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Jess looks like she wouldn’t mind punching me either. Her eyes do this stormy thing that has me bracing for literal thunder.
Her dad’s off-limits. I should know that. I try again. “So... I was your first kiss?” Shit, that might be worse.
Her eyes match a midnight sky. “Are youtryingto make me slam the door in your face?”
“The opposite actually. I’m trying to get an invitation into your room.” I showcase the bag like I’m filming a commercial. “Croissant? Blueberry muffin? Coffee cake?”
“It’s going to take more than baked goods.” She jerks back and swings the door shut.
I slide forward, and the door slams into my shoulder. I rub the sore spot. “You’re right. Maybe we could talk about yesterday?”
She grips the tea in one hand and splays the fingers on her other hand over her hip. “Guys don’t like to talk.”
“Who told you that?” Sprinkling my comment with amused sarcasm, I force my eyes from her curves.
“Everyone knows that.” She snatches the bag from my hand and backs away from the door.
I steal my chance to step inside. “Dante talks to Sara.”
“He’s the exception.” Partly because it was true, and partly because I embellished the diary with what I wanted for Dante and Sara.
“Dante’s not a total stretch.” If you overlook that he’s totally whipped, and he never thinks about Sara’s ass. “If a guy is motivated enough, he can fumble around the English language and put a sentence or two together.” I keep my tone light, my grin lighter, hoping it will draw her in. And not get me kicked out.
Digging in the bag, she pulls out the muffin, and gives the rest of the food back. “Why don’t you sleep at night?”
“What?” I drop the bag on the desk.
“What are you doing in your room? Because you’re not sleeping.” Setting her tea on the table, she sits on the edge of the ottoman by the window and takes a bite of the giant muffin top. A few crumbs land on her bottom lip. Her tongue darts out to catch them.
It’s nearly impossible, but I set my groan to silent. “When I’m stressed, I lift.”
“Lift what?” She takes another bite. Licks her top lip this time.
“Myself.” I glance away. “I lift myself.” How can watching someone eat be fun and frustrating at the same time? “I can’t carry weights on the plane. But I brought a travel chin-up bar. Planks are good too. And push-ups.”
“And you lift”—she puts the last word in air quotes— “because your ego demands that when you whip off your shirt, girls melt at your feet.”
“I lift”—I copy her air quotes—“because I like working out.” I smack my stomach. “And these are in my contract.” Well, they were in my contract. I guess now my abs can do whatever the hell they want.
“Abs can be in a contract?” She tilts her head, and all that silky hair falls over one shoulder.
“Along with the number of required shirtless appearances per season.”
“That seems wrong.” She looks sort of sorry for me.
“Eh.” There’s worse things than showing off a body I work hard to have. Like not having a job to show it off at.
“So stress equals no sleeping. No sleeping equals lifting. Got it.” The muffin ends up on the table.
Is it bad that I’m extremely disappointed she’s done eating?
“So what’s up with the singing then?” she asks.
“You heard that too?”
The corners of her mouth curve. “Well, it was more like rapping.”
Floored that I’m suddenly self-conscious, I reach for mywhateverface. “Sometimes I channel Eminem in the shower. When working out doesn’t do it for my stress.” There’s another S-word that works better, but I’m not going there with her. Not now at least.
