by Lily Kate
“I’m sorry; I should’ve closed it out quicker.”
“What did you see?”
“Just the name of something that looked like a website.”
“It’s fine,” she says, feigning nonchalance. “I asked you to use my computer, and I left the page up. I’ve nothing to hide.”
“Are you starting a blog?”
“No.” She stomps back to the kitchen, and I follow. She’s in the middle of slicing carrots when she flicks her eyes to me for a brief moment. “Maybe.”
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“How come you never told me you were interested in blogging?”
“Because it’s stupid; I mean, not blogging, but the idea of me doing it. Nobody cares what I have to say.”
“Of course they do. I care.”
She wrinkles her nose, gives a shake of her head, and throws everything into the pot that’s simmering on the stove. “Just forget about it, Jack.”
“What do you want to blog about?”
“Stuff.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“You know, the things I like.”
“What things?”
“You’re annoying, you know that?” She gives me the briefest of smiles. “It’s nothing you’d be interested in hearing about.”
I’ve been moving slowly toward her this entire time, and eventually, I reach her side. “I beg to differ. I’m interested in things you’re interested in. That’s what friendship’s about.”
She gives a soft snort. “Friendship, right. Well, forget about it, Jack. I don’t want to talk—”
I can’t help but reach out then, rest a hand on her shoulder, and spin her around. By the time I realize I have her pinned against the counter, our bodies are pressed against one another’s in all sorts of ways that have my mind spinning, and it’s too late to retreat.
“Why are you dodging my questions?” I ask, and it comes out a little lower, a little huskier than I anticipate. If I don’t get my act together, she’s going to feel the racing pulse of my heart, the quickening of my breath. “I don’t think it’s stupid—whatever it is. If you’re passionate about it, you should give it a proper go.”
“Romance, okay? A romance and book blog. I told you that you wouldn’t be interested.”
“I’m not interested in writing one myself, but I’m interested in you, and therefore I’m interested in your ideas. I think you should do it.”
“See? You just said—” She hesitates, leaning forward, pressing into me as she studies my face. “Do you mean that?”
Her lips hover right beneath mine, and it’d be a simple matter for me to lean forward and press mine to hers. To get a taste, a sample of what that’d be like. It’d probably earn me a slap to the face and some awkward moments between friends, but for a second, I think it might be worth it.
I’ve already forgotten the question. My gaze is fixed on her pouty lips, the curve of excitement in her smile. “Um—”
“You’re not even listening.” Those lips turn into a deeper pout, and suddenly, the smile disappears, too. “Forget it.”
She shakes her head and tries to step away from me, but I’m faster. Gentle, so gentle it’s as if we’re barely touching, my fingers come to rest on her lower back, and it’s enough to hold her in place. We’re balanced here, on the edge of a precipice, and it’s this single point of contact that holds us in place.
“I mean it,” I say, thanking my brain for finally catching up. “I believe in you.”
“It’s just a blog.”
I shake my head and move just centimeters closer to her, bringing our bodies to brush skin to skin against one another. She doesn’t move away; if anything, she relaxes against me.
“I mean it,” I tell her. “I don’t give a damn if you blog or not. I don’t care if you take up marathon running or cookie baking. But I would support you in it. Why should this be any different?”
She bites her lip, and it’s tantalizing in its subtlety. For a moment, I wonder what it’d be like for me to nibble on her there, to drag kisses down her neck, past her collarbone, to the sweet skin beneath her ear.
She’d be ticklish, I know it. She squirms if I so much as brush against her the wrong way. It takes several moments to feel her stare on me, the subtle, inviting gleam in her eye as her hand wraps around mine and her fingers interlink there.
We’re holding hands.
I’m holding the hand belonging to Allie Jenkins, and it’s the next best thing to sex that I’ve ever experienced. Possibly a sad statement, but a true one.
Unfortunately, we both realize this at the same time, and we separate like oil and water. Backing to the center of the room, I clear my throat first and wrinkle my nose. “Is something burning?”
“Oh, shit.” Allie turns around, smacking at the stove with a dish towel. “That’s not good.”
A napkin too close to the stove has gone up in flames, and it takes several good whacks for it to disintegrate into the sink. I flick the water on as Allie sends the charred remains down the drain, and only once the threat of a full apartment meltdown is passed, do we both grin.
“Close call, huh?” she asks, and I’m not sure if she’s referencing the fire or the hand holding.
I nod, since it applies to either one. “For what it’s worth, I meant what I said.”
“Thanks.” She sounds clipped, as if there’s another shoe that’s waiting to fall. Eventually, she raises her eyes to meet mine. “I was thinking of adding our training to the blog, too. With your permission.”
“Training?”
“You know, like...” she shrugs. “Romance Academy stuff. Example: Rule number 9: Don’t snoop on a potential girlfriend’s computer.”
“We’re on rule number eight.”
“Oh.” Her face colors as she reviews what she said internally. “Also, I’m not a potential girlfriend, but you know what I mean.”
“I understood what you meant.”
“Would you mind?”
“Mind doing what?”
“Mind if I include some of it on the blog?”
