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Then I cursed myself, because who knew how many times he’d given out his number recently, and sent a quickIt’s Ariel, by the wayas a follow-up.
The messages showed as read.
Then dots appeared to indicate he was writing back. My heart skipped a beat. He didn’t keep me waiting long.
Jackson: Got it, saved it. Good timing, I have things to share with you.
Ariel: I’m home now if you want to come over.
My pulse skipped along faster still. I could’ve just told him to call me, but if he visited, I’d be able to have the conversation face to face. Calmly. Reasonably. No influence of alcohol.
The dots appeared. Then disappeared.
I wanted to break my phone.
A few minutes later, a message finally materialised.
Jackson: On my way.
Now? Like a startled cat, I leapt from the sofa, scanning the room. After last night’s party, Daisy and I had cleared up. The recycling had been taken downstairs, the kitchen cleaned, and surfaces wiped down.
Next came me. I’d showered but done nothing with my hair. Nor did I have on the tiniest bit of makeup.
Hurrying back to my bedroom, I stripped, snatching up a long-sleeved, aubergine-coloured cropped top from my wardrobe. It hugged me in all the right places while leaving inches of my belly exposed. I paired it with black leggings, then drew my silver locket necklace off the little fox figurine on my bedside table and clipped it around my throat.
In the bathroom, I finger combed a dollop of curl product through my hair, ready to move on to my makeup last. As a young teen, I’d been obsessed with my appearance being perfect, but Effie had helped me see that I’d been doing it for the wrong reasons. Now, I just liked to own my look.
I dabbed on concealer, a smattering of blush, then mascara’d the fuck out of my eyelashes. If I had longer, I’d use the concealer to outline my brows, add a bright under-eye, and a deep glossy lip.
My phone dinged in my pocket. A text message.
Jackson: I’m here. Is it safe to enter?
A smile curved my lips, and anticipation buzzed through me.
Ariel: You’re learning. Come on up.
A dab of nude gloss later—no need for finesse—and I scooted to the hall. The door thumped below, and footsteps drummed. Jackson emerged up the spiral staircase, and I took a step back, trying to centre my thoughts.
Just an apology, simple words to find a new way to move forward with him.
His gaze flicked over me. Dark, curious, and with more interest than he’d ever previously shown, lingering over my inches of exposed skin.
My heart pounded like I’d mainlined coffee.
I put my finger to my lips to indicate my sleeping brother and led Jackson up and to the living room. I sat on the sofa and curled one leg underneath me.
“Drink?”
He gave a single shake of his head and sat across from me.
The air between us seemed to hold still. Strung tight, like I was.
“About last night,” I started.
“I need to apologise,” he beat me to the punch.
I closed my mouth. “That was my line. I was two cocktails on the wrong side of out of line. Something about you gets under my skin.”
