I scowl. “Just shut up and take the compliment, James.”
“Ooooh, notJames.What are you, my mother?”
“You call me Marigold.”
“Fair.”
He hesitates, his mouth doing this funny thing where it looks like he almost bit his lip, then realized what he was doing and thought better of it. “Do you…would you rather I call you Goldie? Sorry. I never really thought about it.”
I’m pretty sure he has thought about it, actually, but I’ll let that one go.
“No,” I say. “It’s okay. I kind of like it when you call me Marigold. You’re the only person who does.”
And even though I knew damn well it was because he hates me, my stupid romantic brain foryearsfantasized about how, when he fell in love with me, he’d call me “Marigold” and it would be a secret shared between us. Who needs “baby” when you have Jamie’s gorgeous, full lips shaping the syllables of your name and speaking it like a prayer?Marigold.
“Well, I guess you can call me James. If you want.”
“I’m good with Jamie.”
“Thank god.”
We both laugh, only a little awkwardly, and I find myself tilting in toward him despite myself, like he’s my only source of heat.
“Did you want to go?” he asks, gesturing vaguely toward the door. “Or…?”
“Dinner first.”
“Okay. I can get us a table if you just—”
I shake my head. “Not here. I was thinking shawarma. There’s a cart two blocks down.”
Both his brows go up this time. “Sure. Let’s do it. I’ll go clock out then.”
The night is cool when we emerge, the kind of deep early-winter evening that’s just slightly chillier than you expected—but in the way that makes you want to push up your sleeves and soak it in, not shiver. Holiday decorations sparkle in the trees and bushes lining the street, every window we pass done up with holly and gold. I’m extra cognizant of Jamie’s presence at my side; he keeps needing to list in close to me to allow other people to pass by on the sidewalk, our shoulders all but bumping together. In a way, I think touching would be less fraught; as it is, the scant space between our bodies buzzes with tension.
The shawarma spot is a popular pick, apparently; there are three people ahead of us in line when we arrive, and the universe chooses that moment to decide it’s time to rain.
I burst out laughing. I can’t help myself—it’s the kind of cosmic coincidence that feels like God himself decided now is The Moment to divinely ruin things.
“Shit,” Jamie exclaims, and I’m already looking around like maybe I’ll find an umbrella conveniently tilted against a nearby wall or something. Jamie shrugs off his dinner jacket and holds it over my head.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t want you to get wet!”
The rain has picked up fast. Already, Jamie’s hair is plastered to his forehead, the thin white fabric of his dress shirt clinging to his shoulders. I can see the tan glow of his skin through the newly translucent cotton.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I grouse, and I pull him in closer so that we’re both huddled together under those four square feet of cover. His body is a hot flare against mine, both my hands still reflexively gripping the front of his shirt.
And I’m not as strong as I think, because I don’t even try to fight it. I let my weight tilt in against his, leaning forward so I can feel the cold damp of him soak into the front of my dress. He’s so…firm.One of my hands abandons its death grip on Jamie’s shirt to press flat against his hip instead, marveling at the contour of his muscular frame against my palm.
I’m distantly aware that the people in front of us have moved up to order their food—they,of course, had been smart enough to bring umbrellas—but right now, the rest of the city feels very far away. My eyes are level with Jamie’s throat as he swallows convulsively; I trace his stubbled skin with my gaze, his clenching jaw, and the softness of his parted lips.
His eyes, when I finally look at them, are half-lidded and dark.
“Marigold…”
It comes out taut, half a plea, and I can’t stop.
