by Sara Ney
All the way home she pouted.
My stomach dropped. “You made out with someone else?”
“It didn’t mean anything. I do it all the time, no big deal.” I doubt she remembers that little nugget of information after slurring as I guided her along the street.
Should have taken a car, but we didn’t have far to go.
“If you like Jack so much, how could you be making out with someone else?”
“He was blond.”
“Uh…” I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Have you ever seen a hot blond guy? I haven’t, so…” Her shrug said, What choice did I have?
All that is keeping me awake, too.
What does it mean that she was kissing other people? Does it mean she’s going to forget and give up her designs on Jack Dryden-Jones?
Or was she merely killing time until he gives her the kind of attention she wants and deserves?
And speaking of Things She Deserves: I don’t think anyone has said to her, If a guy isn’t making an effort to be with you or spend time with you…if he’s not texting you or FaceTiming you…if he isn’t taking you out…
He is not interested in you. He doesn’t deserve you.
Girls like my roommate don’t want to hear things like that, and they certainly don’t take advice from girls like me—perpetually single girls who haven’t had a boyfriend or dated in years.
And so, I can’t sleep.
And so, in the morning, I need an IV drip of caffeine.
I find the most secluded spot I can in my cherished coffee shop, out of the way where I won’t be a bother to anyone. I position myself with my back to the room so I can gaze out the window and get lost in my thoughts while I’m here.
There is no rush for me today. I have nowhere to be.
Kaylee was telling me Jack might have practice or a game—she wasn’t sure which one, but she was going to try to go and did her best to coerce me into tagging along with her as her wingman.
I was out the door before she could ask and ask and ask me again.
I can’t even look at her today, for so many reasons.
I can’t shut my brain off, not long enough to get creative and cartoon, imagination eluding me, a first since starting my book.
I ordered an omelet, but eating it holds no appeal to me, so I ordered a cranberry muffin, too.
Both things are cold on their plates in front of me, untouched.
“I thought I would find you here.”
Startled, I whip my head up at the deep baritone, my heart palpitating when Jack comes around the opposite side of the table and pulls out a chair—uninvited.
I’m here today because I need to think. This is my private place to unwind, decompress, far from campus and my roommates and Jack, and yet here he is, as if I conjured him up with my unrelenting thoughts of him.
Dammit, Jack.
Rather than jumping straight into a conversation, he pulls a menu from its usual spot on the table and holds it in front of him, studying it.
“Hmmm,” comes his hum.
I smile…but hide it, not wanting to be smitten.
Too late for that, Eliza, don’t you think?
“Are you going to eat that?” He sets the menu down to the side, pouring himself a glass of water from the carafe the server brought over.
“I haven’t touched it,” I admit glumly.
“Hmmm,” he hums again. “I won’t touch it if you think you’re going to want it later—but eggs do sound good.”
I see no reason why he cannot eat mine, especially since it appears he’s staying.
Jack may suck at rugby, but he still possesses an athlete’s ambition; never give up.
“Just eat the omelet, Jack.”
He licks his lips. “The muffin too, or just the omelet?”
He is always pushing his luck, isn’t he? “Whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want? Really?”
Are we still talking about food? Or is he making an innuendo about something else entirely?
His expression is one of virtue; an invisible halo hovers above his dark hair as a testament.
“I meant—to eat.”
Jack raises his brows.
“Stop doing that,” I tell him, though it’s too late to stop the frenzied rush of blood coursing through my veins.
“Have you eaten anything at all today?” He’s still gazing at both me and my plate hungrily.
“Don’t tell me you’re worried about me,” I tease with a wry smile.
“You need to eat. Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.”
“Well, it’s not early anymore, and…I don’t seem to have an appetite.” At least not for anything healthy. Suddenly I’m craving a donut.
Or chocolate.
Shoot, maybe I’m getting my period.
Jack pushes the plates forward toward my side of the table, refusing them. He takes the menu back up in his hands and studies before declaring, “I think today I’m going to have bacon and eggs and some toast.” He sets the menu back down with a nod. “And you should eat your omelet and muffin because you can’t sit here starving. It’s not good for your nob.”
“Not good for my nob?”
“You know—your brain.” He smiles, resting against the seat back. “Bet you haven’t been able to focus on your work.”
No, but my inability to concentrate has nothing to do with food and everything to do with him.
“You’re so cute when you’re confused.”
I look up. Did he just call me cute?
Ugh.
“Did you purposely come in here because you thought you would find me here or because you wanted to escape, too?”
“Yes,” he says with a grin but doesn’t explain himself further, his fingers fiddling with the edge of the plastic menu.
“Well which of the two is it?” I’m impatient for the answer.
“Both. I came in here because I thought maybe you would be here, and because I wanted an escape, but mostly because I was hoping you would be here.” He smiles and his face lights up. “Were you able to sleep? Because I wasn’t.”
