Charlotte
Igrin at a picture of Jack dressed up for prom. He looks miserable in the suit with his mom clinging to him. The love is real though. It’s warm and familiar. Just like the awkwardness of a teenager trying to get out of the house in one piece to go have fun. Seeing him in all these moments almost makes him more human than asshole.
“Looks like prom was fun.” I half tease.
I didn’t go to prom. I was too busy bouncing from school to the hospital in my mom’s car, hoping I wouldn’t get pulled over and have to admit that I only had my permit. Getting a dress, spending a night with friends, wasting money, and having fun all felt wrong when my mom couldn’t be a part of it.
I would kill for a photo like this.
“My date stood me up.” He snaps me out of my train of thought. “Not that I can blame her. My suit barely fit, and I was fifteen minutes late to get her since my mom insisted on photos. It seemed like she didn’t really want to go with me anyway.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I was a weirdo, I guess. And she was a popular cheerleader with a bright future.”
“That sucks. I bet she regretted it at the reunion.”
“I didn’t go. I don’t see the point in traveling to see people I couldn’t stand. People who ignored my existence for the most part.” He exhales sharply.
“I can understand that. I learned math via late notices,” I say. “My mom and I had spent more time at the kitchen table going over letters and potential credit card agreements than eating dinner. I learned how to spice ramen up really well, though.”
“I’m sure you’re excellent,” he muses. “I do miss the freedom children have, on occasion.”
“I thought about that earlier. It used to be so easy to just exist and live in the moment, to be happy.” I laugh.
“There are still ways to live in the moment,” he assures me, his voice velvety.
I turn to face him and find him only a few inches away. Jack is damp, but that doesn’t seem to reach the heat in his eyes. Then I realize he hasn’t gotten through a shower or changed, but still isn’t complaining or rushing me out.
“Um” is all I manage to get out, rather than asking if he wants me to leave.
I swallow and take a step back as I look up at him. He’s softer, but there’s something intense in his gaze. His jaw is hard as he looks me over slowly, as if he’s trying to memorize me. He’s intense, even if rumpled. It’s not fair that he’s sexy even when he shouldn’t be.
My heart pounds in my chest as I watch a bead of water roll over his neck and below his shirt. Something about him like this is irresistible. I can see his chest rise and fall with every breath. I want to touch him, smooth my hand over his body. But I shouldn’t want that. I should be hating him.
Jack is an ass. One of those guys who don’t want a girl to have an opinion. He wants his orders followed and expects everyone to be nice above all. I don’t like people who have those priorities, and I don’t like how he talked to me online or in person when I was already having a shitty time.
So why do I want him to tear the towel off me and fuck me with something other than his gaze? No, we just need another distraction, something to break this connection. I exhale sharply and force words out.
“You’re still wet.”
“Yeah. So are you.” He nods, his tongue darting over his bottom lip.
I chew the inside of my cheek, trying to remember to breathe. He means that I’m wet from the rain. There’s no way he can know that I’m turned on because of him. Unless my face is giving me away. I might be blushing. I know I’m lightheaded, gripping my towel, and tempted to do something stupid. Like make a move on my deliciously annoying landlord.
“The hair dryer was missing.”
He rolls his eyes. “So that’s why you’re dripping on my new floors?”
“I can always go put on my wet clothes and walk around if that’s better,” I offer. A snark is a better cover than any more vulnerable stories.
“You left your clothes on the floor in there, didn’t you?”
“No, they’re hanging up. Because we’re adults.”
“We definitely are.” He looks me over again.
I recognize that look. He takes another step toward me as his eyes devour me. My fingers tighten on my towel, keeping it in place. I almost want to tease him, let him know that I can tell what’s on his mind. But where would that teasing lead? Or I can call him a pervert, but I’m the one that stripped and left my clothes in the bathroom.
“You should take a picture; it will last longer,” I say.
“You’re the photographer.” He shrugs. “I prefer to work with my hands.”
The way he says that is so hot that I almost moan. Instead, I get out a whisper. “I’ll deny ever saying it, but you’re a pretty good handyman.”
“I’m pretty good in many areas, but I’ll let you figure that out.”
I don’t know what to do with this conversation or him in general. I should just put on my clothes and go, but I’m trapped in a towel, in his condo. Trapped probably isn’t the right word, considering he gives me wine and has a plate of cheeses ready.
Taking a drink helps clear up the ping-ponging in my head. A part of me wants his smoldering looks, to make him laugh, to see what can happen between us. But how could I be with someone who takes every chance to condescend to me? But he hasn’t tonight, not really anyway. Just like I haven’t been as confrontational.
