11. So You’re Still Selling
Chapter eleven
So You’re Still Selling
Claire
Iwake up warm.
Not in my bed, which would be suspicious. Not in the guest room, which would be polite. Warm in the very specific way that suggests someone made a decision while I was asleep.
I blink at the ceiling, trying to figure out where I am without moving too quickly and discovering something I don't want to know.
Oh.
Jack's living room.
On his couch.
Which is in his house.
With him somewhere in it.
The lantern on the coffee table is dark and useless now that pale, watery morning light is filtering through the windows. The angry darkness from last night is gone, and the rain has eased into a steady drip from the gutters.
I look down.
A blanket is tucked around me like someone was in the mood for a burrito and I was the only available thing to wrap.
I shift slightly and immediately regret it when I become aware of two things at once.
One, my neck does not appreciate sleeping on a couch.
And two, I definitely fell asleep on Jack Wilder.
I don't remember the exact moment it happened. I remember the glow of the lantern, Dusty's warm weight near my legs, and Jack's shoulder beneath my cheek like it was the most natural place in the world.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Awesome.
In the very much not-awesome way.
I sit up slowly and work my arms free from the blanket burrito. The room has that strange post-storm quiet that makes last night feel like it might have been a weird dream if I ignore the ache in my neck and the fact that I am definitely not in my own house.
Dusty lifts his head from the rug and thumps his tail once, like he's been waiting patiently for me to wake up.
I stare at him. “You. You were supposed to keep me awake.”
Dusty yawns.
Clearly, he has no guilt.
I untangle my legs from the blanket and stand, smoothing my shirt as if a quick tug of fabric can somehow erase the entire concept of sleeping on Jack Wilder.
There's no sign of him.
Which means he's either still asleep or intentionally hiding from me.
Both options seem equally plausible.
I head toward the kitchen because standing around in the living room is exactly how I end up overthinking things.
Things like who tucked the blanket around me.
Or why I apparently thought Jack's shoulder made a perfectly acceptable pillow.
Or why a power outage suddenly feels like something out of one of the romance novels I definitely don't read.
The overhead lights are on when I reach the kitchen.
I pause and scowl at them.
If the electricity hadn't gone out last night, I would probably still be in the safety of my own house instead of standing in Jack Wilder's kitchen trying not to think about the fact that I fell asleep on him.
As if summoned by the thought, Jack appears in the doorway.
He's changed since last night and is wearing a black T-shirt, which somehow makes the whole tall, dark, and handsome thing even more annoyingly accurate.
His expression is neutral in the way that suggests he's had time to put his guard back up. For some reason I don't want to examine, I feel the absence of his shoulder beneath my cheek like it's a physical thing.
Not that I care.
Obviously.
“Morning,” he says, pulling a mug from the cabinet. “The coffee maker works again if you're interested.”
My mouth opens, then closes.
I try again. “Morning.”
Jack gestures toward the window. “The storm broke.”
I nod like I haven't noticed the working lights or the fact that the house is no longer being attacked by rain. “Yeah. I gathered.”
For a moment, I stare out the window. Then I turn back to him because apparently I have decided humiliation is best dealt with directly.
“So. Did I... fall asleep on you?”
One of his eyebrows lifts slightly.
He clearly wasn't expecting me to say it out loud.
I wait for him to deny it. Or make some obnoxious comment. Or avoid answering altogether and act like I've asked a hypothetical question that requires no response.
Instead, he gives a single nod. “For a little while.”
I immediately decide I would have preferred denial. Then I could have continued living in a world where nothing embarrassing happened last night and all would be right again.
I sigh. “Sorry about that.”
The corner of Jack's mouth twitches. “You were tired.”
“I am never tired.”
He looks at me like he doesn't believe a word I say. “Yeah. Okay.”
For some reason, I would almost prefer an argument.
That would be normal.
And I really need normal right now.
My phone pings from where I left it on the counter, and I grab it, grateful for something to do besides participate in whatever this strangely civil morning-after-the-storm interaction has become.
It's a message from June.
I checked the weather there. Everything okay? I can come back into town if you need anything.
I stare at the message longer than necessary.
In a different version of this morning, I'd be standing in my own kitchen, eating stale crackers and pretending everything was fine.
I'd be going over lists, planning inspections, maybe having a video call with June to talk about repairs.
