I surprise even myself when I decide not to tell Michelle what happened between Jay and me. Here’s my reasoning: I want to save face, just in case it turns out that all this was to him was a roll in the hay. Michelle knows about my quest for epic love, and I don’t want her to judge me for letting my newfound libido lose the run of itself.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I know she wouldn’t judge me, but let’s face it, talking about sex is embarrassing. She’s always been the one to tell me about her bedroom adventures, not the other way around. To put it plainly, I have no problem talking about other people having sex, but talking about me having sex, well, that’s a whole other kettle of uncomfortable collar fiddling. I wouldn’t know where to begin in explaining to her just how spectacularly Jay managed to rock my world after what must have been a record-breaking dry spell.

“Nothing’s going on. He’s just flirty. He flirts with everyone,” I answer dismissively.

“Eh, no, he doesn’t. He hasn’t so much as given me a backward glance since I first met him, and that’s probably because he’s too busy giving you all his backward glances to even notice that other women exist.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re reading too much into it.”

“I am not, but if you want to sail your pretty little rowboat down the Nile and take in the scenery, then I’m not going to be the one to stop you.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you use twenty words when five will do? I thought they were supposed to teach you the opposite of that in marketing school.”

“Ah, now she’s getting bitchy. She always gets bitchy when she’s being defensive.”

“She would prefer not to be referred to in the third person, thank you very much.”

“She just did it herself.”

“She was trying to make a point.”

“Her point has been made.”

We look at each other for a second before we both burst into laughter.

“God, I fucking love you, Matilda, but I swear you’re the most neurotic girl I know.”

“Glad to hold the title.”

A minute later Jay returns, telling us he has to go out for a while, but he’ll be back later. He gives my shoulder a small, meaningful squeeze before he goes. Michelle and I watch a movie for the rest of the afternoon, and then I retreat to my sewing machine once she heads home.

It’s ten o’clock when I decide to call it a night. I furrow my brow, noticing that Jay still hasn’t gotten back yet. Worrying the screen of my phone, I hesitate over whether or not to call him and see if he’s okay. In the end, I decide not to. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need me checking up on him.

In bed I toss and turn, as I usually do when I’m alone in the house. When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares about being kidnapped in my sleep and taken away by bad men all dressed in black. I’d wake Dad up constantly, screaming my head off until he came and calmed me down, reassuring me that it was just a dream. Over the years the nightmares faded, and I know Dad was glad that they did. He never said it, but I could tell he worried the nightmares were because of what happened the night Mum got killed. The kidnappers in my nightmares were always the same men who shot Mum.

A little while later, I hear Jay arrive home. He comes upstairs, and I hold my breath as I listen to him walk in the direction of my bedroom. Not knowing what else to do, I pretend to be asleep. My door opens, and the house is so quiet that I can hear him standing there, breathing, watching me for the longest time. I can’t help holding my breath expectantly.

Is he considering coming inside?

He doesn’t. Instead, he closes my door and goes to his own room. What was that all about? He moves around in his room for a while, doing his usual pacing that I tend to hear him do at night. The pacing is oddly reassuring to me, and I find myself drifting off to the sound of it.

Hours later, I wake up. It’s still dark, and when I glance at the alarm clock on my bedside dresser, I see it’s three in the morning. My heart is racing, and I can’t tell why until I hear what it is that woke me up. Loud, pained sounds are coming from Jay’s bedroom. I jump out of bed and hurry to his room, worried that he’s somehow been hurt. When I get to him, though, he isn’t hurt. His body is curled in on itself in the foetal position as he clutches his knees to his chest.

I’ve never seen such a huge man look so small.

Switching the lamp on low, I go to his side, finding he’s still asleep, in the midst of what seems to be a bad nightmare. It’s odd that I’d only just been thinking about my own experience with nightmares earlier tonight. He’s wearing boxer shorts and no top, sweat glistening on his skin. I hover over him, not sure if I should wake him up or leave him alone. He’s a fully grown man, but in this moment it’s like he’s reverted back to a child.

Hesitantly, I place my hand on his shoulder, whispering, “Jay, wake up. Jay, you’re having a nightmare.”

His body jerks and his eyes snap open; he grabs the hand that’s touching him tightly, painfully.

“Jay.” I wince. “Let go. It’s just me. It’s Matilda.”

At hearing my name, something seems to jolt him. Instead of letting go of my hand, he pulls on it, though more gently now. He drags my body onto his bed, pulling the covers over us both and wrapping his arms and legs around me. I’m trapped, but I don’t mind.

“Matilda,” he whispers.

