He didn’t need help.
I shut off the engine. When his hand pulled the handle, I popped the trunk, then opened my own door and climbed out. By the time I reached the back of the car, he already had the bag slung over his shoulder and was slamming the trunk closed. He gave me one unreadable glance, then turned away and led me toward his building.
Chapter 18
Skyler
The elevator ride to my floor lasted seven thousand years. Jacks stood beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched, staring at the illuminated numbers on the silver buttons like they held the secrets of molecular biology, though I wasn’t sure either of us understood or cared about that. The fluorescent light hummed overhead, harsh and unforgiving, making everything feel too bright and too real.
Neither of us spoke.
The silence from the car had followed us into the building, through the lobby, past the doorman who’d greeted me with a cheerful “Welcome home, Mr. Shaw” that I’d barely acknowledged. It wrapped around us now, thick and suffocating, filling the small metal box with everything we weren’t saying.
My heart was beating so hard I was sure he could hear it. Hell, the doorman could probably hear it,and we were ten stories above him and rising.
What was I doing?
What the hell was I doing?
I’d asked Jacks to come upstairs, to help with a bag I didn’t need help to carry, and now we were in an elevator together, climbing toward my apartment, and I had no plan for what happened next.
The numbers ticked higher. 14. 15. 16.
I snuck a glance.
His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looked like a man bracing for impact, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I knew the feeling.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.
“This is me,” I said, stating the obvious like an idiot.
Jacks nodded and followed me down the hallway, his footsteps quiet on the carpet. I fumbled with my keys, nearly dropping them twice before managing to unlock the door.
My hands were shaking.
Why were my hands shaking?
My apartment was as I’d left it two weeks ago—clean, sparse, the kind of space that looked more like a model home than somewhere a person lived. I’d never been good at decorating. The furniturewas nice but impersonal, chosen by a designer the team had recommended when I’d signed my contract. The only things that felt like mine were the FSU jersey on the wall (that I’d forgotten was there when I’d asked him up) and the stack of hockey sticks in the corner that I kept meaning to organize.
“Nice,” Jacks said, glancing around, because one of us had to say something.
“Thanks.” I dropped my duffel by the door and stood there, at a complete loss. “Do you, uh . . . want something to drink?”
“Sure.”
I walked to the kitchen on autopilot, grateful for a task. “I’ve got water, and, um, I think there’s some beer in the fridge. Or I could make coffee? I have one of those pod things.”
“Water’s fine.”
I grabbed two bottles from the refrigerator and handed him one, our fingers not quite touching during the exchange. He twisted off the cap and took a long drink, his throat working as he swallowed. I watched, transfixed, then realized I was staring and looked away.
Get it together, Shaw.
“So,” I said, moving toward the living room. “We could watch TV? Or I have video games. The PlayStation’s got some multiplayer stuff if you wantto—”
“Skyler.”
