. . .
Natalie
He’s standingon my porch in athletic shorts and a fitted gray T-shirt, holding a bag from Mendocino Farms.
“Hey,” he says, suddenly looking almost uncertain. “I was at the gym near here and thought I’d take a chance you’d be home.”
My stomach does a stupid flip. He looks good. Too good. All lean muscle and easy smile and those gorgeous eyes.
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, because letting him see the effect he has on me feels dangerous.
“Sandwich. That turkey cranberry one with the Brie. And the butternut squash soup.”
I step aside. “Come in.”
He follows me to the kitchen, setting the bag on the counter while I grab bowls. The soup smells incredible, all roasted and creamy, and suddenly I’m starving even though I just inhaled cake.
How am I supposed to guard myself against this? Againsta man who shows up at my door with exactly what I’m craving before I even know I’m craving it? Who looks like that in a gray T-shirt that clings to every muscle he’s earned at that boxing gym? It’s not fair.
“How was your writers’ group?” he asks, sliding onto one of my counter stools like he’s done it a hundred times.
Even that. The easy way he fits into my space, into my life, like he belongs here. I’m in so much trouble.
“Good. They threw me a surprise celebration. Wren brought a cake.”
“That’s nice.”
I hand him a spoon. “They’ve been reading my pages for at least five years. I wouldn’t have soldSpellboundwithout them.”
“Tell me about them.”
So I do. Jake listens intently, asking questions, laughing in the right places. He has this way of listening that makes you feel like the only person in the room.
“They sound great,” he says. “I’d love to meet them sometime.”
The comment’s casual, but it lands heavy. Meeting my friends feels like a capital-R Relationship step. A step we’re definitely not taking.
“Maybe,” I say, noncommittal, and take a bite of soup.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then he asks about my week, and I tell him about the yoga class where someone fell asleep in savasana and started snoring.
“That happened to me once,” he admits.
“In yoga?”
“The gym. I was so exhausted after a workout I lay down on the mat and totally passed out. Wyatt had to wake me up.”
I laugh, trying to picture it. Jake always seems so put together, so in control. The image of him drooling on a gym mat is unreasonably endearing.
“What?” he asks, grinning.
“Nothing. You’re just…not what I expected.”
“What’d you expect?”
“I don’t know. More buttoned-up, I guess. You’re this successful attorney, you work for my dad, you drive a nice car and live in the hills.”
“And?”