I glance at him over my wine glass and find his eyes perusing my legs with a bemused expression. I finished my glass and set it on the table. I rub my toes over the back of my calf. What if I just happened to let things happen? Things that are steamy and toe-curling?
No, I have too much going on in my life, too many things to figure out to just go and throw something new into the mix.
“I’ll put your clothes in the dryer. You can’t walk back to your condo in a towel.”
“Says who? Is it in the HOA?”
“Very funny.” He snorts before going to the bathroom.
I take the chance to escape the hallway. When I can’t see him, my brain turns on. I know this isn’t wise. I have a history of bad taste in men, but I’ve also never felt this kind of heat before. Jack walks back in and the chemistry between us hits me again.
How can my body be so eager to be with someone I should hate? And worse, why don’t I feel any kind of rush to leave? My body gets excited and so sensitive when he’s close. I want to strip off his wet clothes and see what’s under. I hold my towel in one hand while I sit on his couch.
“Thirty minutes or so,” he murmurs as he joins me.
“You should change or something.”
He arches an eyebrow at me, then grins. I exhale slowly and draw back, nervous and excited all at once.
“I think I’m okay as-is.”
“I mean clothes.”
He leans closer to me. “What about my clothes?”
“I don’t know. I’m still finding it hard to believe you’re not a full-time ass.”
“And you’re not a whiny bitch. Maybe we suck at first impressions.” He exhales and glances at a photo on the wall. “Or they shouldn’t matter as much as people say they do.”
“That’s a good point.”
“Want more to drink?” he asks, standing and heading to the kitchen.
“I’m okay. So, tell me about you. Where do you go to meet people and hang out?” I ask over my shoulder.
“I don’t go out much. Once you get screwed over enough times, you don’t put a lot of effort into meeting people.”
“How did you get screwed over?”
“Was supposed to go into a business deal with my best friend. I got it all set up… Then he cut me out. No apology, no word from him since. If your best friend can do that, then what’s the point?” His eyes pin me as he rounds the couch and sits so close to me that my leg almost brushes his.
“That’s fair.” I exhale. “I don’t feel like anyone really knows me. That’s a side effect of being an influencer.”
“He knew me. We were inseparable. Did everything together. Didn’t matter.” He took a shaky breath. Changing the subject he says. “I saw some of your posts from when you started your Instagram,” he murmurs. “A girl at the bar showed me. You were cute.” A warm genuine smile again. God he gets more beautiful by the moment.
“That’s how it started. It was a way to cope. Then a way to get money. According to some people, I’m not real anymore.”
“Plenty of time to change that.” He shrugs.
“How much can a person change before they’re something else?” I shrug. “Sorry, I have a lot on my mind. I didn’t plan on having conversations with anyone today.”
“I’m in the same boat. Normally, I only talk to Ham on nights like this.”
Maybe because he heard his name, or because he got bored, Hamlet hops on the couch between us and rubs against me. Lifting my hand with his nose. I pet him obediently, running my fingers through his thick black fur.
Petting Hamlet calms me, even though it’s Jack I really want to touch and stroke. I exhale and shake my head with a smile. Why am I denying myself at this point? I’m almost thirty. I have no reason to hold back if I want something.
And how bad would it be to tease him just a little? Especially if it gets rid of this insane need and constant what if. Maybe we should just get this out of the way. No! What am I thinking!
“I might take you up on a harder drink, something that will make me feel warm.”
He grins and goes to get a bottle and some glasses. He pours us both three fingers of whiskey and sips it, as one should. I take it like a shot and adjust the towel. His eyes snap to my hand and then follow down to my exposed thighs.
Jack looks away and takes a longer drink.
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Seems like you want a photo, Jack.”
“No.”
“Or access to my…hotter pages.”
He snorts, but fills the silence with a third drink. I want to shock him, to see what he does once he’s past the point of restraint. I shouldn’t care enough to want that, but I’m not going anywhere for thirty minutes, the electricity between us is driving me insane, and he’s either toying with me or drawing things out.
“So?” I prod.
“I’m just thinking about how damp that towel must be. Is it uncomfortable?” His fingers tease the edge of the fabric on my thigh.
I arch an eyebrow, then set my glass down. I stand in front of him and drop my towel. The chill in the room hits me and hardens my nipples. Goose bumps rise over my bare thighs. But I focus on the heat in Jack’s eyes. I grin and shrug as if this is nothing abnormal. He bites his bottom lip and groans deeply.
“I’m comfortable now,” I tell him, and he stands.