“Nothing. I’m fine. It’s…” Might as well say it since I already told him I’m working on myself. “Had a rough go of it in therapy. That’s all.”
Jack nods but thankfully does not pry. He’s already started to tackle the wood framework for the wall, I note. The sight leaves me feeling a bit sorry for myself, but I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m still feeling fragile after that power session.
Jack waves a paper to get my attention and drops it on the granite countertop. “Gence slipped this under my door. Three weeks left to tell him if you’re going to buy your place if you haven’t already.”
I inspect the floor of my entryway. “He didn’t slip anything under mine.”
“Well, you’ve been trying to put him into a diabetic coma for the last several years, so…”
I harrumph and set about watering my new plant.
“I was, you know. Jealous.”
I tip my head to the side, feeling like I’ve wandered into a conversation I’m not a party to. “Come again?”
“Didn’t the first time.”
“Ba dum tish.” I roll my eyes and make a drum sound.
“I said I was jealous. The little actor was right.” He stares right at me when he says it, no shame in his molten silver gaze as he lazes back against his counter.
My mouth becomes a perfectOof wonder. That tiny confession sends my pulse galloping. My apartment grows ten degrees warmer from one moment to the next. “Why are you telling me this?”
He shrugs. “Because I wanted you to know. You’re doing therapy, that’s great. I’m waiting patiently for you to figure things out. Doesn’t mean I don’t think of—”
“Jake Gyllenhaal.”
“What?”
“Nothing, continue.”
He frowns a little, looking a touch more hesitant than before. “I got jealous, was the moral of the story there.”
I want to squeal. I want to run to him, plop myself in his lap, and bring his lips to mine. I want to rest my head against his chest and cry. I want a whole lot of things. But today’s session with Wendy proved I’m far from okay as an individual, let alone ready to tackle being a pair. So I squelch the feelings down, deep down into a lockbox I’ll paw through at night for fantasy fodder. And I resort to what I know: humor.
“He’s not little…” I cast a dreamy glance at the ceiling and sigh. “He’s divine. Andverymuscly.”
Jack chuckles. “I said Iwasjealous. But then again, he’s a better actor than you. He sold the attraction thing.”
“And I didn’t? Let me bust out some sonnets I’ve composed.”
“About me? I’m flattered. But I’d rather finish the wall. Grab that board.” Jack shakes his head, standing to set his dish in the sink.
I rush to change, and when I emerge, I have to resist the urge to dive back into my bedroom.
Jack. Is. Shirtless. Positioning a board vertically in his living room and marking something with a pencil on a post. My mouth feels like I’ve been sucking down saltines for days.
I stare. And stare some more. He’s fit, and he clearly works out, but he’s not a vanity-muscle kind of guy. Lucas is that type, I realize—his as-seen-on-TV abs seem manufactured specifically to make you want to wash all your laundry against his chest like an old-timey country maid. Jack, on the other hand, is just strong, but not in a showy way. His body is lived-in. He has pizza and pancakes and laughs. And honestly? It makes him feel more real, more substantive, more alive, somehow.
As a result of Jack’s dishabille, I spend a good chunk of time holding two-by-fours level for him to secure to other two-by-fours, while staring down at his head, or at his profile, or not-at-his-crotch when he’s up on a stepladder. Anywhere but at all that bare skin.
My buzzer sounds, and I gratefully abandon Jack, despite his complaints about crooked boards, to answer it.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” Margie says. I buzz her in. A few minutes later she rushes inside, waving a magazine over her head before she notices the state of my apartment and shirtless Jack. “Oh. I forgot that construction-worker cosplay is your kink. Hi, Jack.”
Jack steps off his stepladder and reaches for his shirt. “Hey, Margie.”
