"That might not be what I do, but I don't disagree with it in principle."
"You sure?" He'd shifted as he'd talked, moving his chair back, leaning forward in it, forearms on his legs now. His gaze lifted to mine. "You really okay with that?"
"I--"
"Don't need to do that. Got enough money. Could be pickier." His gaze locked with mine. "You want me to be pickier?"
My throat seized up and I could barely squeak out, "Wh-what?"
"I'm asking if you'd like me to be pickier, Nadia."
I wanted to ask what he meant by that, but it was a stupid question. Jack was asking if I wanted him to change the type of work he did. If I wanted him to switch to jobs I'd be more comfortable with. I could tell myself that maybe this was his way of saying he wanted to team up more often. That he was getting older, and he could use a partner. But he was nowhere near the stage where he needed backup.
He was asking if I wanted him to change what he did. To become something else. Something I might prefer. You don't ask that of a student. You don't even ask it of a friend. You only ask it if . . .
I was missing something. Going from friendship to "I'd change my life for you" required a few steps in between, and unless I was doing a lot more than walking in my sleep, we'd skipped all of them.
"I . . ." I steeled myself and looked right at him. "I don't want you to change anything, Jack. I am completely and absolutely fine with what you are and what you do. Nothing you've said, nothing you've done, nothing I could find out is going to change that."
He studied my expression. I kept my gaze on his, letting him look. There was nothing to hide. I meant it.
"I could," he said. "I would."
"And I'd never ask it or expect it. You're not me. I don't want you to be. I want you exactly the wa
y you are."
Was it possible to be any clearer? Short of grabbing him by the jacket and pulling him onto the bed? But he just sat there, his face expressionless. Then, finally, he eased closer, his legs rubbing against mine, leaning over and . . .
And nothing. He stopped there, legs pushed against mine, hands on his knees, leaning forward as if he was going to . . .
Hell, I have no idea what he was going to do. Or if he was going to do anything at all. He was just there, so close I could feel the whisper of his breath, the weight of his gaze, and I had no fucking idea what he was planning to do or what he wanted me to do.
He was waiting for a sign and what I'd said wasn't enough. He needed me to be absolutely clear.
I should do something. Lean forward. Reach out. Do something. Do anything.
That was the problem, wasn't it? He wouldn't make a move until he was sure. I couldn't make one until I was. One of us had to take a chance, risk personal humiliation and a very awkward extrication if we'd misinterpreted--
Jack's phone buzzed from his rear pocket.
"Probably Evelyn," he said.
"Probably."
"But maybe not. It's my . . ."
"Your work phone. I know." I paused. "You should check it."
"Right." He pulled the phone out and glanced at the screen. Then he looked at me. "Not Evelyn. Work."
"Okay."
"I should . . ." He glanced down but still made no attempt to answer.
Don't. Just forget it. Return the call later.
He looked at me. The words died in my throat. He glanced away.