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“I wouldn’t want you to pay me back,” he objects, stretching his arm over the back of the couch.
“I know, but I wouldn’t feel right not to. Joel wouldn’t either.”
Jace raises his hands. “Well, the offer still stands if you two change your mind, but I’m glad you’ve at least got something figured out. I know it must be a relief.”
“Yeah, but people might not take to our kind of photography and want that kind of thing. It’s different, and weird.”
Jace chuckles. “Everybody in the city is different and weird. You’ll be fine.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right.” He smirks and stands, stretching his arms above his head, which causes his shirt to ride up, exposing a sliver of stomach and the light trail of hair that disappears into his jeans.
My breath catches.
“Are you staring at me?”
“Always,” I answer.
He laughs. “Good answer.”
He bends and kisses me. My hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.
He smiles against my lips. “Are you trying to trap me here?” he whispers.
“Maybe.” I draw out the word and reluctantly let him go.
His phone dings, and he groans. “I swear to God I’m going to throw that psycho off a cliff or change my number, one of the two.”
I laugh. “Thea?”
“Yes,” he mumbles, looking at the text.
“What’d she say?”
“She keeps sending me these idiotic jokes; are you ready for the latest?” I nod. “Brace yourself.” He clears his throat. “’How many South Americans does it take to change a lightbulb?’” He waits for me to get the punchline, when I don’t, he continues. “’A Brazilian.’” He shakes his head. “The girl is a nut, I swear. She lives to torture me.”
I shake my head. “It is kind of funny.”
“No, it’s not,” he snaps, and tosses his phone on the couch.
I can’t help but laugh. Jace might pretend to hate Thea, but I know he actually likes her. She’s like the annoying sibling he never had or something.
“Let’s go do something,” he blurts.
“Like what? Don’t you have to work?”
“Yeah, but not until later. We could go to the park and walk around or something,” he suggests.
I shrug. “Sure, sounds fun. Let me change.”
My skinny jeans are not park-walking material.
He chuckles and sits on the stool in front of the island. “All right, I’ll be here.”
He swivels the chair to watch me as I climb the one stair into our bedroom that’s open to the rest of the apartment. There’s only one bedroom closed off from the place and it’s the size of a shoebox. It used to be my room but not anymore.
I shimmy out of my jeans and change into a pair of shorts. For good measure I change my shirt too, switching it for a tank top. I slip my feet into a pair of flip-flops and slap my hands on my hips.
