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Jack gave me a look I couldn’t read, then nodded curtly before practically storming out of the room.
I pressed my palms against my forehead and grunted. God. I couldn’t believe how awkward I’d just made that. I paced in a small circle, replaying the last few seconds, as though maybe there was some insight into what was going on inside that beautiful head of his lurking in plain sight.
I studied my memory of the expressions he’d worn. Worry that I was touching him. And… something when I’d said I would try to stop. Regret? Anger?
I sighed, trying to let the curiosity burning in me die down. Instead, I imagined him out in the living room meticulously trying to get his blankets just right on the couch.
I turned to face the bed and felt a smile creep across my face. It was probably the neatest, most professionally made bed I’d ever seen.
Out of absolutely nowhere, I felt tears start welling in my eyes. What the hell? I was searching my stupid brain to figure out why a nicely made bed would cause me to tear up and hadn’t quite pinpointed it when Jack came back in the room.
“Forgot my pillow. Did you—Oh,” he said, moving beside me.
I tried to wipe at my eyes and turn my back, but he could already see I was crying. God. Why was I crying? What the hell was wrong with me?
“What’s wrong?” Jack put his hands on my shoulders, gently urging me to sit on the edge of the bed.
I shook my head, seeking some explanation that wouldn’t make me sound like a freaking lunatic. “Hormones,” I said, sniffling. I made myself smile. “Shark week. You know.”
“Shark week?”
I put my hand over my head like a fin. “Blood in the water?”
“Oh,” he said, seeming to relax. Apparently, my bogus explanation worked, because all the anxiety in his face seemed to melt away. “Do you… need anything? A hot towel?” he hesitated. “Chocolate?”
I grinned. “No,” I said, letting him lift my legs up and position me on my pillow like I was a child. He lifted the blanket up to my stomach, then stepped back. For a moment, I felt like I was part of his little work of art. The final touch.
He seemed to be thinking something too, because the distant look on his face was suddenly replaced with a furrowed brow and his usual stern expression.
“You’re sure?”
“I think this perfectly made bed is probably the sweetest thing anyone has given me in a really long time. About three years, actually.” And there it was. I’d been looking at the bed he made for me and thinking about them. About how the last time someone had made my bed it had been my parents. And in one crushing moment I’d understood how alone I’d been since they were gone in an entirely new way.
His frown deepened. “I think chocolate would help.”
I smiled. “Am I supposed to be dainty and ladylike by saying ‘no’ here?”
“I’ll be right back,” he said. The room was too dark to know if he was smiling, but I had a hunch.15JackI leaned against the headboard of my bed, trying to keep a respectable distance between Nola and I.
I was fully clothed.
We were just sitting.
Yes, it was a bed, but she’d had some sort of emotional breakdown and she needed chocolate. I was being helpful, not predatory.
Except it felt like I needed to keep convincing myself my motivations were pure. Especially when I saw her wearing one of my dress shirts like we’d just finished fucking and her clothes were scattered all over the apartment.
No. Not even a hypothetical situation you should be imagining right now, asshole.
She had the sleeves pushed up and the hem of the shirt was just covering the top of her legs as she sat cross legged. I found myself wondering if she was only wearing panties beneath it. Then I remembered the dress I’d enjoyed seeing her in so much. Unless she’d found something in my closet to wear beneath the shirt, I wasn’t sure what else could be under there except thin panties.
Focus. This is not what you need to be thinking about right now.
Nola popped a chocolate in her mouth and rocked her head back, making a satisfied noise. “If I kept a box of this in my house, it would last about an hour.”
I looked at the dwindling supply of fudge filled chocolate balls in the box. “I’d say this one may not even make it that long.”
She straightened. “Sorry. I’m pigging out on your chocolate and didn’t even—” She shook the box around, as if trying to make it look more full, then stuck it toward me. “Do you want some? Or would these go straight to your abs?”
I gave her a strange look. A paparazzi shot of me at the pool with Ben had circulated the internet a few days ago. My teammates had fun teasing me about the segment it inspired on a popular morning show where the hostesses apparently left the image up for several minutes while talking about my abs. I wondered if Nola had been doing a little extra-curricular research, then remembered her openly admitting to cyber stalking me once already.
