I stand up and head across the floor to the office kitchen. I’ll grab a coffee before I head out again: Hopefully Jake will have gone by the time I finish it. But James is propped against the countertop, his long body leaning on a cupboard as he reads something on his phone. His head lifts as I walk in and head to the fridge. He’s dressed casually today, and I try not to track down his ripped jeans. I swear they’re painted on him.
“You okay?” he says. “Are you heading back home soon?”
Has he been waiting for me? “I thought I might head to my mom’s, try and talk to her, and collect some of my stuff,” I say.
He peers at me over his glasses. “Right now? And you’re bringing more things to the apartment? You’re moving in permanently?”
Shit. “Well, we haven’t talked about it, but …”
He tilts his head. “I’m not the ogre you thought I was, huh?” My face heats as he shakes his head at me. “I’m kidding. I’d love you to stay, Sadie.”
I turn away so he can’t see my expression and press the button on the coffee machine. “Thanks” is all I manage to get out.
“I’ll come and give you a hand.”
What?To Queens?No way. I swing back toward him. “Oh no, that’s not necessary! I need to talk to my mom about Jake turning up here. It might take a while.”
His eyes narrow. “That’s okay. I’m happy to help. Have you got much to bring back?”
His body is long, shoulders broad and imposing. There’s something so sexy about how he stands, resting one foot on top of the other. He does that a lot. His T-shirt is molded to his lean frame.
What the hell do I do now? “A bit of stuff … but really, James, my mom …”
He holds up a hand as he turns toward me, hip propped against the countertop. “If you think I’m letting you go back to your mom’s apartment where your stepdad lives, the same stepdad who hit you and is somewhere outside this office right now,” he waves a hand at the window, “then you’ve got more screws loose than Mr. Karen.”
How can I talk to my mom about money and what Jake’s up to if James comes along? I shouldn’t have said anything about going home. I should have just gone up there. Error number one was James meeting Jake, though, to be fair, that wasn’t my fault. Then there was error number two: moving in with him and all his hotness. This is number three.
I gaze down at the cup of coffee in my hands. “I can’t take you to my mom’s, James.”
“Why not?”
I raise my eyes to the logo on his T-shirt. “You grew up in a nice, middle-class life. You probably had music lessons, and your parents no doubt saved hard to send you to college. A place like Des’s apartment is a step up for you, but it’s not so different or so far outside your frame of reference that you never even knew people lived like this. When I moved in …” I swallow and look away. “I don’t think you understand how rough and bad it can be.”
He steps closer, taking my coffee from me and setting it on the countertop, then he wraps his large palms around my hands and places them on his chest, pulling me right into him. Suddenly, I’m looking up intoclear blue eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses. I only realize that I’ve licked my lips because his eyes track the movement. His touch is warm, the callused pad on his thumb pressing into the skin of my hand.
“I understand what you’re saying, Sadie. My parents are both teachers, and they did do that for me, though I did reject the music lessons in favor of electronics. But despite that, I’m not letting you go to Queens on your own. My mom works in a disadvantaged school district, and the one thing I have learned from her is that you always need backup. I’m your backup.”
Damn. He’s not wrong. I’ve been taken unawares by Jake far too often over the last few weeks.
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“It’ll be fine.”
Like I said, he really has no idea.
I finish my coffee, and once I’ve gathered my stuff together, we walk across to Broad Street. There’s no sign of Jake. On the J train to Parsons Boulevard, James pulls the battered copy ofThe Sands of Marsout of his pocket, and I read the same part of my book over and over because I can’t stop looking at his fingers wrapped around the spine or the way he flicks the page. I surreptitiously examine his wide shoulders in his faded blue T-shirt, his dark hair shining like coal embers in the setting sun, floppy strands at the front brushing the tops of his glasses. The ghost of his hands on mine as he pressed them into his chest makes me ache. The smell of soap and James made me want to lean in and press my nose into his neck.
James starts talking about Arthur C. Clarke as soon as we step off the train and head up the escalators to the familiar area by the station. We pass the mural and the entrance to York College, duck under the railroad tracks, head down 160th Street, and skirt the playing fields.
“York College seemed like an impossible dream to me when I was young,” I say.
He smiles down at me. “Is this where you went?”
Oh shit. Oh shit.
Fuck, Sadie. What are you saying?I always kept my mouth shut. When did I get into the habit of talking to James? A hot sweat breaks out across my back.
“No, I … er … went into the city ... for that.”
