats.” I grab for my cell and scroll through, the faint light illuminating the room somewhat. I’m poking blindly around my apps, looking for anything to avoid thinking about him in my bed.
“Thank you. For this. I wasn’t looking forward to that dust all night.”
“Of course. Sleeping with me is always a better choice than lung damage.”
I feel the bed move, hear him laugh. His rear slides against mine. I tense. He shifts slightly, angling his body away. “Dancing cheek to cheek,” he says, humor lurking in his voice.
It’s a long time before I fall asleep.