His question is Mach speed, as if it’s fueled by hope.
A spark slides down my spine. I’m supposed to be in control. But I don’t feel that way right now.
And I like that feeling too much.
“Sure.”
5
I Like To Gamble
Beck
I should leave. Really, I should. But I can’t seem to find the will to say a simple goodbye. Thanks for the advice, man. I appreciate it.
I just don’t want to.
Maybe this is what happens when you meet your crush, and he exceeds your expectations. Jason sure did this morning, saving me from those reporters, all uber-competent and kind-hearted at the same time. In one swift move, I went from crushing from afar to crushing in person—on a guy who clearly cares about others. Then my crush ballooned when he invited me over and freely shared pointers.
I came here because I needed his help. But I stayed because he’s so easy to talk to.
And easier to look at.
And fun to hang with.
I glance at the clock on his wall. Curfew’s in two hours. I need to get back to the hotel soon.
But not yet.
We finish two more episodes, the cat purring in my lap the whole time. When the last one ends, Jason gestures to Bandit. “It’s official. The cat prefers you.”
I smile, petting the soft creature. “Like I said, I grew up with animals. I think they know I’m an animal person.”
I’m not that social. I’m not good with crowds. I relied on my older brother for so much growing up. As a result? I have an easier time with animals. And animals seem to know it. Animals also make great fodder for conversation, and I need that sometimes. Like, right now. “But is Bandit the name you’re keeping?”
Jason arches a brow. “You harshing on my cat’s name now?”
Maybe a little. “It’s a good name, but . . .”
He growls in mock annoyance. “But what, Cafferty?”
“It could be better. I’m just saying.” I tease him a little and enjoy it far too much.
He wiggles his fingers, the sign for me to give up the goods. “You already romanced him out from under me. Now you’re challenging my cat’s name?”
“Yes, yes I am,” I say, and I don’t make a damn move to leave. This night feels too good. Even though one voice says, Go, before you do something dangerous, another voice whispers, Go on. Do something dangerous. “I’m saying there are better names.”
“Such as?”
I glance at the sleeping cat. “He kind of reminds me of a supper club singer, with his tux.”
“Hmm.” Jason lets that sink in. “So, Leisure Suit Larry?”
“I like that. Or Frank Sinatra,” I offer.
He tilts his head, considering the name. “Frank isn’t bad,” Jason admits. Then he grabs his LaCroix can from the table, waggles it. “I’m going to grab another. Want one?”
I want to spend more time with you.
Instead, I say sure, then set down the cat on the couch and follow the host to the kitchen. He stops short in the doorway. “Shit.”
The counters are a mess, full of plates and dishes, tubs of half-eaten food, and bowls of mostly finished salads. “I forgot I need to clean up,” he says as he enters the room.
“Let me help you,” I say in a split second.
“You don’t have to,” he says generously.
But I’m not ready for this night to end. “I don’t mind,” I say, and it’s a borderline plea. “You helped me, so it’s the least I can do.”
Jason takes a moment to weigh my offer, then with a friendly smile, he says, “If you insist.”
He opens the dishwasher, and we fall into a rhythm. After rinsing the plates in the sink, I hand them to him, and he lines them up in the rack. We’re a couple feet away—close but not too close.
I want to be closer.
As I near the end of the stack of plates, time starts to tick faster. The night is going to end soon. I’ll need to leave. The pressure to learn if he’s attracted to me mounts. As I hand him the final plate, I let my fingers graze the tips of his.
He flinches in surprise. But the slight hitch in his breath tells me the surprise isn’t a bad one.
Do I keep going?
When Jason closes the dishwasher, another minute has slipped by. I try to figure out how to move this evening into something else.
Something daring.
I can’t stop thinking about his mouth. Or his chest, and the way I might feel if I could touch him.
Jason grabs a Tupperware container from the counter, puts it in the fridge. I reach for another one, slide past him to set it on a shelf. My arm nudges his.
A flash of desire rushes through me from the contact. I close my eyes for a hot second, then open them.
When he shuts the fridge, he’s looking past me—around me, anywhere but at me. Fuck. I’m making this worse with my unsophisticated touches. I’m making him uncomfortable now.