Chapter 13 #2
This is big. This is… everything. Work-wise, at least.
So why does my stomach feel like I just swallowed a handful of ice cubes?
Because you had that dream, my brain supplies helpfully. Because you’ve let a man into your bones a little, and now you’re picturing him on planes with you and in hotel rooms you haven’t booked yet.
“Nope,” I tell myself firmly. “Work first. Feelings never.”
I clap my hands once, sharp, and get moving.
Step one: caffeine. I make myself a cappuccino in Leo’s fancy machine, smother it with chocolate powder, and drink it at the breakfast bar while cutting fruit for Rhiannon’s snack box.
Step two: admin. I answer a dozen emails, decline three dubious sponsorship offers (“No, I will not endorse your ‘slimming lube’”), and flag up two interesting potential collabs with sex positive influencers I respect.
Step three: blog work. I hole up in the conservatory with my laptop, the twins napping in their bassinets, and start writing up the Climax trip.
I describe Lianne and Rush’s punk-soft energy, the stained glass vulvas, the local erotic art, the way a community-run sex shop feels fundamentally different from some faceless chain selling candy underwear and poor quality plastic cocks.
When I get to the part where I talk about the back room, about the shelves of toys, about the vibrating nipple clamps, I can still feel the way Jacob’s hands tightened on my hips.
The way his voice broke when he begged me to tell him what to do.
How he looked at me afterwards like I’d delivered him some kind of longed-for holy text.
“Focus, Mills.” I scrub a hand over my face and keep typing.
My phone buzzes.
Jacob
I can’t stop thinking about the taste of you.
Heat slams through me so hard I have to set my laptop aside.
I stare at the message. He’s never texted me like this before. Flirty, yes. Curious, yes. Enthusiastic, definitely. But this is… bold. Unapologetic.
Another message pings.
Jacob
Sorry, that was blunt. Practising being direct. But it’s true. You’re still on my mind. And my tongue.
I bite down on a whimper. God, I adore this version of him.
The one who’s still shy but trying so hard to step into his wants instead of skirting them.
The one who told his father to take a long walk off a short pier and then came to this house looking wrung out and so brave about it I nearly kissed him in front of everyone.
I type and erase three separate replies:
I miss you too.
I want your mouth back on me.
Come over after work and I’ll give you something to taste.
Every version feels like stepping off a ledge.
I promised myself this morning I was going to keep my distance.
Let him enjoy his new self-confidence without entangling it with me.
If I let this go any further, it won’t just be fun anymore, it’ll be…
something else. And he deserves better than having that something else with a woman who will always, always choose departure over domesticity.
I force my fingers to type something breezy.
Tippi
Look at you getting all filthy over text. Proud of you, Professor ;)
Tippi
Been working today. Big meeting about future projects coming up. Brain’s all over the place.
I hit send before I can chicken out. It’s not a bad reply. It’s not cold. But it’s not an invitation, either.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Jacob
Didn’t mean to distract you.
Jacob
Good luck with the meeting. They’d be mad not to give you whatever you want. x
The little x sits there, neat and careful.
My chest squeezes. I type back a neutral smiley and toss my phone onto the sofa like it’s misbehaved.
Back off, I tell myself. Back off gently. Give him space.
The house is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the soft baby snores from the next room. My reflection in the conservatory glass looks… unsettled.
I throw myself back into work like it’s a rip current. If I keep busy enough, maybe my feelings will get bored and wander off, the way they always do.
He turns up just after six.
I hear his knock while I’m helping Rhiannon line up her Sylvanian Families. Sadie’s in the kitchen with a twin on each shoulder. Leo’s late back from the parlor because he’s picking up dinner.
“I’ll get it,” I call, ruffling Rhi’s hair.
The moment I open the door, my resolve starts leaking out of me like air from a punctured balloon.
Jacob’s in his work stuff, but the tie’s loosened and the top button’s undone.
His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, showing a dusting of dark hair and that new bird tattoo on his wrist. His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been raking his fingers through it, and his eyes are pale blue and wary.
He is outrageously, unfairly sexy.
“Hi,” he says quietly. “Is now a bad time?”
A ridiculous part of me wants to launch myself at him and wrap my legs around his waist. Instead I smile, careful and nonchalant. “Hey, Professor. Come in. You’re just in time for a Sylvanian Families meeting.”
His mouth twitches. “Sounds important.”
