Page 89 of How To Not Need You

Six months of sleeping in his bed and drinking coffee in this kitchen. Six months of Tilly launching herself at me when I walk through the door and Hades leaving black fur on clothing that has never been within six feet of him. Six months of Jake somehow getting closer without ever making me feel cornered.

And now there’s a key.

Jesus Christ.

I reach into my jacket pocket. My keyring comes out tangled around a loose thread because apparently even my pockets are fighting this relationship. I pull it free. Apartment key. Harper’s key, given to me years ago for what she called emergencies, although I remain unclear on what emergency requires immediate access to her home. Bottle opener. No idea why. I look at Jake. He’s waiting. Just waiting.

I take the key. My stomach flips. Ridiculous.

I am having an emotional response to a small piece of metal. I work it onto the ring and let it fall beside my apartment key.

Click. The sound is tiny. Still seems too loud. I stare at it for a second. Nothing happens. The ceiling doesn’t cave in. An alarm doesn’t sound. Nobody bursts through the front door to revoke my membership in the Emotionally Unavailable Women’s Association.

It’s just another key. Except it isn’t. I shove the keyring back into my pocket before my brain can start getting ideas. Jake is still watching me closely.

“You okay?”

“It’s a key, Reid.”

“Didn't say it wasn't.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

His eyebrows lift. “Like what?”

“You know what.”

“I genuinely don’t.”

“Liar.” His smile gives him away. I point at him. “That. Stop that.”

“The smiling?”

“The face.”

“My face?”

“Yes.”

“What would you like me to do with it?”

“Something else.”

Jake steps closer. “This better?”

“No.”

His hand slides around the back of my neck. Definitely not helping those damn butterflies. Then he kisses me. Warm and familiar enough now that I know the exact second his thumb will move against my skin, but still capable of turning my thoughts into complete static. I curl my fingers into the front of his shirt and kiss him back without hesitation.

There is no little voice telling me I should leave before I get too comfortable. Just Jake. His kitchen. His hand in my hair. His key in my pocket.

Apparently tonight I’m cooking my dead mother’s goulash, accepting house keys and generally behaving like a woman who has forgotten every sensible rule she has ever made.

This is terrifying. Terrifying yet annoyingly nice.

Jake pulls back just enough to look at me. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Ask me again and I’m giving the key back.”