CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sarah
It’s been a few days since Maggie and Ry’s wedding, and I’ve been working like crazy. Am I jealous of my two friends who are lounging in the tropics right now, sipping a fruity drink between their bouts of crazy newlywed sex?
Pffft. Does a square have four ninety-degree angles?
Wow. I really do need sleep if I’m spouting off math facts. That made me throw up a little in my mouth.
I’m also pretty disappointed that I didn’t get my hands on Jack after the wedding, but honestly, after a day chock-full of maid of honor duties, I was suffering from bone-deep exhaustion. By the end of the night, the only thing I was fantasizing about was sleep.
Today, Clint and I wanted to take advantage of the nice weather and being off work at the same time, so we decided to grab lunch.
After we finish, we stroll along the sidewalk in downtown Saratoga, and Clint spots something in the window of a nearby boutique. “This practically screams my name.” He points at a studded belt which has gold and silver designs.
“It will certainly draw some attention to your waist area,” I remark dryly.
Clint makes a pistol with his fingers and aims it at me. “Exactly. And there’s no such thing as bad attention in that area, honey.” Studying the belt on the other side of the window, he lets out a long sigh. “But I promised myself I wouldn’t spend frivolously.” Tapping his fingers on the window, he mourns, “Bye, little belt. Maybe one day we’ll meet again.”
I shake my head and laugh. “You’re a weirdo.” Slipping his arm through mine, he continues leading me down the busy sidewalk. “You planning to head home now?”
He barely stifles a yawn. “Yep. I hear a nap calling my name.” Suddenly, he perks up, his face a mask of innocence. “Wait a minute. Isn’t Jack’s place only two blocks away?”
I’d wondered why we’d continued down to the far end of South Broadway, away from the shops Clint normally prefers. I toss him a look, my face a mask of cynicism. “That was the furthest thing from nonchalant.”
He grins happily and shrugs. “It’s all good.” Stopping at the crosswalk, we wait for the signal and then walk across the street. “I’m going to deposit you on his front step, stork-style, and then he’ll—” He stops abruptly, eyes widening on me.
“He’ll what?” I ask cautiously, eyeing him.
“Maybe he’ll decide he’s been lusting over me instead!” he announces gleefully. Untangling his arm from mine, he bounces happily like a Chihuahua before darting down the street to Jack’s place.
Tipping my head up, eyes to the blue sky, I groan, “Why me?” before jogging to catch up with him.
Except I’m not quick enough to intercept him before he rings the bell for Jack’s apartment.
“Hello?”
Clint leans against the building and smiles coyly into the speaker as if Jack can actually see him. “Jacky, it’s me, Clint. I happen to be standing here with a gorgeous blonde who happens to be a complete horndog and secretly writes poems about her love for you. Oh! And sculpting. Can’t forget about those clay replicas she makes of your massive pe—”
I lunge in a move that would make Neo of The Matrix movies envious, my palm covering Clint’s mouth to muffle the rest of his words.
Except it’s far too late.
“I’ll be right down. Can’t wait to hear all about these poems and sculptures.”
At the sound of the intercom disconnecting, Clint reaches to open the door and tugs my arm, shoving me inside the lobby. “Go get ’em, tiger.”
“But—”
Then he shoves the door closed and runs off. Leaving me standing here dumbfounded in the lobby of Jack’s apartment building.
Jack, who’ll be down here any minute now.
Shit, shit, shit. What is it about this guy that throws me so off kilter?
Taking a few deep, calming breaths, I spin around toward the elevator. And stop short.
“Hey, Sunshine.” Jack stands before me, looking far too delicious in low-slung shorts and a plain white T-shirt.
“Oh hell.” Can I, please, get a free pass for once and hurl myself at him? The way they always do in the movies before they kiss each other’s faces off passionately?
One eyebrow rises. “That’s not quite the reaction I was expecting.” He glances past me. “I thought Clint was here?”
“He was.” I wave a hand toward the outside. “He did a weird, alternative version of ding dong ditch, I guess.”
We stand here, a few feet separating us, and I feel awkward as hell. Shuffling my feet, I slide my hands into the pocket of my lightweight hoodie. “Well, um, I should—”
“Come up.” He gives a little tip of his head toward the elevators. “Hang out for a bit.”
It’s at this moment I realize I’ve never come over to Jack’s place with the intent of just…casually hanging out.
It feels weird.
Okay, so I realize how bad that sounds, but it honestly feels odd. In my defense, the whole “curse” did begin here.
“Try to contain your excitement,” he responds dryly when I don’t immediately answer. I realize I’ve been biting the edge of my bottom lip, and my face is probably scrunched up from my contemplation.
“Sure,” I offer far too brightly. “I’d love to hang out.”
“Stairs or elevator?”
“Stairs,” I say quickly. “I had a big lunch.”
Finally, I get a tiny smile from him. “Stairs it is.” He walks over to the door leading to the stairwell and pulls it open. “After you.”
We climb the stairs in silence, arriving at the fourth—and top—floor of the building, and he leads me down the hall to his door. Stepping inside his place, I attempt to shake off the feeling of déjà vu.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” he offers, reaching into his refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water. “I was about to relax and watch a movie. This week’s been hell.”
“No, thanks.” With a weary sigh, I lean against the kitchen counter and add, “I second that on the week from hell.”
Turning, he leans against the closed refrigerator and uncaps his water. My eyes are transfixed on the sight of his forearms, of the play of muscles and veins as he twists off that cap. “Rough time of it, too?” He raises the bottle to his lips, and those biceps stretch the sleeves of his white undershirt.
Oh, sweet Mary Magdalene and Jesus.
