ME:Yeah.
HARLEY:Or “this” being your chance for an actual relationship that includes not just hot sex but also genuine care for another person?
ME:Yeah, maybe that too.
GEMMA:I literally just stopped in my tracks. Are you trying to say you actually like him?
GEMMA:I don’t mean that to sound like you shouldn’t because you totally should.
HARLEY:I think it’s just a surprise that you’re willing to admit it.
ME:Only over text. And only to you two.
Neither of them responds, and no little typing bubbles pop up. Which leads me to believe they’ve now rejoined forces in their living room and are plotting against me. Bitches.
HARLEY:You should talk to him. I feel like there’s a pretty good chance he feels the same way.
GEMMA:Yeah. This.
ME:I don’t know that he does.
ME:And that isn’t a self-deprecating thing. It’s a legit I don’t know if he likes me thing.
ME:God. I made it to 28 without ever having to have this feeling.
ME:Is this what it’s like being a teenage girl? No wonder they’re awful.
GEMMA:Welcome to my world.
HARLEY:Give it time. You don’t have to do anything right now.
GEMMA:Other than live with the hot-ass man who you are falling in luuurrrrvvvvee with.
ME:And on that note, I’m off to the beach.
GEMMA:I can’t believe we had to get our asses up at the crack of dawn this morning so you can spend the day on the beach.
I send them a blowing-kisses GIF and finish the last sip of my latte. Tossing my cup in the recycle bin, I venture out of the kitchen in search of a bathroom on this level to save me from having to walk back up the stairs. The hallway behind the kitchen is long and peppered with closed doors. I’m tempted to peek, but even I know that’s crossing a major line. So I show a huge amount of restraint and don’t open any, until I reach one whose door is already partially ajar.
Assuming it’s the restroom, I push in and immediately stop in my tracks. This is definitely not a bathroom. The room is large and paneled in dark wood. There’s a whole wall of built-in bookshelves, and a massive desk dominates the center of the space. It’s a very manly-man study, and very not Jack. Obviously the room belonged to one of his parents, probably his dad if we’re being stereotypical about it, and it feels wrong to be in here.
I’m spinning on my heel to hightail it out of there when something catches my eye. Other than the painting hanging above my bed, what I’ve seen of the house is completely devoid of photos or artwork. But hanging on the wall to my right is another masterpiece, and it’s a familiar subject. Taking a few steps closer, I let my eyes absorb all the details, everything from the iron gate to the bright red front door. It’s a perfect reflection of the brownstone. Jack’s brownstone.
Our home.
I stare at it for what feels like an hour but is probably only a few minutes. When I tear myself away, I duck out of the study, leaving the door in the exact position I found it in.
When Jack returns a couple of hours later, he finds me on a lounge chair on the back patio, a chilled glass of sauvignon blanc in one hand and my phone in the other.
“I’m officially living my best life,” I declare when he plops down on the chair next to mine.
He gives me that bemused smile of his. “Looks like it. I take it you were able to find everything you needed?”
I push my sunglasses to the top of my head so I can look at him unimpeded. “Yup. Thank you for the coffee and breakfast.”
He shrugs like he didn’t go totally out of his way for me. “There’s no espresso machine here, and I know how touchy you are about your lattes.”
“Did you get all of your errands done?” Keeping my eyes trained on him, I lean my head back against the padded chaise.
