9. This Is Extremely Cliché
Chapter nine
This Is Extremely Cliché
Claire
Idon't move.
The ten-second rule of sitting perfectly still didn't make the power come back on at my house, but maybe it'll work here.
I give it twelve seconds this time.
Nothing.
Across the kitchen, Jack hasn't moved either. I'm pretty sure he's silently glaring at the ceiling fixture.
If Jack Wilder had a mission statement, it would be: Minimal words. Maximum glare.
Apparently, electricity is immune to both.
The lanterns still glow on the counter, turning the kitchen into a small island of light against the storm. I haven't been inside Jack's house since we were kids, but there's a warmth to it I wasn't expecting. It feels lived in. Comfortable.
Safe.
Unlike the house across the yard, which is currently full of memories I don't want to sit with and a porch swing that has recently developed violent tendencies.
Dusty lies at my feet like this is the best night of his life, one paw tucked beneath him and his eyes half-closed. Apparently, he's found complete peace in the middle of a storm and power outage.
I finally glance at Jack and nearly laugh.
He is, in fact, staring at the ceiling like he can intimidate the electricity into returning.
I hold the laugh in.
I'm not sure whether he'd take it as a personal attack.
“Well,” I say, because apparently one of us has to fill the silence. “That's very rude of your electricity. It knew I was here and decided to make things weird.”
Jack finally looks at me. His expression is already annoyed, as if I've insulted him instead of the power company.
“It was going to go out either way.”
“Sure.” I shrug. “But it waited until I was trapped in the house of my arch nemesis during a storm, which feels suspiciously intentional.”
His brow furrows. “I'm not your arch nemesis. And you're not trapped.”
“Sorry. You're right.” I give him my best eye roll. “I got that backward. I'm your arch nemesis. Or enemy. Or the person you've apparently decided to hold a grudge against for reasons you've never bothered explaining.”
“I don't—”
“And technically,” I continue before he can finish, “you did just tell me I'm not leaving.”
“I—”
“Of course, you also told me not to stay in practically the same sentence, which are pretty conflicting instructions, if you ask me.”
Jack's jaw tightens.
“I didn't say you couldn't go home.”
I point toward the window, where rain hits the glass so hard it looks like it's trying to get inside.
“You still want to be all gentlemanly and walk me home in that?”
Jack stares at me.
I stare back.
Dusty's tail thumps once against the floor, like he's waiting to see which one of us wins.
"Fine. I'll leave, then." I stand and start toward the front door.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Partly to give Jack time to call my bluff.
Mostly because I don't actually want to walk through a dark house, trip over something, and then have to explain that I injured myself while dramatically pretending to leave.
Also, I don't really want to leave.
Not that I'm admitting that.
My house is dark, my supplies are limited, and the weather outside looks like the ocean has decided to relocate inland.
Jack releases what may be the loudest sigh I've ever heard.
“Stay here. Please.”
I smile to myself before turning around.
Victory.
“So,” I say as I follow the lantern light back toward the center of the kitchen, “what do Wilders do when the power goes out in Tidehaven? Besides rotate between glaring at the ceiling and glaring at me like you're trying to decide which one you dislike more.”
Jack doesn't respond.
Which is apparently one of his favorite hobbies.
“We wait,” he says finally.
He picks up one of the radios and turns the dial, searching through bursts of static for a station.
“Waiting sounds fun.”
Jack keeps adjusting the dial.
“Do we stare at a wall for entertainment, or is that scheduled for later?”
He ignores me.
Shocker.
I look around the kitchen again. Much like my own house, his feels lived in and homey, although I highly doubt there are any signs hidden around here that say things like Life Is Better at the Beach or This Kitchen Is Seasoned with Love.
For some reason, that makes it feel even more absurd that I'm here.
“This is extremely cliché,” I say.
Jack gives up on the radio and looks at me, his brow furrowing.
“Cliché?”
“Yeah.” I gesture around the kitchen like the situation should be obvious. “I mean, look at us.”
Jack's gaze moves from me to the lantern-lit kitchen and then back again, as if he's genuinely trying to figure out what he's supposed to be looking at.
“The situation, Jack,” I clarify.
His brow furrows. “Storms are normal in Tidehaven.”
“Not the storm itself. This.” I gesture between us. “You. Me. Trapped in the same house.”
“We're not trapped.”
I let out a sigh. Of course that's the part he focuses on.
“I was supposed to come into town, meet my realtor face-to-face, go through some of my things, and figure out how much work the house needs before I can sell it. Then I was supposed to go home.”
