“Not good enough, apparently.”
“Ah, well, practice makes perfect.” He gives me a look so piercing I could swear it had points, and I blink, willing myself not to be charmed.
“Whatever. You gonna snitch on me to the lads or not?”
He shakes his head, his smile infuriatingly sexy. “I can handle you, you know.”
“Better men than you have tried.”
“Doubt it.”
God, the way he shifts between sweetness and arrogance is as irritating as it is vibrator-inducing. I decide it’s time to play my ‘Go away, potential suitor’ trump card.
“Can you please stop making intense sexual eye contact with me? It’s aggravating my Autism.”
Jake frowns. “You’re Autistic?”
“Board certified.” I knock a fist against the table. “A trait I will likely share with my future children, just FYI.”
He gives me another panty-melting smile. “I know you’re just saying that to put me off, but it’s not working.”
My stomach flips over, and I hate myself a little bit more. “You want a daughter who never sleeps and has a borderline scary interest in wood fairies?”
“Who wouldn’t want a kid like you?”
“A nutcase?”
“A beautiful prodigy.”
My body burns with hatred. Self-hatred. Hatred of Jake Graves-Holland. Hatred of this bar. Hatred of this city. Hatred of sick puppies. Pure, uncut hatred.
“God, dude, give it up already!You’re a nice guy. You’ve got hair. Go bark upliterally any other tree.”
“You feel it too, don’t you?”
My insides shimmer. “What?”
“This thing between us.”
“No.”
“Don’t lie straight to my face, Renaldo. You’re not that good.”
For the first time in a long time, I can’t think of anything to say. I squint at Jake, and he looks back at me, and it’s like he’s the first person to ever see through me. Like I’ve transformed from a girl into layers of glass.
“What’s your game?” he says quietly. “What am I not getting here?”
My thoughts stall like he’s hit a big pause button in my head. I stare deep into his storm-grey eyes. “I’m a psycho bitch.”
I don’t mean to say it. It just comes out. And the minute it does, it makes me want to die. Because it’s true, the way the best music is true. Simply and completely. At least that’s what I think.
“You’re not.” Jake’s big, twisted hand comes across the table, asking me to take it. “You need people to think you are to feel safe, but you’re a sweetheart under all that, aren’t you?”
He says it like he knows. Like he sees.
I don’t need to be seen. I operate in invisibility, or behind a mask. I don’t need to be cracked open and understood, especially not by this man. With what feels like all the strength in my body, I close my eyes and conjure a memory of Teenage Ada and Rhys muddling along in the back field, lost and lonely. Then I open my eyes.
“Hate to break it to you, but you’re the only secret softie at this table, champ.”
