“I think it might be safer in there,” she whispered.
“Wise choice,” he said, hesitating before turning the knob to his door and allowing Lydia entrance.
An apology for his unmade bed danced on the tip of his tongue, but Grady’s voice bellowed in from the living room with an ominous “Cowboy it up!” and took priority.
Jack shot his head around. “Grady, don’t you fucking dare. Cowboy broke a wall last time. And a defenseman.”
Frozen mid-squat, the golden retriever of a man unleashed his puppy-dog stare, weakening Jack’s resolve. “Tiny cowboy?”
“No, absolutely not.” He crossed his arms. “No cowboying in the house.”
“Let’s take this party outside, people!” Grady managed through an onslaught of belches. The party followed his march out to the backyard, and a welcomed hush fell inside the house.
“What’s cowboying?” Lydia whispered through the fragile silence.
“They jump on each other’s back—” Jack explained, shuffling through his drawer. “And the person they jumped on tries to buck them off.” He glanced at his shirts, reaching for a comfortable long-sleeve one and a pair of flannel pants. “It usually ends with someone injured.” He flashed her a sheepish smile, handing her the stack of clothes.
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Most of what happens in this house is.” He shrugged. “I’ll leave you to it.”
At that, Jackshouldhave left the room, but his brain, fully engulfed in “What the fuck is happening? We’re feeling things, and I don’t like it, buddy” flames, had very little energy left to dictate movement.
Lydia stared at him with a tilted head. “Well…okay, then.”
“Right!” His eyes widened before he forced himself out of the room. A tiny fit of delicate giggles accompanied his departure. Leaning against the closed door, he ignored the strange feeling in his gut. “Do you want something to drink? We have…beer.”
“Is hot water a possibility?”
“I could microwave some.”
“A bit sacrilegious, but that would be serviceable, given the situation.”
The door creaked open. “Sorry, Jack. Do you mind?” She motioned to the zipper on her back and gathered her long caramel hair to one side. “Apparently, I’m useless.”
Jack swallowed down a ball of nerves.
All the times Grady said, “Bro, let me teach you what chicks want—” and he cut him off with, “Grady, shut up, you’re drunk,” taunted him at that moment.
He must have picked something up through osmosis, though, right?
He grasped the cool metal of the zipper. Goosebumps raised on Lydia’s neck as his fingers grazed her soft skin.
“You have a… you’re… your…” A coughing fit seized his tightened chest. “You have a nice neck.”
Yeah—so that was a hard no on the osmosis theory, then.
“You think so?” Lydia peeked over her shoulder, and her long, black eyelashes fluttered, falling to rest across her cheek. “I’ve always appreciated its functionality, but I hadn’t given it much thought otherwise.” She raised her gaze to meet Jack’s. His breath caught as a twinkle passed through the warm chocolate and flecks of gold that danced along her iris, like an actual starburst flaring from within.
Frozen, he stood, arrested by a simple glance, and tried to form some witty response to save the conversation. But complimenting a neck didn’t lead to much follow-up beyond maybe the mention of giraffes. And thinking about how an animal could exist in such a state as ridiculous as that long-necked freak sent Jack’s thoughts into a spiral. Oh, fucking hell, why was he thinking about giraffes? And what was that awful noise coming out of his throat?
“Jack, are you okay?” Again, a small, syrupy-sweet giggle shook Jack out of his giraffe-filled spiral. He met her stare, cheeks burning hot, and realized in that instant something egregious.
That look she flashed him wasintentional. She wasenjoyingmaking him flustered.
Since he found his internal turmoil appalling, he did not appreciate her provoking further suffering. He contemplated kissing the smirk off her face. Maybe kissing her until she forgot her name and apologized for causing him such gastrointestinal distress.
Instead, he closed his eyes, images of melancholy starlight and moonbeams drowning out what little coherency he possessed. “I’ll go make your hot water.”