Rhiannon squeals when she sees him. “Uncle Jacob!” She barrels into the hallway, socks sliding, and latches onto his leg. He nearly topples over, catching himself on the doorframe.
“Woah,” he laughs, steadying them both. “Hello, my little menace.”
“Did you have another bad day?” she asks, peering up at him. “We can draw feelings again if you need.”
He glances at me, soft. “Better day today, thank you. But I may require an expert consultation later.”
She nods solemnly, satisfied, and drags him into the sitting room to show him her latest drawing of a dragon eating broccoli.
I follow more slowly, my stomach knotting. He came here. After I sent those lukewarm texts. That’s… a choice.
Sadie looks up from the babies, eyes flicking between us. There’s a question there, but she doesn’t voice it. “Hey, bro,” she says to Jacob. “You on dinner patrol too? Leo’s bringing pizza on his way back.”
“Sounds great,” he says automatically, but his gaze keeps bouncing back to me like it’s tethered.
We muddle through the first fifteen minutes on surface-level small talk. Work. The weather. The twins’ latest sleep rebellion. He looks at me a lot. I keep finding reasons to look away.
It’s Rhiannon who saves us. “Uncle Jacob,” she says blithely, “why are you staring at my Aunt Tippi like she’s tasty?”
I choke. Sadie snorts so hard she nearly drops a baby. Jacob goes scarlet from collar to hairline.
“I - I wasn’t - I mean -” He clears his throat and offers Rhi a helpless look. “She is very… nice to look at. But staring is rude. I’m working on that.”
“It’s OK,” Rhiannon says magnanimously. “I stare at her too. She’s got pretty hair.” She turns to me. “Can we put glitter in it tomorrow?”
“Absolutely,” I croak.
Jacob’s eyes meet mine. There’s embarrassment there, yes, but also something like determination. “Tippi, could I… talk to you for a moment? Somewhere quieter?”
Sadie’s gaze flicks to me. Be careful, her eyes say. She doesn’t say it out loud. She just adjusts Ezra on her shoulder and kisses his forehead.
“Sure,” I say. “Garden?”
We step out into the back garden. The sky’s a bruised purple, the air cool against my heated skin. Fairy lights twine along the fence, not yet switched on. The faint rumble of traffic blends with the distant hiss of the sea.
Jacob shoves his hands into his pockets for a second, then seems to remember that’s a defensive posture and pulls them out again. He looks at me, really looks, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Did I…” He stops, tries again. “Have I done something to upset you?”
Guilt stabs me right under the breastbone. “What? No.” I force a laugh. “Why would you think that?”
“Because I sent you a message and you sounded… distant.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“And that’s fine, you don’t owe me a particular tone, but we said we’d be honest with each other and I keep thinking I must have done something wrong and I don’t know what it is and it’s -” He breaks off, presses his lips together. “It’s driving me mad.”
Oh, Jacob.
He’s standing there like he’s bracing for impact. He looks like he did when he told me he used to mutter Shakespeare to keep himself from exploding.
I did this. I tugged away without explanation because it felt safer for me.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. At all. It’s… a ‘me’ thing.”
He doesn’t fidget. That’s how I know he’s really listening. He goes still in this intense, focused way, like my words are code he’s trying to debug.
I lean back against the wall, arms folded loosely, trying to find the right line between honesty and not unloading my entire psychological profile on the poor man.
“Something came up this morning,” I say.
“Work-wise. A possible… thing. Big thing. And it made me realize that I need to be really careful not to… overstep with you.”
His brows pull together. “Overstep how?”
I blow out a breath. “I like you,” I say, letting the words land between us. “A lot. More than I should, given the time frame.”
Color blooms in his cheeks, then drains. “That’s… bad?”
“It’s…” I scrub a hand over my ponytail.
“You know who I am, Jacob. I live out of a suitcase. I don’t do monogamy.
I don’t do staying. And you…” I gesture vaguely at him, at the house, at his whole life.
“You’re just figuring out how to be comfortable in your own skin.
You’re carving out boundaries with your dad.
You’re finding your footing with your neurodivergence.
The last thing you need is some hurricane of a woman stomping her big monster boots all over your feelings and then fucking off to whichever country offers her the most interesting sex museum. ”
His jaw tightens. “You’re not a hurricane.”
I huff out a humourless laugh. “Tell that to the trail of people who’ve caught feelings and then had to watch me pack my bag.”