Confession time: I have a thing for forearms and biceps, with more emphasis on the forearms. Give this man a fork, a knife, and some food to cut, and I could sit all day long, watching his forearms hard at work. All those flickers of muscle movements and veins on display for my viewing pleasure. Yummmmmm.
And in case you’re wondering (let’s be honest—you are), yes, I’ve always been this weird.
“Can I just say that I’m officially in lust with your forearms?” I blurt out.
Jack chokes in surprise while he’s drinking and attempts to cover his mouth but not in time to catch some of the water that drips down on his shirt. And I’m not sure what I did this week to deserve this, but it must have been really good because Jack’s white shirt gets a big wet spot down the front. The cold water instantly makes his nipples hard, and I’m. In. Heaven.
Clearing his throat, he sets his bottle of water on the counter. “Jesus, Sunshine.” He laughs, and it’s almost like he’s embarrassed. But it gets worse. Or better. Because in the next moment, he does something divine.
He removes his now wet shirt.
That’s right. His fingers grasp the back of the shirt’s neck, and he tugs it over his head. In reality, this moment lasts maybe five seconds at most. For me, though, it lasts for a half a minute because my mind slows it down.
You know those movies where the sexy, curvy woman is jogging down a beach wearing a skimpy swimsuit, boobs bouncing like crazy, and it’s in slow motion? Well, that’s what’s happening right here, right now. My mind is planning to savor this moment at a later date and is slowing things down as he raises that shirt over his firm abs and pecs. It’s like my very own little striptease.
I snap out of it once I realize I’m left standing alone in his kitchen while he heads to get a replacement shirt.
“Don’t put on a new shirt on my account,” I mumble more to myself than anything.
“What’s that?” he calls from his bedroom.
“I asked what movie you planned to watch,” I lie.
“I was thinking of 17 Again.”
Walking over to the living room, I peer out the large windows overlooking the busy street and nearby shops.
“Sound good to you?” he asks. I hear his footsteps approach and catch the sound of him inserting the movie into the Blu-ray player.
When I turn around, however, I feel like Jack’s trying to pull out all the stops with me today.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, now. Hold on a second.” I toss my hands up. “You never once told me about these”—I circle an index finger in the direction of his face where he’s now wearing black framed glasses—“delightfully sexy spectacles of yours.”
He runs a hand over his jaw, the sound of his scruff rasping softly against his palm. With a small laugh, as if slightly embarrassed, he shrugs. “I only use them to give my eyes a rest from my contacts.”
“Also”—I step closer to him, waving toward his now-covered abs—“I have to tell you, I’m pretty sure you’re single-handedly responsible for causing global warming with those abs.”
Jack makes a dismissive sound, and I realize that, deep down, he must still see himself as the nerd he was back in the day. I know Maggie has mentioned something about Ry’s stories of first meeting Jack during his freshman year in college and how clueless he was. Not to mention, Jack also mentioned something in his toast at their wedding.
For whatever reason, I feel a fierce need to try to get him to realize—to understand—that he’s not the geeky, easily overlooked guy anymore.
Placing a palm against the firm wall of his chest, I tip my head to the side contemplatively. “I must say, I really like this more relaxed version of Jack Westbrook.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “A lot.” Tapping a finger to my lips, I exaggerate a thoughtful expression. “Maybe we could play incredibly sexy nerd entrepreneur who catches his secretary late at night while she’s bent over the filing cabinet.”
Something flickers across his face, and he looks at me oddly. “You like the whole nerdy thing?”
It’s not so much his words as it is the way he asks that gives me pause. It’s clear there’s something more—there’s weight behind the question itself.
“I might,” I answer slowly. Trailing my index finger down the center of his shirt, I peer up at him. “So, you were a hot nerd back in the day, huh?”
Something sounds off with his laugh, and he avoids my gaze. “I don’t know about the hot part of it, but I was definitely a nerd.”
“Well, maybe you just hadn’t hit your prime.” One of my palms slides over his firm pectorals before smoothing down over his abs, the muscles contracting beneath my touch. “I’m sure I still would’ve been all over you back then.”
His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “Think so?”
I nod, my voice soft. “Definitely.”
“Well, it just so happens I received an invitation to revisit my days of full-on nerdiness.” There’s a hint of derisiveness in his voice.
Peering up at him curiously, I draw my words out. “An invitation?”
His lips twist. “My ten-year class reunion.”
“Ah.” I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t envy you. High school was painful enough the first time.”
“Exactly. But,” he hesitates, averting his gaze, “a small part of me wants to go and show all those snotty, rich kids I’m not the same scrawny, nerd who had no sense of style.”
The way his blue eyes cloud with what appears to be unhappy memories makes my heart ache. “When is it?”
He snaps his eyes to me. “Two weeks from today.”
Mentally running through my work schedule, I pat his chest. “You’d better R.S.V.P. right now.”
A crease pops up between his eyebrows. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re going to that reunion, Jack. And we’re going to rock their worlds.” I nod as if to punctuate the sentiment.
He lets out a long, resigned sigh. “Sarah. You don’t have to go with me. I didn’t bring it up to con you into going.”
I don’t know what it is, but I find myself disliking any time he uses my name instead of the usual “Sunshine.”
Rising on my tiptoes, I press my lips to his in a gentle kiss before moving to settle on the couch. “It’s a done deal. Do it now and then put on the movie.”
Shaking his head with a chuckle, he heads over to where his laptop is sitting on the dining room table, likely pulling up his email and sending off his quick R.S.V.P. Turning and walking over to me, he centers his warm gaze on me, and I’m relieved to see the shadows are gone.
“All set, Sunshine. Now”—he settles onto the couch, slinging an arm around me—“it’s movie time.” He picks up the remote, and I snuggle into his embrace as he starts the movie.
And I’m not sure I’ve ever had a better time simply spending time with a guy.