There’s something about the way he says it that makes me wonder if he’s awake, or still half dreaming. His arms are warm and comforting around me as he presses his lips to the back of my neck.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

I inhale the heady scent of him, feeling like I’ve been encapsulated in a bubble of Jay, and I probably couldn’t leave even if I wanted to. His breathing evens out after a while, and he’s sleeping deeply again. Only a short while later, I drift off, too.

The next time I wake up, I’m alone in the bed and it’s morning. I can hear the pan sizzling downstairs, the smell of bacon making my mouth water. Getting up, I pay a quick visit to the bathroom before going down to the kitchen.

“Morning sleepyhead,” says Jay with a smile as I sit down at the table and pour myself some juice.

“Morning,” I reply, not looking at him.

He comes over and slides some bacon onto my plate. “So,” he begins smugly, “you snuck into bed with me last night. That was a nice surprise.”

My heart thumps at his words. “What?”

“I woke up with a beautiful woman in my arms. Not a bad way to greet the day, especially considering I went to bed alone.” He winks.

“You don’t remember,” I say in realisation, inwardly purring at him calling me beautiful for the second time. I could get used to that.

He takes the chair opposite me and sits, his brow furrowing. “Don’t remember what, darlin’?”

“I woke up because I could hear you having a nightmare. It sounded bad, so I went into your room to try to calm you down. Then you pulled me onto your bed and wouldn’t let me go. Me being there seemed to help you sleep, so I stayed.”

He scratches his gorgeously sleep-ruffled hair. He seems embarrassed for the first time ever. “Ah, yeah. I have trouble sleeping sometimes. It’s a problem.”

“Do you have insomnia?”

“You could call it that. Basically, my brain won’t shut down enough for me to get a good night’s sleep. It goes on for weeks, and then I’ll conk out for an entire day from exhaustion. Then the cycle will start all over again.”

“That sounds awful. Have you tried medicating for it?”

“I’ve tried lots of stuff. None of it works 100 percent. If I take sleeping pills, they make me drowsy, but they don’t make me sleep. Basically, I’m awake but more tired than I would’ve been if I didn’t take the pills. I have a technique that works most of the time.”

“A technique?”

“Yeah, I pace, reciting lists in my head. All of the things I’ve achieved and all the things I plan to achieve. Listing them relaxes me enough to sleep most nights. The problem is, if I haven’t completed something, it niggles at me when I recite the list, which screws everything up and keeps me awake.”

Oh, so that’s what the pacing is about. It’s a little concerning that he needs to do something like that in order to sleep. Still, I don’t want to be critical, so I reassure him.

“Ah, yeah, I get that. You know, that’s a really good technique. I read somewhere once that we replay the day in our heads before we go to sleep. It gives us a sense that everything is done and dusted.”

Jay looks at me for a long minute, so long that I start to get self-conscious. “I sleep better when you’re with me,” he says, voice low.

I try to make light of his seriousness, ignoring the tingles beneath my skin. “Like in a pile? You’re such a big kid.”

Something tugs at his lips. “Doesn’t have to be a pile. There are a number of positions I’m partial to. You want me to show you?”

His tone dips low on the word “positions,” and I focus on chewing the salty, crispy bacon he cooked for me. “No need for any show-and-tell.”

Jay chuckles, and we eat in quiet for a minute.

“Are you doing anything later on?” he asks then. “I’d like to take you somewhere.”

“Not really. I’m going to do some sewing today, then I’m free as a bird. Where do you want to take me?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Hmm, I’m beginning to think you might be just as partial to annoying secrets as you are to positions, Mr Fields,” I joke.

“Yeah, well, it’s not my fault I love those little gasps you make when you’re surprised,” he answers brazenly, a taunting gleam in his eye.

I point my slice of toast at him. “You’re in rare form this morning.”

“I’m glad my form impresses you.”

“You would be glad, you…peacock.”

A bark of laughter erupts from him. “Peacock?”

“What? I’m tired. I’m not good at thinking up witty comebacks when I’m tired.”

“You know, I do like the way your lips move when you say ‘peacock.’”

I look at him, my mouth forming a surprised “O.” When I find the words to speak, I give him a flat, “Shut up.”

“Finish your breakfast and get some energy into you, tired Tilly,” he says, looking at me fondly.

I stab a piece of bacon with my fork. “Don’t call me Tilly.”

He raises his hands in the air, laughing. “Okay. You don’t like Tilly. Duly noted.”

***

If there’s one thing that I love doing with Jay, it’s riding with him…in his car. Minds out of the gutter, please. He gave me strict instructions not to eat any dinner, and when we were leaving, he tucked a large duffel bag in the trunk. I thought he might be taking me out to dinner, but the duffel bag threw me. So now I haven’t the foggiest where he’s taking me or what he plans on doing when we get there.

