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“Just down the street, actually.”
“From where I live?” I have so many questions, like what in the world is he doing down the street from my apartment at seven on a Saturday morning.
“That’s correct.”
“Do you want to come up, then?” The words are out before I can fully consider what I’m offering. Which is a glimpse of me looking far less polished than usual.
“I don’t want to impose. I realize I’ve sprung this on you with no warning.”
“You’re not imposing.” Confusing, yes. Imposing, not really. “Just send me a message when you’re parked and I’ll buzz you up.”
“I’m already parked.” This time he sounds halfway between chagrined and amused.
“Oh, well then. Buzz away.”
“I’ll just be a moment.” I hear his car door closing, and the hum of traffic at street level. I rush down the hall as the buzzer goes off. I let him in and end the call with a hasty “I’ll see you in a minute.” I stand there for a second. I think I’m in shock. And then I realize I’m standing in the middle of my apartment, wearing only a nightshirt, and my hair looks like it’s gone a round with a tornado.
There’s no time to get changed, so I hurry back to my room and shrug into my bathrobe. My next stop is the bathroom, where I yank a brush through my tangled hair, ripping out several chunks in the process. I throw it up in a messy bun because it’s the better option. There’s nothing I can do about my lack of makeup. I do a quick rinse with mouthwash and spit as the doorbell chimes.
“Oh my God, London. He is here. At your apartment.” I tell my reflection. As if it needed stating out loud. I think I’m losing my damn mind.
Harley appears in the doorway of her bedroom, looking a sleepy mess. “Is someone here?”
“I got it! You can go back to bed!” I call over my shoulder as I rush down the hall.
I don’t even have time for deep breaths. Instead, I throw open the door and adopt what I hope is a bright, fresh smile and not completely maniacal. My breath leaves me in a whoosh as I take in the sight in my doorway. I suck in some much-needed oxygen and release it with the word: “Hey.”
I’ve seen Jackson in two different states of dress: ultra-casual in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that looked like it had seen better days, and a suit. So I’m highly unprepared for business casual on Jackson. Business Casual Jackson, just like Slightly Unkempt Jackson and Suit Jackson, is utterly scrumptious. He’s wearing a short-sleeved black polo and a pair of gray khakis. He’s paired them with black-and-white brogues.
I am fully prepared to admit my love for his shoe choice.
His gaze moves over me in a slow, easy sweep, and by the time his eyes reach my face, I’m sure it’s on fire. Way to nail the lid on the ever-having-a-chance-with-him coffin. He tips his head fractionally, and a warm smile makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Did I wake you when I called?”
I glance down at my robe, making sure it’s closed and not showing off my Sleep Like It’s Your Job nightshirt. “I was awake. I was checking emails and looking at the doc while I was in bed. It’s a bad habit.”
“I do the same thing.” His smile widens.
I don’t even want to know what shade of red my face is as I step back and sweep a hand out. “Would you like to come in for a minute? Please excuse the mess.”
He glances around the kitchen. There are two glasses on the counter and a single popcorn bowl, but otherwise it’s tidy. “Are you sure you have time to entertain this today?”
“Absolutely. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“Take your time. I’m happy to wait.”
I lead him to the living room, which is definitely not as tidy as the kitchen. I sweep a handful of stars off the coffee table and dump them in a bowl, which I take with me to the kitchen. I rush back to my bedroom, debate whether I can forgo a shower and decide I can’t. I grab an outfit and hightail it into the bathroom to take the fastest shower in the history of humanity. I should honestly win a Guinness World Record for how quickly I’m able to shower, dress, put on makeup, and fix my hair. Eight minutes and seventeen seconds has never felt like such an incredible accomplishment.
Harley meets me in the hallway, her eyes the size of saucers. “Jackson Holt is sitting in our living room,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I almost walked in there wearing this!” She motions to her pajamas. They’re Disney-themed. She’s had them since she was nineteen. They were a gift from one of the families she used to be a nanny for. They’re not particularly revealing, but they are more suitable for someone ten or under. Still, they’re cute, and I’m assuming they’re comfortable.
