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“Thank you.”
Chills skitter along my skin as he hands the book back to me. “There’s an old sewing machine in the attic. You should make some shit.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“I bet your mom didn’t think she’d make a fortune on cryptocurrency either, but here we are. Don’t underestimate yourself.”
The smile that splits my face is an uncontrollable beam that could probably be seen from space. I hurl myself into Jace’s lap and wrap my arms around his neck. He remains still at first, his hands raised in surprise, but before long, they close around me, encasing me in his warmth. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”
“What did I say?”
“That I can be like my mother.”
I start to sit up, but my fingers thread behind his neck and refuse to let go. Butterflies flutter in my stomach. I swallow the saliva building on my tongue as we lock eyes, our noses inches from touching. Warning bells go off in my brain, but my body won’t move. It wants to stay locked in his embrace forever.
Jace has gotten under my skin in tiny increments since the moment we met. Anger and lust are two emotions that swim in the same vein. They infect me like a drug, blurring the instincts between right and wrong and forcing me to act on my animal impulses.
Short breaths seep from my lungs in shallow bursts. My lips tingle with anticipation, my mouth eager to be claimed by his, but he lets go first. His elbows rest on the wooden arms of the rocking chair. He turns his head and shields the lower half of his face with his downturned hand.
“Sorry,” I say, but my voice flutters out wispy and weak. I stagger to my feet and drop into the chair beside him, averting my gaze so he doesn’t see the embarrassment coloring my cheeks. I don’t even like him, yet my skin singes with every touch. I should feel this way with Troy, not Jace. What’s wrong with me?
Chapter twelve
My stomach clenches. A pulsing pain tears through my middle and leaks into my back. I lie on my side, my knees pulled all the way to my chest. An old movie plays on the television, but it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than how shitty I feel.
Cindy’s gurgling cough rattles from down the hall. She hasn’t left her room in three whole days. I should go take her some water. Her illness is much more important than the monthly affliction currently ailing me, but this ugly brown couch has made me its prisoner. For something so hideous, it sure is comfortable. It’s a chocolate marshmallow cradling all my achy parts.
The heavy scuff of Jace’s boots shuffles in from the back door. I hear them fall, replaced by the whispering sound of his socks on the hardwood. “Hey,” he drawls, falling beside me.
“Hi.”
He stares ahead for a solitary moment before turning to face me. “What the hell is this shit?”
“Casablanca.”
“The fuck is that?”
“It’s a movie,” I deadpan.
He pushes my butt with the ball of his foot. I slide up, then snap back into the place I was before. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t feel well.”
“You got a fever?”
He leans in to feel my face, but I shrug him away. “I’m not sick. I just don’t feel well.”
His brows pinch. “The fuck does that mean?”
His line of questioning snaps the last thread of my patience. “It’s nothing. Just leave me alone.”
His lip curls as he suddenly gets the hint. “Bitch. What are you, on the rag?”
I sigh. “Could you possibly be an adult just for today instead of a total asshole?”
“Whatever.”
He pushes to his feet and disappears from my line of sight. I assume he’s leaving me to wallow in my feminine disgust. I pinch my eyes against the pain as I listen to the rush of the kitchen faucet followed by the whir of the microwave. To my surprise, he returns with a heating pad.
