“You do?”
He nods. “You’ve finally realized that you’re strong enough to protect yourself on your own, that you don’t need a shield.”
“You know too much,” I tell him.
He chuckles. “I’m quiet. We see and know everything.” He winks.
I shiver. How is it possible that talking about something like this he manages to turn me on?
I move to sit beside him on the couch.
And then his phone rings. He swipes it off the coffee table and looks at the name flashing on the screen.
/> He curses.
“Who is it?” I ask, wondering who’s caused him to tense up and for lines to form between his brows.
“My father.”
He stands and answers the phone. “Hello?” His voice is tight, clipped, as he speaks through clenched teeth. “I’m fine, sir, and you?”
Sir?
He paces the length of the room and the tension radiating off him is enough to set me on edge.
They exchange a few more clipped words before Jace opens the large window and slips out onto the balcony.
Shirtless and in bare feet.
In the middle of November.
I shake my head and grab a jacket and socks and take them out to him but he doesn’t even notice me when I place the items on the metal grate beside him where he crouches. He looks like he’s seconds away from launching himself off the balcony and onto the ground below him. I know a thing or two about parents driving you to madness.
I make my way back into the apartment and sit on the couch, waiting for him to finish his conversation.
Fifteen or so minutes later he gets off the phone and comes back inside, shivering since he neglected to put the jacket and socks on.
Men.
He looks pale and sick, and I think it has little to do with being cold and everything to do with his father.
He stands in front of me, hands on his hips, and holds up a finger, begging me to give him a moment.
Which I do.
Sometimes we all need a minute to steady ourselves for the impending storm.
He presses his lips together and finally speaks.
“My dad wants me to attend some fucking family holiday dinner thing next week. It’s some sort of fancy Thanksgiving gala thing for a bunch of uppity fucktards he works with and he needs me there playing the part of the dutiful son.” Jace snorts and rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why he can’t just leave me alone.” He mutters the last part under his breath. He groans and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. Letting them drop, he says, “Come with me.”
“What?” I gasp.
“To the party-gala-ball-thing,” he rambles. “Please,” he begs. “It might be bearable if you’re there.”
“Jace,” I hedge. “I don’t know.”
“Please.” He sinks to his knees in front of me. Vulnerable. Open. Begging. “Please,” he says again. “I know it’s not your kind of thing. It’s not mine, either. But I have to go. Please, be my date.”