Jamie is in my apartment.
As soon as I close the door behind him, a charge tips into the air. The hint of unpredictability feels out of place in this apartment where nothing but the routine and solitary has taken place since I moved in.
He rubs his big hands vigorously to warm them from the cold he walked through. My eyes almost glaze over when he flexes his thick fingers to restore circulation. I blink and look away when I start to feel a liquid pressure low in my center.
Jamie puts his hand to his neck and winces. When he pulls his grip away, there’s a purple bruise.
“Oh, no,” I say, concern twisting on my face. “You can’t go back out until the hail stops.”
“I don’t want to intrude. I’ll just run extra fast and?—”
“Shut up, you’re staying.” I hold out my hand demandingly. “Give me your jacket.”
His eyes flash. “Yes, ma’am.”
Something about his words has a line of sparks slinking up my back. My eyes tick above his shoulders and to my dark bedroom. A muscle tugs between my legs.
He slides off his jacket and hands it to me. I hang it up on the coatrack I have next to my door. It’s a nice wooden antique that Cindy dragged out of her basement for me when I moved in.
“Geez, that hail was freaking brutal,” he says, rubbing a spot on his back where a stone must have hit him.
I can’t help but feel amused at his choice of words. “Do you ever even curse?”
A mischievous look seeps into his eyes. “Are you asking me to start talking dirty?”
Heat washes over me. Since we’ve become friendly, every now and then Jamie will surprise me with a suggestive remark. But the next second, he’ll be as bashful and reserved as ever.
I let his comment hang in the air and ask what he’s doing here. He nods to the bag he set down by the door and explains.
“You already ate at Pasqually’s?” I ask, taking the bag and putting it on the kitchen counter.
“No,” he answers. “I was just going to bring your delivery and go back to the shop. The hail came out of nowhere.”
Jamie ran across town on an empty stomach just to see me. And getting pelted with hail so hard that it left bruises didn’t convince him to turn around. A fluttery feeling sweeps through me. It raises my pulse, because it’s a sensation I’m not used to.
“We’ll share what I ordered, then.” I start taking some plates and bowls from my cabinets.
“Nah, I don’t want to take your food. I’m not really hungry anyway.”
I ignore him, evenly dividing the carton of minestrone soup I ordered into two different bowls.
“Yeah, right. I see how you guys scarf down the sandwiches when you get lunch at Last Word. You’re always hungry.”
Jamie emits a noncommittal sound, and I know I’m tempting him.
“Besides, consider it your tip. Who doesn’t tip their delivery guy?”
“If you’re sure …”
I split up my Caesar salad between two plates and push one in Jamie’s direction. “You’ve already admitted defeat. Dig in.”
Honestly, right after I placed my order, I thought to myself that it probably wasn’t enough for dinner. I worked up an appetite at the café today. Cutting it in half is blatantly insufficient even for me. There’s no way it’ll fill Jamie up.
It seems like the endorphins Jamie activated running from Pasqually’s are wearing off. His demeanor is more reserved, and his expression looks like a fish out of water. Even after we spent hours in the middle of the night sitting side by side and looking up at the sky, even after he’s built up enough confidence to drop flirty lines that have had my thighs tingling, he can still get nervous. It’s cute.
He steps to the kitchenette to grab his plates. “Okay,” he says, looking around. “Which way to the dining room?”
I lower my brow. “Hah, hah. Very funny.”
