I wait until after Rhi’s bedtime to slip out. I only get a handful of bedtime story nights a year; no one outranks those. So it’s around eight PM when I drive over to Jacob’s and knock.
Good thing his door doesn’t have a peephole, because the stunned and mildly horrified look on his face when he opens it suggests he never would’ve answered if he’d known it was me.
I remember that references to shared family is a good opening salvo with him. “Our niece says you make the best lemon and sugar pancakes she’s ever had,” I say. “I’m starving. Thought I’d see if I could get in on that.”
I look him over. Jacob’s version of casual apparently still involves heavy cotton trousers and a shirt, but the sleeves are rolled up his forearms in a way that should be illegal. There’s a light dusting of hair there, and at his throat where one button is undone. He’s so stupidly handsome it’s almost offensive.
I did not getnearlyenough time pulling on that almost-black hair.
“Pancakes?” he repeats, suspicious. His gaze skitters around my face, avoiding my eyes.
“Hey, it’s a reason.” I shrug. “Best I could come up with on the drive.” I give him the same slow smile that made him stare at my mouth at the café. It works again; his eyes flick down, then back up. “Can I come in?”
“That’s what you said last time,” he mutters, stepping aside.
“Well, it worked then, so I thought I’d try it again.” I step into the hall, taking in more of his space this time now that my pussy isn’t screaming for attention.
Well. Not as loudly, anyway.
His house is so…him. Neat. Minimal. Monochrome. Grey walls, black sofa, white TV unit, gray rug, black mug on a gray coaster. Splashes of color come from the movie poster and a few photos on the mantelpiece. It should feel cold, but the tiny personal touches keep it from tipping into sixties sitcom.
“Black and white and gray are easy,” he says quietly from behind me, clearly aware I’m cataloging. “They always work. Paradoxically, there’s no gray area in gray areas.”
I laugh. “That’s funny.”
His eyes flash to mine, startled but pleased, before he escapes to the kitchen. I follow, leaning on the doorway as he dries plates with a white towel like they’ve personally offended him.
“Please explain why you’re here,” he says, very politely, very tightly.
I give him a moment, then a softer look. He ismortifiedabout our sofa situation; I can feel it like I’m breathing in smoke. And he really doesn’t need to be.
I spot the logo on a mug he’s drying. “Arcus Security. That where you work?”
“Yes.” He sets the mug down carefully. “Why are you here?” he asks again, more insistent this time, looking in my general direction.
“Because I like you,” I say simply.
He frowns, shaking his head like I’ve told him two plus two equals seventeen.
“Why wouldn’t I?” I go on. “Just because you’re quiet doesn’t mean you’re not interesting. Or worth knowing. Or worth listening to while I’m in the same timezone as you.”
“Tippi…” Jacob’s sigh is heavy. He still can’t quite look at me. “I don’t want p-pity,” he says, voice fraying. “Or to be a project. You’re… you’re unbelievably lovely, and I couldn’t be more sorry about… th-the other night. Butpleasedon’t…”
“Jacob,” I say calmly, cutting across his distress so I can stop it dead.
He clamps his lips together and waits.
“I’m here because Iwantto be,” I tell him. “That’s it. That’s the whole story.”
“But it can’t be,” he says, agitated. “After the other night -”
“Forget the other night,” I cut in.
“But you can’t possibly -”
“Hey, man,” I interrupt again, gentler. “I’m attracted to you, and I’m horny. That’s literally all this is. And bonus: I’m not going tobe in this country for long. So if this,” I gesture between us, “doesn’t work out, you won’t see me on every street corner. You won’t spend the next year wondering what might’ve happened if we’d just drawn a line under a false start and tried again. And neither will I.”
I step closer, slowly. He stays where he is. I think that’s a good sign.