I'd keep moving forward like the plan hadn't been interrupted by a storm and a neighbor with a hero complex.
In this version, I'm standing in Jack Wilder's kitchen pretending I didn't fall asleep on his shoulder.
I take a breath and type back.
Everything's good here. The electricity went out, but it wasn't too bad considering it's Tidehaven. No need to come back now or you might get sucked into small-town cleanup. We can regroup in a day or so.
Her reply comes quickly.
Sounds good. Shoot me a text or call when you're free.
I send a thumbs-up and put my phone away, like I can tuck the entire reality of my life back into my pocket along with it.
When I look up, Jack is watching me with the same quiet focus he has when he's trying to figure out how to fix something.
“What?” I ask, more defensively than I intend.
He shrugs. “You have people checking on you.”
I shrug right back. “It's just my realtor.”
Jack's expression changes.
Not much. Just enough that I notice.
“So you're still selling.”
It's not a question, but somehow it sounds like one.
Something tugs inside my chest. Not grief, exactly. Something newer, which is annoying because I don't have time for new feelings.
“Yes,” I say. “That's literally why I'm here.”
I glance around the kitchen and add, “In Tidehaven, I mean. Your kitchen was definitely not on my list of places to visit.”
Jack gives a short nod, but whatever ease had settled between us disappears so quickly I almost wonder if I imagined it.
“Right.” He turns toward the counter. “Well, your power should be back on now, so you can go.”
I stare at him.
That was... abrupt. Not exactly rude, but cold enough to make my stomach drop.
“I wasn't—”
The words die before I can finish them because I have no idea what I was about to say. I wasn't planning to stay? I wasn't expecting him to ask me to?
Why would I be?
Why would he?
Whatever strange truce the storm created between us clearly ended with the return of electricity.
Jack opens the refrigerator and grabs a bottle of water like he suddenly has something much more important to do than stand in the same room with me.
I swallow. “Okay.”
I don't like the sting behind the word.
I like even less that I had apparently expected something different from him, although I couldn't say what that something was.
Maybe I thought last night had changed things.
Maybe it did.
Apparently, not enough.
I head to the entryway and shove my feet into my boots without sitting down, mostly because I need to prove to myself that I can.
Dusty follows me, tail wagging, and somehow that makes leaving feel even worse.
I crouch and scratch behind his ears. “Take care, buddy.”
He licks my hand before I can pull it away.
I accept the dog slobber as a solid farewell.
When I stand, Jack is behind me, holding the door open like this is nothing more than a courtesy extended to a guest who has overstayed her welcome.
I step outside, and the damp morning chill hits immediately. The air smells like wet wood, salt, and the aftermath of a storm. My dad used to call it clean, like storms were some kind of reset button.
I glance back once.
Not because I care.
I absolutely do not care.
I just want to confirm Jack isn't secretly pleased to see me leave.
His expression gives me nothing.
“Thanks,” I say, because I'm not going to be rude. “For last night.”
“Mhmm.”
I scowl at him. “That was an actual sentence, by the way. Me thanking you.”
His familiar glare returns. “You're welcome.”
I huff out a laugh despite myself, then turn and walk across the yard before I can make the whole thing weird again.
Or weirder.
My porch is still standing.
The swing is still secured.
And the steps don't collapse beneath my feet, which I refuse to count as a win for Jack.
Inside, the house feels equal parts stale and familiar. The kitchen light is on, which is promising, but the quiet settles around me almost immediately.
Last night, I'd been desperate to get away from it.
This morning, after the noise of the storm and Dusty underfoot and Jack constantly irritating me, it somehow feels even louder.
I stand there for a moment with my keys still in my hand.
“Nope.”
I've had enough of houses for one morning.
“I think it's time for a break.”
I turn around and head back outside.
***
I don't bother locking the door.
It's Tidehaven. And if someone decides to sneak inside and burn the place down, then... fine.
The street doesn't look particularly storm-torn. Wet, sure. There are a few more leaves scattered around than usual, and a branch is down near the curb that someone will probably kick out of the way and refer to as storm damage for the next week.
Tidehaven loves a little drama.
Or a lot of drama, depending on the day.
I climb into my car and stare at the steering wheel, trying to decide what I'm even doing. I need a reason for leaving that doesn't involve the words procrastinate, procrastination, or procrastinating.
Cleanup.
Storm cleanup.