“Yes.” The answer escapes before I have any control over it, and Allie looks slightly disheartened.
“I expected you to say that. No problem, really—”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” It is what I meant, but I hate seeing the look of disappointment in her gaze. “I just meant I’d like my name and identifying information kept from being public.”
“Well, duh! You really wouldn’t mind?” Allie flings herself into my arms and squeezes tight for a hug. “Rule number nine. You’re the best.”
As my arms squeeze her back and the sweet scent of her shampoo wafts between us, I can’t help but think she’s utterly and completely off base with Rule number nine.
If I were the best, maybe Allie Jenkins would fall in love with me. I rest my chin against her head, the hug lingering for an extra second, my fingers teasing through her hair.
She sighs against my chest, and I tuck her closer to me, noting the subtle fact that we are a complete and utter perfect fit. Maybe if I hadn’t let things get so far into friendship territory; maybe if I’d been more assertive; maybe if I’d read a single novel instead of medical non-fiction for the last twelve years, maybe then I could’ve been winning over Allie, instead of learning how to win over some mystery woman I haven’t yet met, and don’t yet love.
My body goes entirely rigid at the thought. Love. The elusive word that is so difficult to find and so fragile to keep. And with it, the fifty-million-dollar question: have I fallen in love with my best friend?
Chapter 12
ALLIE
Strictly speaking, the night should have been a complete and utter failure.
Not only did we not manage to cook anything edible, but we set off my smoke alarms, burnt my pan to a crisp, and fell asleep watching re-runs of Saturday morning cartoons.
/> It’s a rare thing for Jack Darcy to spend the night at my place. I mean, it makes sense; the rich and gorgeous Jack Darcy owns a condo in one of the most sought-after complexes in the city. Meanwhile, I pay rent under the table to a sketchy landlord and pray my electricity stays on.
I love my cozy little nest here in the outskirts of an almost-safe neighborhood in an almost-cool area of town. I’m a block on the wrong side of the highway, which puts me strictly in undesired territory, hence the reason Jack’s been trying to get me to move for a year.
What he doesn’t understand, however, is that a teacher in Los Angeles is already at a disadvantage. The cost of living here is suited for a doctor. The cost of my living needs to come at a steep discount, or I won’t be living anywhere in the vicinity for all that much longer.
When I finally wake, the sounds of cartoons still buzz along in the background. It wouldn’t normally bother me, but we’d shared a bottle of wine after the soup experiment ran bad, and my head is aching.
I stretch leisurely before realizing that what feels like a very nice pillow under my head is, in fact, Jack Darcy. I blink open my eyes to find him sitting upright on the couch, head tilted back and mouth parted open.
The view is surprisingly sweet. It’s not every day I catch Jack exposed without his guard up. He shields himself so thoroughly from the rest of us, a trait I’m sure he picked up during his youth to keep his parents from getting too close. At times, I wish he’d let go. Live a little.
On impulse, I raise a hand to his cheek to wake him gently. There’s a hint of a five o’clock shadow there, and it’s rough against my skin. I let my palm rest on his cheek and slide downward, feeling the gentle curve of his face as soft breaths pulse against my hand.
The gentle moment has snuck up on me without warning. My chest constricts as I hold still, wishing he’d put his arms around me and squeeze. Hold me close. Tell me that he believes in me just once more.
The moment crashes to a halt when, all of a sudden, Jack’s eyes fly open. My hand is stuck on his cheek, and the look of utter shock on his face has me so startled that I try to stand up, lose my footing, and crumple to the floor.
“Allie, are you okay?” Jack leaps to his feet, his hands landing on my body and dragging me to a standing position before I can breathe. “What happened? Were you...were you touching my face?”
I fight back a flush. “Why would I be rubbing your face?”
“Because your hand was on my cheek.”
“I was trying to wake you up without startling you,” I groan, rubbing the spot where my elbow had cracked against the floor. “It backfired.”
“I’m sorry.”
I should probably tell him the truth, but when push comes to shove, I don’t have a great reason for why I was stroking his face in the first place. Because his lips looked inviting? Because I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to kiss Jack Darcy? Because the moment was there for the taking, and I took it?
“What time is it, anyway?” he asks, stretching his arms in a way that gives me a delightful glimpse of his abs. “I can’t believe we slept like that the whole night.”
“It’s—” I pause, my nose wrinkling as a whiff of something horrible reaches my nose. “What is that?”
“We burned the soup last night,” Jack reminds me. “Those smells linger.”
I plug my nose. “Whoops.”
“I’m sorry,” Jack says. “I shouldn’t have asked for your help.”
“Not your fault. Poor Caroline.”
“Shit.” Jack looks at his watch. “I have to get to the hospital today, and I still haven’t apologized to her. I wonder if I can—”
“Go. I’ll take care of it.”
“But—”
“I’ll pick up some soup and drop it off this afternoon if you give me her address. I’ll include a note from you.”
“A note from me?”
“Come on, I learned how to forge your signature in second grade. I’ll make sure it’s very nice.”
“Not romantic.”
“Not romantic,” I clarify, and my heart flutters a bit. “Just very nice and apologetic.”