I mess around with my seat, reclining it so I can relax and let the wind rush through my hair, the window open beside me. Jay parks in a Georgian area of the city and helps me out, retrieving the duffel bag.

“You don’t have a bunch of murder weapons in there, do you?” I joke as he leads me down the street.

He only gives me an elusive smile. “Nope.”

We near a small park, and there’s a line of people queuing up outside the gates. Jay takes my hand in his, our fingers intertwining as we join the queue.

“If you don’t tell me what this is, I’m going to ask the people standing in front of us,” I push.

“Do it and face the consequences,” he warns.

I scowl and resign myself to not knowing until he decides it’s time to reveal his plans. The queue moves forward slowly, and when we reach the gates leading into the park, I crane my neck to see inside. I can’t see much, but I do notice some pretty fairy lights hung through the trees. They look magical.

Jay hands the girl at the gate two tickets, and she stamps our hands with red dots. Pulling me inside, Jay leads me through the trees lined with fairy lights and into an open grassy area where people are setting down blankets and picnics. At the top of the open space, someone has set up at huge projection screen, and that’s when it all clicks into place. Outdoor cinema! I’ve never been to an outdoor cinema before. How wonderful.

“Jay,” I whisper to him, touched.

He turns his head to me slightly, but keeps walking, searching for a good spot to set up.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for bringing me here. I love it.”

He smiles tenderly. “The movie hasn’t even started yet.”

“What is it?”

He gives me a shiver-inducing look. “The Piano.”

His answer makes me blush like crazy. Trust him not to forget about me telling him how much I, uh, enjoy that film. He doesn’t draw out my embarrassment, but instead pulls a fleece blanket from the duffle bag and spreads it out on a patch of grass close to the back of the park. The sky is starting to darken, somewhere in between day and night, and a terrible sense of romance clutches at my chest. He planned all of this. For me. For us.

Um, yeah. That’s just a cough that’s catching in my throat. It’s not emotion, I swear.

Gesturing for me to sit down, he takes some plastic food containers out of the bag and a small chill box containing a bottle of wine. Hmm, is he planning on getting me drunk? The food is an array of sandwiches, chips, and dips. The perfect picnic combination.

“This is nice,” I say, giving him a curious smile. “You planned all this yourself?”

When he looks at me, it’s not what I’m expecting. He seems guilty for some reason, and almost…sad. It’s a swift turnaround, and it takes me by surprise. Reaching to his neck and scratching, he replies, “Yeah, I wanted to do something for you, something you’d like.” He hands me a paper plate with some sandwiches. “Here, eat up.”

“Thanks,” I reply, still eyeing him. There’s something off about him all of a sudden, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Once it gets completely dark, the movie starts up, and Jay pulls me to sit between his legs, my back resting on his chest. The nearness makes me remember yesterday, his mouth on me, how incredible it felt. He runs his fingertips up and down my arms, noticing my skin pimpling with the cold.

“It’s getting chilly. I brought another blanket,” he says, pulling one from the bag and covering us both with it. I sink into him, feeling his breath tickle the back of my neck. A little into the movie, he pours us some wine into the plastic cups he brought. I sip on mine, savouring the moment, watching one of my favourite movies with a man my feelings are latching onto.

When I’m finished drinking, he takes the cup from me and sets it aside, wrapping both his arms around my middle and holding me tight. The scene I’d described to him comes on, and I close my eyes, unable to handle the intensity of watching it while he’s holding me so close.

I want him tonight. I want him to make love to me right here under the stars. I don’t care how cold it is or how short a time I’ve known him.

Toward the end of the film, I turn my face to his, and his lips are right there. Bravely, I lean in to kiss him, but he moves away, and I can’t tell if he does it to avoid my kiss or if it was an accident. He moves his nose to my temple, nuzzling. I accept the touch, even though it feels like a consolation prize.

The film ends, and a long sigh escapes him. We stay in our spot even while the people around us are packing up to leave.

“This is the difficult part,” says Jay in a low voice.

I turn in his arms to face him properly. “The difficult part?”

“Yeah,” he says, his mouth a bare inch from mine, his eyes full of emotion. “The part where I keep from touching you more. Touching you everywhere.”

I stare at him for a long time before replying in the tiniest voice, “You can touch me if you want to.”

His look is agonised, but I don’t understand why. “If I ask you to do something for me, will you do it and not ask questions? Just accept that this is how it has to be right now?”

Some kind of apprehension takes hold in my gut. “I’ll try.”

“I need you not to touch me, not to try to kiss me like you did during the movie. I know it’s hypocritical, given what’s been brewing between us lately, but it’s not in my power to explain yet. I need you to be my friend, Matilda, to spend time with me. But please don’t push for more, even if it feels like I want you so badly it hurts, even if I’m the one doing the pushing, because if you do, I might just have to be selfish and take you.” He pauses before finishing in a hushed voice, “and you’d destroy me.”