It’s strange to me that he’d admit that, but it was also strange to me when he admitted last night he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about me—I didn’t think guys talked about feelings the way he has talked about his with me. There seems to be more to Jack Dryden-Jones than meets the eye, and if my instincts are correct, he wants me to know what that more is.
“No, I wasn’t able to sleep.” Feeling self-conscious about that admission, I add, “Someone turned the air off last night.”
Blushing, I lower my gaze, not wanting to meet his.
He has no problem looking me in the eye and telling me what’s on his mind, which is odd considering he can’t quit the rugby team. These two sides of him I cannot reconcile in my brain.
Jack shifts in his chair, causing his knees to bump into my knees and the flush on my face to get hotter.
Why didn’t I dress cuter this morning?
I’m wearing torn-up jeans and a hoodie, nothing flirty or girly about it, and my hair isn’t faring any better; I’ve tossed it into a messy bun. The one concession? Large, gold hoop earrings.
Jack eyes me from across the table, his leg still pressed against mine below it.
“Are you playing footsie with me?” I dare to ask.
“What’s footsie?”
Oh god. Do I have to explain? “It’s…footsie is…it’s…maybe you should just google it.”
I don’t think he actually will, but he does, reading out loud from his phone. “The dictionary says playing footsie is to secretly touch another person’s foot with one’s own foot as a way of showing sexual attraction.” He glances over at me before continuing. “Oh, brilliant. They’ve provided an example. ‘He was playing footsie with her under the dining room table.’” Jack sets his cell back down on the table. “Sounds accurate.”
I wish he’d stop teasing, but I also wish he wo
uldn’t.
“Are you just flirting with me because you know I’m not interested?”
“You’re not interested.” He crosses his strong arms and assesses me from his vantage point, not three feet away. “All right. If you say so.” I turn just in time to see the server weaving her way over to stand next to our table, her tablet poised to take his order. “Am I staying or going?” he asks, leaving it all up to me.
I don’t know what to tell him because I don’t want to hurt his feelings or embarrass him in front of this server, but I also know he cannot sit here and spend any more time with me. It’s a waste of his and mine despite the beating of my heart inside my chest.
“Do what you want.”
“Fine.” He gives the server a cursory glance. “I’ll do four eggs, two pieces of wheat toast, jam, and four sausages.”
“How would you like your eggs?”
“Poached, please, since I can’t have them scotch or dippy.”
He smiles over at me.
The server nods. “Anything else?”
“Hot tea, please—Earl Grey if you have it.”
How cozy this is turning out to be…
Guess sitting here with me is what he wants, lording over my heart and distracting me further with his big, brown eyes and combed hair and square jawline.
“I can move to another table when my food comes.”
That almost has me rolling my eyes. “There are no available tables for you to sit at.”
“Outside then,” he suggests magnanimously.
Okay, now he’s just being ridiculous, knowing I’m not going to send him away or make him eat outside on a bench. The whole idea of it makes me laugh, this little manipulation of his that isn’t going to work on me.
Too late, it already has…
He’s so absolutely adorable.
And if the universe had set things into motion any other way, perhaps I could freely let myself like him back, but the reality is, that is not the case. Not with Kaylee lingering in the background.
I do not need the girl drama.
I’ve never been one for it, never engaged in any kind of theatrics with either of my roommates (and believe me, they’ve tried to pick many an argument over trivial bull crap), but perhaps that’s even the reason they chose me as their third. Kaylee and Lilly argue and get into fights with every other one of their friends except for me. But as I pointed out before, I am not any competition for them. They have no need to be jealous or envious of me—they are the pretty ones. They are the popular ones.
Jeez, it’s just like high school 2.0.
Except I didn’t know them in high school. The three of us met our freshman year here at school, in the dorms we were all required to live in, during a resident life meeting. They were both on my floor—Lilly four doors down and Kaylee right across the hall—and I remember I had to use the vacuum cleaner to suck up all the dirt before decorating and Kaylee borrowed it after me…then Lilly…and we were the three with the tidiest rooms.
After that, we leaned on each other for random things. Hung out when most people were partying. Joined an intramural volleyball team together that played out in the quad.
Have I known them for years and years and years? No.
Do I have a long history with either of them? Also no.
Do I still feel some obligation to relinquish Jack to Kaylee because she “saw him first”?
Yes.
That is just the girl I am.
When Jack gets up—rising from the table—I half expect him to make his way toward the bathrooms. They’re close by, down a short hallway off to the right of me, but that’s not where he goes.
Instead he closes the small distance between us, coming around to stand behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. Leans down, brushing my hair aside.
My breath quickens.
I’m grateful I cannot see if anyone is watching us, grateful both our backs are now to the crowded café, grateful for the weight of his warm hands.
I don’t push him away or rebuff him. Rather, I do something that surprises even myself; I cover his left hand with mine. Tilt my head to get a better look at him, presenting him with the side of my face.
“What are you doing?” I mutter, a little unsure.
“Kissing you.”
Kissing you.
