No.Ididn’t let myself linger on the notion that maybeJackhad carried me to bed.Thatwas absurd.
Then again, he had left a bagel and fruit out on the kitchen table with a note telling me to help myself to the coffee and the kitchen.
I took the bagel and ran back to my place like a thief.
That was weird.WhenhadIstarted thinking aboutAuntJuniper’shouse as mine?
I dismissed the thought with a shake of my head and turned back to the plotting notebook on my lap.
I had driven down the coast for a hardware store run.Ineeded more sandpaper and primer for the kitchen cabinets beneath the countertop.Ina stroke of good luck,Ifound ornate drawer pulls for the cabinets at an antique shop and snagged them for the kitchen.
I put in a few hours of back-breaking work by sanding the countertop cabinets before tackling the ugliest wallpaper known to man in one of the last remaining upstairs bedrooms.
The house was coming along.Iwas constantly sore.Mymuscles ached every single day.Butbeing able to end the day by sitting on the beach with my toes in the water was the best kind of therapy.
There was something about the monotony of renovations that cleared my mind.Iliked the mundane, repetitive tasks of sanding, painting, cleaning, and clearing.Itallowed my imagination to wander.Daydreaminghad always been my favorite part of being an author.Icould go to any worldIwanted in the blink of an eye.
The drive to the hardware store had given me plenty of time to muse on the writingIhad done atJack’shouse.Wordshad flowed from my fingers faster than they ever had before.EvenwhenIwas writing my last series, drafting had never come that easily to me.
I was convinced it was a fluke, but the ideas kept coming.Sincethe weather was calming down afterMotherNature’smood swing, the widow’s watch called to me.
And maybeIwas hiding fromJack.
It was around the time he usually woke up from sleeping off his shift and came over to see whatIhad done to the house over the twenty-four hours he had been at work.
Maybe he’d thinkIwasn’t home, and then we wouldn’t have to talk about the elephant in the room.
It was me.Iwas the elephant, and the room was his bed.
Maybe we could avoid this forever.I’dfinish the house, sell it, pack up, and we’d never see each other again.Easypeasy.
Except . . .Idid want to see him.Asfocused asIwas on scribbling down ideas for the two characters thatIhad flirted with whileIwrote at his house,Ikept peering between the balcony railings every few minutes to see if he was outside.
“Lost in thought?”
I screamed at the deep timbre rumbling behind me.Jackchuckled as he filled the doorway, peering down at me.
I clasped my hand to my chest. “Whatthe hell is wrong with you?Andhow did you sneak out of your house without me knowing?”
“Aww—you were waiting for me?I’mtouched,” he joked.
I swatted at his leg.
Jack knelt beside me, putting us on the same level. “How’sit coming?” he asked, tapping the scorched edge of my notebook.
“It’s . . . something,”Ihedged.
“Did you get the sneeze out?”
I bit back a laugh. “Sorry.IguessIwas a little manic whenIshowed up at your door.”
But his eyes were kind. “That’sall right.”
Silence hung between us.Iwas waiting forJackto bring it up, but he was waiting on me.
“Um, thanks for letting me crash.Ithink.”Iwinced. “Honestly,Idon’t remember howIgot in your bed or if you were in it whenIdid.SoI’msorry for any unintentional shenanigans.”
Jack lifted an amused eyebrow. “Shenanigans?”
