“They are. And, lucky for you, they’ll be back tomorrow, so you’ll be able to sleep in a proper bed in their fancy guest room.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m ungrateful,” Jasper says, finally turning his attention to me. “I truly did mean cozy in a complimentary way. I don’t know you well, but I expect the decor reflects much of who you are as a person. I have to ask, though: what on earth are those dolls and why are there so many of them?”
With a laugh, I move past him into the living room and make a sweeping gesture toward the rows of small vinyl figurines lining my shelves, standing guard over my vast book collection. “They’re called Funko Pops. They’re collectibles from different fandoms. Do you…know what fandom is?” I ask this hesitantly, not wanting to sound patronizing.
“Hadley has explained it to me,” he says, referring to his youngest sister, who currently lives with him in Toronto. “I’m still not quite up on all the lingo—fandom and shipping and canon and whatnot—there’s just so much of it. I’m trying, though.”
“I’m sure she appreciates you taking an interest,” I tell him, trying hard not to laugh. He’s just so adorably earnest. “So these are fandom collectibles. I started collecting them when I lived in Toronto. The café I worked at had a pop culture theme, so I would create drinks and baked goods based on fictional characters and pair them with Funkos for social media posts.”
He gives me a curious look, so I elaborate. “For instance, this Pop is from the TV showSherlock.” I pick up the figure dressed in a long coat and black gloves with a dark blue scarf wound around its neck. “I made a line of traditional British jam-filled donuts and used icing and fondant to decorate them with things like a deerstalker hat, a blue scarf, a magnifying glass, the wallpaper in Sherlock’s apartment. I switched out the theme every week, and the most popular ones made it onto our permanent menu. People eventually started donating Funkos to the café, and there were so many duplicates I was able to take my favorites home to keep. Hence the huge collection.”
“What a clever idea. Very creative.” He leans in to inspect the Funkos closer. “Do you do something similar at Cravings?”
“No.” When I set the Sherlock Pop back on the shelf, I realize how close Jasper and I are. My living room is so small that standing beside each other puts us shoulder to shoulder. Or, more accurately, shoulder to nose since Jasper is several inches taller than my five-foot-five. I’m guessing he doesn’t notice our proximity, otherwise I’m sure Mr. Prim and Proper would move away and put a respectable distance between us, like in some historical romance novel. “I wanted a fresh start with Cravings. I left a list of my ideas with the woman who took over for me, and she’s doing a great job adding her own spin to things.”
“I’ll have to get the information about that café from you for Hadley. It sounds like something she’d enjoy.” His gaze meets mine and he gives me another of those barely-there smiles before looking back at the shelf. If the way his head tilts is any indication, I’m guessing he’s moved on to perusing the books. His lips lift a little more as he taps the spine of one. “You have my sister’s book.”
Jasper and Evan’s sister, Lina—or Laurelina Peregrine as she’s known in the literary world—gained massive success by self-publishing her first novel last year. “I do. When I found out she was Evan’s sister, I went to one of her signings in Toronto and bought a copy there to have it signed. I’m looking forward to officially meeting her soon. You must be so proud of her.”
“Extremely proud. Writing wasn’t always a dream of Lina’s, but once she set her mind to it, she dove in with her whole heart. From my experience, it’s not often one gets to live their dream.”
“That’s very true,” I say, knowing I’m one of those lucky few. “Does that mean banking isn’t your dream job?”
He gives me a wry look. “I’m content with my job. I’ve always enjoyed working with numbers, and it’s something I’m good at. I’m notpassionateabout it, certainly not the way my sisters are about their careers, but not every job is meant to evoke passion.”
His proximity and his use of the word ‘passion’—as innocent as it is—makes me all tingly. It’s been ages since I’ve been this aware of a man, and it’s like sensory overload: the heat from Jasper’s body, the subtle scent of his cologne, the way his deep voice draws me in and makes me want to listen to whatever he has to say. Maybe Gwen and my mom are right about me needing to get out more.