Kissing you…
Is it wrong that I hold my breath and wait for his lips to touch my skin? Is it wrong that I want to feel the unshaved whiskers on his face? Is it wrong that his breath on my skin makes me shiver?
Is it wrong?
“You smell so good.” His voice tickles my eardrum as he whispers in my ear, the delicious words causing the butterflies in my stomach to awaken. Stir. Flutter their wings and stretch. “Like breakfast.”
It’s not even the accent I’m reacting to—it’s Jack. His entire being makes me giddy, and the fact that we have this amazing chemistry without having tried…it’s so perplexing and compelling to me. Really, I’ve been doing the opposite of trying—I’ve been pushing him away. Pushing away the feelings I’m developing for him in order to make someone else happy, wholly disregarding my own happiness.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.
Right there in Lords Café, he kisses my neck, the spot I love most. The spot that sends shivers and tingles up my spine, through my entire body. So easy. So simple.
That one little spot.
“Did I mention how delicious I think you smell?”
Did he?
Do I?
I can’t remember.
I give the briefest of nods. “Mmm.”
“Like cake.” He kisses below my earlobe, humming. “I love cake.”
Uh-huh.
I nod again.
“I love licking the frosting.”
“Jack,” I chastise, though for what I do not know. Jack, stop being so sexy? Jack, stop whispering sexy things? Jack, let’s get out of here and make out somewhere else?
“Eliza,” he chastises back playfully, planting another kiss on my neck. “You taste good, too.”
“Um” is the only sound that comes out of my mouth.
Part of me is embarrassed he’s kissing me in public when we haven’t even held hands or hugged.
I don’t know how to react to it, other than to let my eyelids flutter closed when he kisses my jawline. I want to reach my arms up and wrap them around his neck, pulling him in closer, hungry for the intimacy.
“I can’t wait to eat that muffin.”
Huh? “That’s my muffin,” I tell him, extending my arm so my hand can claim it.
“It sure is.” He chuckles low in my ear.
“Don’t be a pervert.”
“I’m not being a pervert, I’m stating facts. It is in fact your muffin I want to eat.”
I sputter out a nervous laugh, breaking the spell, his mouth still buried in the crook of my neck, in the hood of my sweatshirt.
The server appears, holding a large plate and a teapot, watching us with wide eyes, her mouth dropping open slightly, and who could blame her?
She clears her throat. “Um, hey. Here we have um, four eggs, sausages, um, toast. Um.”
She couldn’t have heard that thing about my muffin, could she?
Hard to tell, but she’s blushing rather furiously.
“How long has it been since you’ve had sex? You’re acting like you’ve had a dry spell for years.”
He shrugs, adjusting the plates on the table, consolidating them so the server can bus the table easier when she comes by to see how things taste.
“I’m a sex camel.”
Come again?
He loads a piece of his toast with egg and a bit of sausage. “You know—I can go a long time without needing it. Had to as my ex-girlfriend was a bit stingy with it.”
His ex-girlfriend.
This is the first time he’s mentioned an actual person, filling the void from all my previous speculation about how easily he could cheat, or have a
girlfriend back home in England.
“When did y’all break up?”
He chews for a bit then swallows. “Eight months or so ago? Don’t know exactly, if I’m being honest. We broke up, then I decided to move.”
I have so many questions now.
What is your ex like? How long were the two of you together? Does your family like her?
Does she still contact you?
Why did you break up?
So many, beginning with, “Who broke up with who?”
Such a rude question and a personal one—plus, it’s none of my business who broke up with whom, and what difference would it make if she broke up with him?
“I did. Caroline was…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Difficult to get on with.”
Difficult to get on with.
That’s a poetic way to describe it, and I’m left to form my own opinions about what that actually means since he doesn’t go into detail.
“Just wasn’t a good match?”
He laughs, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “No.”
“Did your family like her?”
Jack considers the question. “My mum liked the idea of her family.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means—Caroline had the kind of connections Mum would like to have.” Another pause. “Not that Mum doesn’t have good connections, but you can never have too many, yeah?”
Uh, sure. Whatever you say, Jack.
I let him eat in silence and even take a few bites of my muffin since it’s there in the center of the table mocking me. I’ll never be able to eat a muffin after this without thinking of him and his opinion of how I smell and taste.
We don’t talk any more about sex, or his ex, or the fact that he’s obviously…into me. Is it sincere, or am I just a challenge?
I push that thought out of my brain; why wouldn’t he be interested in me? I’m a great catch! I’m sweet, good-natured, and cute—in an unassuming way. I may not be the ‘in-your-face sexy’ kind of attractive that my roommates are, but I can hold my own.
I catch Jack staring at me a little too long a few times, a look on his face I can’t describe. No one’s ever looked at me that way on purpose, and I’m not sure what to make of it or what to do. It doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable; it’s just different than what I’m used to.
I get hit on sometimes on the rare occasions I go to a house party, but it’s even more rare to have a guy sitting across from me at a table showing me this kind of open interest when I’m not trying to attract him.
