To be fair, he had asked for a shot in the arm, but this—this was—
Unnecessary? Disgusting? Horrific?
All those things, to be sure, but it was also oddly…intoxicating?
“Just a book of poems,” the woman scoffed, swiping at a strand of hair sticking to her forehead. “I’m sure Wordsworth would be delighted to hear that.”
No retort was offered as Jack’s head cleared itself of all things nineteenth-century poetry. The translucent garment that clung to every inch of her revealed her bold decision to forgo a bra with her dress.
Don’t stare.
“Thank you, by the way,” the woman said.
“Huh?”No, seriously, look away.
“I said, thank you?” She followed his gaze, wrapping her arms around herself. “Oh hell, I can’t let my brother see me like this. He’s already going to murder me as is. Although I guess he can’t kill me twice.”
“You probably shouldn’t be walking around campus like that, either.” Jack scratched his head, stuffing his free hand in the pocket of his sweatshirt. His sweatshirt! In a fluster, he ripped it off and wrapped it around the woman’s shivering shoulders.
“Much appreciated,” she sighed, pulling it tight against herself.
Jack started multiple sentences in his head, all but one dying on his tongue. “I don’t live too far from here. I can lend you some dry clothes. Maybe walk you to your dorm or where your brother is.”
“I don’t—” Whatever sentence she started floated away in the evening breeze. Her eyes widened, and she quirked her brow in amusement. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
Busted.
“N-no. Sorry. Did we have a class together or something?”
“Or something, yeah.” A mischievous smirk slowly bloomed across her face.
“Cool. Cool. So,” Jack bounced on his toes, “since you already know my name, I feel like it’s only fair…”
“Just call me Lydia Bennet since I certainly feel like her tonight.” She extended her hand out.
Jack recognized the Bennet name from a book he was supposed to read for his British Literature class, but didn’t. Apparently, whoever this woman really was, she wasn’t going to help him rediscover her identity.
Jack reached out with hesitation, recalling the pricking sensation that rooted and wound its way to his heart like a thorny vine the last time they touched. His calloused hand engulfed her long, dainty fingers, which fell like ice against his skin and lingered longer than necessary.
“We should get you warmed up.” He cleared his throat, finally releasing her hand. “If you feel comfortable coming to my house.”
“That should be fine.” Lydia trudged ahead with no directions needed. “I’m pretty sure I could take you in a fight, anyway.”
“I don’t know. After watching you take on that fountain, you’ll need to work on you balance to keep up with me.” He hurried his steps to keep pace.
“Oh, he’s got jokes suddenly!”
“Don’t get used to that.” He flashed her a faux-stern look, the ghost of a smile tracing his lips.
The opening riff of “Old Time Rock and Roll” greeted them as they crossed the threshold of his house a few moments later. Uh-oh. His teammate Grady charged down the hall, sliding along the wooden floor sans pants. Jack yanked Lydia out of Grady’s path a fraction of a second before the defenseman accidentally slammed her into the wall.
With a small gasp, Lydia pulled tighter into Jack. Lilacs and rosewater accosted his nostrils and sped up his already racing pulse. Whomever this woman was, he needed to get her warm and dry and out of his house and life as quickly as possible, or else he was going to die of cardiac arrest.
“Oh my god, is he okay?” Lydia asked.
“Hey, pretty lady.” Grady flashed a cheesy, woozy grin before crumbling to the ground.
“He’s fine.” Jack stepped over Grady’s limp body. “I’m going to get you some clothes; you can follow me if you want or stay here. Wherever you’re comfortable.”