Putting some space between us by heading for the kitchen, I ask, “Can I get you a glass of wine?”
“Oh.” Jasper glances at his watch, the skin around his eyes tightening. “I hate to put you out further when you’re already allowing me to spend the night, but it’s been a long day and I’m quite tired. I was hoping I might head to bed. Or couch, as it were.”
“Of course. Let me get you settled and then I’ll go to my room.” He looks like he’s going to apologize again, so I smile and turn for the linen closet. “Did you want to have a shower?” I ask over my shoulder. When he says no, I pull out a washcloth and hand towel for him. He approaches with his neatly folded pajamas and a toiletry bag in hand, and accepts the towels with a murmured thank you.
After the bathroom door clicks shut, I zip into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine and grab a sleeve of the crackers Mom sent home with me. I had a feeling Jasper would be an early-to-bed sort of guy and, while I know I should take this opportunity to get some extra shut-eye myself, it’s a bit early for me. After depositing my bedtime snack in my room, I take a sheet, blanket, and a couple of pillows to the couch.
I set everything down and peer at Jasper’s closed suitcase, smiling to myself when I notice the JP monogram pressed into the leather in one corner. Jasper must travel a lot for the suitcase to be so worn. Without thinking, I run my fingers over his initials.
When a throat clears from behind me, I jump back as if the suitcase bit me.
“Sorry,” I say, whipping around. “I was just admiring the monogram.”
He crosses the room and opens the suitcase, setting his folded clothes into…yep, a packing cube. I narrow my eyes, trying to spot an iron before he flips the lid closed again. He’s wearing blue plaid pajama pants and a loose long-sleeved shirt. If I’d thought about it, I likely would have pictured him wearing old-fashioned matching pajamas with a button-down top. Or maybe a nightshirt like Johnny Rose inSchitt’s Creek.
“This was my father’s suitcase. My mother gave it to him as a wedding gift.” I’m not sure if he’s purposely avoiding my eyes or if he’s lost in thought as he gently traces the JP on the leather. “I let my siblings have most of our parents’ belongings after they died. I kept this for myself since my father and I shared the same initials.”
I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. Jasper and Evan’s parents died when Evan was a teenager. As the oldest Perry sibling, Jasper moved home to step into the role of guardian for Evan and Hadley. After spending last Christmas with the Perrys, Gwen confided in me that Jasper told her he had buried his own feelings over his parents’ death in order to care for his youngest siblings, and was just realizing that fact all these years later.
“What a special keepsake,” I finally say. Gwen and Evan went up to Toronto a few months ago to celebrate Jasper’s fortieth birthday, so the suitcase has to be older than that. No wonder it’s nearly falling apart. “I’m sorry about your parents. Gwen told me about their death, and Evan has told me stories from when you all were younger.”
“Thank you,” he says. “Their death was so long ago. Sometimes it feels like another lifetime.”
Unsure how to respond with words, I rest my hand on his shoulder. His muscles tense under my fingers, reminding me of Gwen’s joke about Jasper being allergic to displays of emotion and affection. I’ve always been a touchy-feely person, so I tend to fall back on that when I don’t know what to say. I remove my hand quickly and step away from him.
“I think I set out everything you’ll need for the night. There’s not much in the kitchen, but feel free to help yourself to anything you find. If you get cold, you can turn on the electric fireplace. When I moved in, the super told me the built-in heater runs really hot and can make your electric bill skyrocket, so my mom gave me the fireplace since it’s supposed to be energy efficient. Oh, and feel free to unplug the nightlight if it bothers you. I hate the dark, so there’s one out here and one in the bathroom, but you shouldn’t be able to see that one.”
I’m babbling. I know Jasper is listening to me, but he hasn’t looked at me since I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Sorry for…touching you?” It comes out sounding like a question. “I wasn’t coming on to you or anything, I just wanted to comfort you. Sometimes I forget not everyone likes that form of comfort.”