Jack's expression changes slightly at the word sell, but I continue before he can say anything.
“But no. The first storm of the season comes early, I lose power, and I end up forced indoors with the one person in this town who seems to hold some sort of personal grudge against me.” I raise one finger. “And bonus points for the electricity going out.”
“What are you talking about?”
And there it is. The grumpiness.
As if I needed another reason to add grumpy to the growing list of words that describe Jack Wilder.
“I am quite literally in a classic romance novel setup.”
I point between the two of us.
“For the record, I refuse to share a bed. I'm not adding that trope to this situation.”
Jack looks genuinely confused.
“Why would we share a bed?”
I study his face for a moment, waiting for some sign that he's joking.
There isn't one.
Of course there isn't.
I briefly consider explaining the entire appeal of forced proximity, enemies-to-lovers tension, and grumpy men who secretly care far more than they want anyone to know.
I decide I value my dignity.
“Never mind.”
Jack continues looking at me like I've started speaking another language.
“Just trust me. I'm not enjoying this little adventure nearly as much as people seem to in novels. Especially since I already know how it ends.”
Something that looks suspiciously like curiosity crosses his face.
Or maybe it's just the lantern light.
“You read too many romance novels.”
“I do not.”
The denial comes out far too quickly, which is unfortunate considering I absolutely do. My phone is practically out of storage because I keep downloading more.
Jack's eyes narrow. “You answered too fast.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
I cross my arms. “That proves nothing.”
“It's what people do when they're denying the truth.”
Before I can come up with a response, the corner of his mouth twitches.
I pause.
Is Jack Wilder actually trying not to smile at me?
No. That can't be right.
Definitely the lantern light.
“Fine,” I concede. “I read romance novels. But I read a wide variety of books. Some of them are very literary.”
“Do the literary ones also involve getting trapped with your neighbor during storms?”
My mind immediately flashes to Jane Bennet getting stuck at Netherfield because of the weather. Followed by Elizabeth showing up and finding Mr. Darcy there.
Dang it, Jane Austen.
“Some literary novels have slight similarities, yes.”
Understatement of the century.
Jack studies me for another second before abruptly changing the subject.
“Are you hungry?”
I blink.
“A little.”
The question catches me off guard. So does the realization that I actually am hungry.
“But I'm also not trying to be a burden.”
His familiar glare returns.
“You're already here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That's encouraging. I feel much less like a burden now. Thanks.”
“It's a statement.” His tone remains completely flat. “You can eat.”
I glance around the kitchen. “You have food?”
Jack looks at me like I've just asked if water is wet.
“Yes.”
I think about the sad contents of my refrigerator across the yard and nod.
“Okay. What are we eating?”
Jack opens the refrigerator and starts pulling out ingredients with the calm confidence of a man who lives within fifteen minutes of a grocery store and apparently prepares for weather as a hobby.
Eggs.
A bag of shredded cheese.
Tortillas.
Something that looks suspiciously like actual produce.
I stare at the counter, offended on my own behalf.
“You even have real groceries.”
Jack glances at me. “Yes. And we should probably eat some of this before it goes bad.”
“My refrigerator is currently full of vibes and trauma.”
He pauses.
For one glorious second, Jack Wilder appears to have absolutely no idea what to do with me.
Then he goes back to pulling ingredients from the refrigerator as if I didn't say anything.
“I can make quesadillas.”
I look from him to the food.
Honestly, I was expecting something more along the lines of crackers or frozen pizza.
“Quesadillas sound great.”
Jack nods, pulls out a pan, and sets it on the stove.
Then, because the universe is determined to make this situation as awkward as possible, he reaches for the burner.
Nothing happens.
Jack stares at the stove.
I stare at Jack.
Dusty lifts his head, ears perking as if he also wants to see how this plays out.
Jack slowly exhales.
“Right.”
My mouth twitches.
“The electricity's out.”
His glare swings toward me.
“Yes.”
“So… no quesadillas?”
Without answering, Jack opens a cabinet and pulls out a camping stove like this is a perfectly normal thing to keep within arm's reach in a kitchen.
I stare at it.
Then at him.
“You have a camping stove.”
“Yes.”
“Just hanging out in your kitchen?”
“Storm season.”
Of course.
I nod slowly. “I'm not sure whether to be disturbed or impressed.”
He ignores me and starts setting it up.
“Or both,” I add.
Still nothing.
“Do you want help?”
Jack doesn't look up. “No.”
I roll my eyes.
“That wasn't a real answer. That was a reflex.”
His jaw tightens. “I don't need help.”