“Thank you, Allie. I really appreciate it.”
With that, Jack Darcy leans in, takes the back of my head in his big, strong hand, and pulls me close. He smells great, despite the horrible odor in my apartment, and I soak it in as his lips brush against my forehead in a simple kiss.
As he pulls away and straightens his clothing, my heart thumps a little harder in my chest. By the time he leaves the building, I already miss him.
Wandering over to the window, I watch as he climbs onto his bike, straps his helmet on, and motors away. Meanwhile, I’m left with a pot of burned soup and a longing for my best friend that has no right to be there.
Chapter 13
ALLIE
I managed to make it mostly through the day without thinking about Jack Darcy more than seventeen times an hour. Not a personal best, but probably not my worst, either.
When late afternoon rolled around, I swung over to our favorite Chinese place and picked up a giant bowl of soup to go. Except instead of the normal Styrofoam takeout containers, I had brought my own Tupperware and asked they package it in there. It’s improv-homemade.
I made it to Caroline’s house without spilling, burning, or otherwise destroying the soup, and took extra care clutching the bag to my chest as I climbed a neat little staircase to a duplex in a medium-nice neighborhood. Not as nice as Jack’s, not as crappy as mine.
Caroline answers the door after a single knock, and her surprise follows seconds later. “Allie? What are you doing here?”
“I brought soup!”
She takes the proffered bag with a questioning glance in my direction. “Soup?”
“You know, so you’ll feel better.”
“I’m not sick,” she says, her free hand reaching for her face and pressing tenderly against her cheek. “I just have a broken nose and a pair of black eyes.”
“I know, and Jack is genuinely sorry about that.” I wince at the sight of her bruises, the dark purple now faded to a shade of tornado-sky green. “How are you doing?”
“You know,” she says with a laugh. “As good as I can be with a face like this.”
“Well, you’ll have to forgive Jack about the soup idea. He’s not very experienced with breaking women’s noses and having to apologize, so he went with the best he had.”
She laughs again. “I suppose that’s understandable. Do you want to come inside?”
“Oh, I should be going. Actually—” I pause, turned halfway around. “I should explain. Jack wanted to be here in person, but the thing is—”
“You said this soup is homemade?” She takes a whiff, smiling sardonically as she peers into the bag. “Does that mean you don’t need your receipt?”
“Er, right.” I briefly flirt with the idea of making up a very convoluted fib about how I ordered the same soup a week ago—which isn’t actually a fib—but I decide Caroline would see right through it. “I have a story about that, actually.”
“I like stories. How about you explain over a bite of soup?”
“I don’t want to be a bother. I just came over here to drop this off for Jack.”
“I haven’t gone to work in a week, and I’m dying for company. Come on in.”
With a nod of agreement, I follow Caroline through the door and into her home. As expected, it’s small in square footage, but neat as a button. It’s almost as if she had been expecting company.
She has no mail of any sort lying on her counter, nor does she have unwashed coffee mugs in the sink. Her throw pillows are adorably arranged on a chic gray couch, and a candle is burning sweetly in the kitchen. The whole house smells nicely of fresh linen, and the soft glow of the television hops in the background.
“Are you sure you weren’t expecting company?” I ask, glancing around. “The only time my counter is free of junk is when I’m having a party. Even then, it’s
a fifty-fifty chance I’ll decide to actually clean.”
She gives a sheepish smile. “I’m not normally this organized, but I’ve been bored out of my mind. You are welcome company. Let me grab you a bowl. Take a seat in the living room.”
As she nukes the soup for a quick minute in the microwave, I ease onto the couch. I fold my hands awkwardly in front of my body, wondering why in the world I accepted this invitation. I have nothing in common with Caroline except my acquaintance with Jack Darcy and a love of Chinese soup.
“Has school started yet?” Caroline asks, sounding like she’s genuinely curious. “Did Jack say you teach at Kentwood Prep?”
I nod, then realize she can’t see me from the kitchen, and make my way to her. We make small talk about school and my preparations for the year ahead, the hospital, tips and tricks for keeping the counter free of junk—and by the time we’re halfway through our bowls of soup, I’ve decided I quite like Caroline.
Almost a whole meal has passed, and not a moment of silence has shrouded our chat. She’s a great conversationalist and an even better listener. I find myself telling her all about Aimee, about the new math teacher, and our awkward incident with the rollaway wine bottle.
“Stay for a minute longer?” Caroline asks, popping open the fridge. “I have this cookie dough, and if I eat it all myself, it will not be pretty.”
“I can help you with that.”
As the cookies bake and layer the house with delicious scents, we move to the couch and talk more about the hospital. Eventually, one of Caroline’s stories ends with the mention of Jack, and both of us finally stall out in conversation.
“Did you say you had a story about the soup?” Caroline asks. “I figured the note wasn’t from him, either.”
“Really? I thought I was good at forging his signature.”
“The signature is fine,” she says with a wink. “It was the part where he wrote Love, Jack that I figured it out.”
“Oh, yeah. I suppose.” I frown at this massive oversight on my part. “Jack meant well. He came over last night asking for help on how to apologize to you. He wanted to make soup.”
