“And the other bag is Maggie’s,” he says in a tone that clearly says I don’t deserve it.
Bastard! Cupcakes again? I had a hard enough time rationalizing the last ones. I try to step away, but my hand reaches for the bag like an out of control go-go-gadget arm.
“Am I still a stalker?” he asks, sliding the bag away from me.
“Stalkers aren’t always bad,” I tell him, gathering control and reaching for one of the DVDs instead. “Take that nice gentleman fromYOU. Always thinking of her and…” I lose track of my rambling and pull the discs toward me and check the titles.
The Italian Job. Beautiful setting. Beautiful people. Good choice.
I nod and pick up the next.
The Greatest Showman. Love that shit. Musicals are my jam. It’s like Jeff can see right into my showtune singing soul.
I reach for the third and he steps between me and the table nearly knocking the beer out of my hand.
“Jeff—” He’s so tall. I’m like up to his right nipple and it’s so annoying. “Give me the DVD. I just want to see?—”
“No. That one was a mistake,” he says as he looks down at me.
“Come on. The other ones are perfect. Just let me see.”
He shakes his head and I’m staring at the muscle in his neck while I try to reach around his back to grab it out of his hand.
“Devon, trust me,” he says, barely having to try to keep it out of my reach.
Our bodies are fully pressed together and I suddenly realize that every inch of me is tingling like I’ve been massaged for hours. I step back. Stumble a little. Giggle as I catch my balance on the back of a chair. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m delirious. Out of my mind. He smells like he rolled around naked in dryer sheets. I take another slow, deliberate step backward.
“Ok. Jeff. So, what’s the plan here. Hypnotize me with Zac Efron and Marky Mark then fill me with sugar until I forget my sorrow?”
He nods, his genuine smile making me forget the sorrow that I’m supposed to be future-forgetting.
“Yeah. Sugar and beer, though,” he corrects.
“Sugar and beer,” I repeat.
He lifts his brow and waits, like I need to agree to this. Like he didn’t already ensure that I’d have to agree to it when he showed up in my mother’s kitchen, bewitching her with his charisma and dimple depth. Damn, I just want to say yes. Enjoy this—whatever the hell it is. But I know that’s not in the cards. I look down at the nicks in the butcher block counter and probe at one with my finger.
“You know this—” I point between us, “—can’t?—”
“Devon, did you ever think that this—," he mimics my motion, “—might be something you and I can’t control.”
“Do you know what an asymptote is, J.J.?” I ask, trying hard not to meet his gaze.
“The curve thing that?—”
“The curve is the curve. The asymptote is something else. You are the curve.”
He steps around the counter, slowly, like I might bolt again at any moment and I hold up my hand and point. He stops.
“You are the curve,” I repeat. “And I am the asymptote. You can get really, really close to the asymptote. But the curve will never touch the asymptote. Are you catching what I’m throwing here, Jeff?”
He looks amused. There is nothing amusing about analytical geometry metaphors.
“You are amazing,” he says softly, stepping forward. I freeze.
He runs a finger beneath my chin. I shut my eyes. Focus on the trail of heat he’s left across my skin. “Look, asymptote. Curve is touching you.”
“That’s not what?—”
