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Before I can second-guess myself, I toss the bra on the couch and give Lee a defiant stare. “Well?”
He stands in front of me, hands on hips, forehead creased in concentration, like he’s a fashion designer examining a prototype on a mannequin.
“Which one is supposed to be bigger?” he finally asks.
“This one!” I point to my right breast, betrayed that he couldn’t discern it right away.
He purses his lips and squints harder.
“See?” I challenge. “It’s bigger, right?”
“I truly don’t see it, babe. And you know me. I’d tell you if I did. I live and breathe the drama.”
I can’t argue with that. “You really don’t think one is drastically bigger?”
“Not at all. But did you know you have a freckle under your left nipple?”
Jack starts to cough.
I snatch up my bra and shirt, throwing the latter on without bothering with the former. “All right. You’ve lost your breast privileges,” I tell Lee, jabbing my finger in the air. “You took liberties. Freckle assessment wasn’t on the table!”
He howls and walks over to sling his arm around me. “I love you, Abbs. You’re the best flatmate I’ve ever had.”
After that, the excitement dies down and we start cleaning up. Despite the fact it’s one in the morning, Jamie announces he’s going out after getting booty-called by a girl in Chelsea.
I swear, that guy has so much sex I’m surprised his penis still works.
“I’m going up to bed now,” I say once we’ve collected all the wineglasses and trash.
“Me too.” Jack joins me in the living room doorway.
“Night, darlings. I’m staying up a while longer to sext with George.” Lee flops back onto the couch, engrossed by his phone within seconds.
Upstairs, Jack doesn’t turn toward his room but follows me to mine.
I glance over my shoulder. “Can I help you?” Somehow I manage to sound nonchalant even though my pulse is racing again.
Why is Hot Jack coming to my bedroom at 1 a.m.?
“I’m walking you to your room,” he says gruffly. “You drank a lot tonight.”
“I’m fine.”
“You just took your shirt off in front of Lee.”
“So?”
Our eyes lock. There it is again—the surge of heat.
We have chemistry and I think we both know it, but I don’t know what to do with it. There’s that pesky house rule, for one. But also the fact that Jack is clearly determined not to make a move. And I’m not sure I want him to. It’ll only complicate our living situation.
And yet I say, “Jack?”
“Hmm?” He’s still watching me.
“Tell me a secret.”
He’s right. I drank too much.
