The edges of his lips curl upward into just the tiniest of smiles, and for a moment, this foggy day is blindingly bright.
“All right, I’d better get back—”
“Yeah, me too. Thanks again for lunch.” I clear my throat and turn, forcing myself not to look back.
I’ve taken no more than ten steps when I give in to the urge and glance back over my shoulder. And I can’t be sure, but something about his too-casual posture tells me that I just missed him looking at me, too.
23
That night, after once again whining about my lack of raise to Margie and Avery on a group text, I crawl into bed with my copy ofPirate Duke, rereading my favorite parts, my own favorite parts reacting to the memory of Jack readingthatpassage. I don’t see Jack that evening, and my resistance to leaving my bedroom—to possibly seeing him after asking him to lunch—makes me feel a little like a coward.
The next morning, true to his word, Jack is ready to tackle the wall extra early. “Hey! 5A. Come to The Hole!”
Despite entering my bed at a very reasonable hour last night, I had a hard time sleeping, and it shows: dark circles under my eyes, a crabby disposition, and an exhaustion coffee hasn’t put a dent in. I am in no mood for Jack’s cheer right now. And he’s definitely cheery. I can hear it in his voice. I long to dive back under the covers.
I step up to The Hole, and he grins at me. “Come on over, please?”
I sigh aggressively and walk through to his side of the wall. “What? I’m not done with breakfast.”
His face is serious, and his hands are behind his back. I narrow my eyes as I watch him.
“Penny, we’ve known each other a while now.” His voice is a warm rumble. It does things to the hairs on the back of my neck, like the thunder before a summer storm. “And I know it hasn’t always been exactly friendly between us. But…”
Where is this going?
Jack gets down on one knee. I draw in a breath.
What. The. Fuck.
He pulls a small circular saw from behind his back, the cord hanging from it as he holds it up as an offering to me. “I rented a circular saw to help this project along.”
“You’re such a dick,” I say, releasing my breath in a wheeze. I feel like crying, and I don’t know why. Maybe because with my track record, the closest to a proposal I’ll ever get is this circular-saw bullshit. God, I really didn’t sleep at all last night, did I?
Jack chuckles. “You didn’t think—” He feigns horror. I plant my palm on his face and push with all my might. He loses his balance and tips over, laughing.
His laughter is aggravating as shit. Which makes me think of another irritation, and the source of my restless sleep.
After having a series of decidedly dirty dreams all week where Jack featured pretty prominently, I decided to download an app to see if I really do moan in my sleep. I listened to the recording after I got tired of reading last night, and the answer is yes. Yes, I do.
Jack hasn’t said anything further about hearing me moan, and I’m not about to ask. Plus, I’m not entirely sure the moans areallfrom sexy dreams. I also have the occasional nightmare. Lately, the two have been one and the same.
My phone rings: Mom. I send it to voicemail. She texts.
I ran into Brian again, and he said he’d love to hear from you. I got his number for you since I haven’t heard anything further about that guy you said you were seeing. I told him you’d give him a call. Such a nice boy.
My hands shake. Jesus. To be able to pry, insult, manipulate, and control all in three lines. Talent. I pocket my phone.
“My mom. She’s trying to set me up with a guy. Forced me into grabbing coffee with him last time I was down to visit,” I share.
“Forced you? How does that work?”
“If you’d ever met my mom, you wouldn’t have to ask.”
Jack scratches his eyebrow, and it’s clear there’s something sticking in his craw. His eyes drop to my lips, and I unconsciously dart my tongue out to lick them. Maybe it’s not his craw something is sticking to.
“And I don’t know why I shared any of this,” I snap, desperate to break the spell he’s casting.
“Maybe it’s because you wanted me to know.”