I’d destroy him? How ironic is it that it feels like he’s destroying me in this moment? “You don’t want me?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Then he says, “You should be running in the other direction, darlin’.”

I study him, trying to figure him out. Finally, I realise what’s going on. He’s trying to let me down gently. He’s saying nice things but mixing them with bad things to make me feel less rejected, because, let’s face it, that’s what this is. A rejection.

Yesterday when we were together was a lapse of judgement on his part. He was satisfying a need, and that’s all. I allowed myself to get carried away, I guess. I gather my reserve, blinking back the tears that want to come out.

“So, you’re saying you just want to be friends?” The tears are in my throat now, too, and it’s impossible that he can’t hear them.

He takes my hand in his and squeezes it tight. “I want you to be my best friend.”

Steeling myself, I say, “Okay, I get it. You don’t have to lessen the blow.”

He squeezes my hand to the point of pain now. “I want you to be my best friend, darlin’. I’m not lessening the blow. That right there is the truth.”

I want to just stay quiet, but I can’t help it. The verbal diarrhoea comes spewing out. “Is there….” I stop and take a breath, biting back more tears. “Is there something wrong with me?”

“Jesus Christ, Watson, no. You’re perfect.” He pulls me into his arms and hugs me so hard it steals the air from my lungs.

I’m not perfect. He’s lying. If I were perfect, then this conversation wouldn’t even be happening. I hate how much I love the feel of his body wrapped around mine, and then comes the anger. Abruptly, I push away from him and get to my feet.

“Who brings a girl to see a movie like that and then tells her he doesn’t want to be with her? That was really shitty of you, Jay.”

“Can’t,” he says, standing up, too, and walking toward me. He stops when his chest brushes mine, completely invading my personal space.

“What?” I ask, my voice snappy.

“Can’t, not doesn’t.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I will one day.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, can you just be straight with me for once? On second thought, forget it. I’m going home.”

At this I turn and stomp away from him, but he catches up to me, stopping me in my tracks when he forcefully grabs my elbow. “You’re not going home alone at this time of night,” he growls in my ear.

“Watch me.” I yank my elbow out of his hold and make a run for it. In this moment I’m so consumed by feelings of embarrassment and hurt, and I just don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to look at a person I want this badly but who doesn’t want me back.

A minute later I’m airborne as he catches me and grabs me around my middle, lifting me up and throwing me over his shoulder.

“Jay! Let me down!” I squeal, wiggling in his hold. He doesn’t put me down until he reaches his car and sets me in the back. I’m about to crawl out when he slams the door shut and locks it. I try the handle, but it won’t budge.

“It’s for your own safety,” I hear him say through the glass as he goes back inside the park.

Oh, my God, I couldn’t be any more pissed off right now. He just locked me inside his car. My anger trickles away after a minute, though, being replaced again by hurt feelings. I feel hideous. It’s the worst time for me to dwell on the fact that Owen still hasn’t called, which is the cherry on top of Jay’s rejection cake. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with me that men just don’t seem to want me?

Maybe I’m just too boring? Okay, self-pity, I’m going to say good night.

Soon Jay returns, sliding into the driver’s seat and throwing the packed-up duffel bag in the back. He doesn’t say a word.

I hate him not talking to me even more than I hate him not wanting me.

Liquid leaks from my eyes, unable to hold back anymore. I dab at the tears with my sleeve and try not to sniffle, not wanting Jay to know I’m crying. In the end it doesn’t matter, because he looks at me through the overhead mirror and lets out a gruff breath.

“Darlin’, don’t cry.”

Now I do sniffle. “Don’t call me darlin’. I’m not your darlin’. I’m your friend.” I put as much animosity into the word as I can muster.

A tiny smile shapes his lips, and I feel like smacking him for it. “Really? It doesn’t sound like you’re my friend. It sounds like you hate my guts.”

I make eye contact with him, and everything inside me deflates. It’s my own fault for thinking there was something big between us. I’ve just never met anyone like him before; he got under my skin so quickly. I think he might have ruined me for all other men already. How sad is that?

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Nothing to be sorry about, Watson,” he says, turning the steering wheel as he rounds a corner.

“There is. I shouldn’t have thrown a tantrum. I just — I really like you, and you hurt my feelings. I’ll get over it. I’m your friend.” I pause and add, “I promise to be your friend.” Because even though he’s made me feel like shit, I sense something desperate in him, some part of him that needs me as his friend more than anything, even if we have only been in each other’s lives a short time. It’s odd, but it feels like I’ve known him forever. He fit himself so perfectly into my and Dad’s lives, like he’d always been there.

The look he gives me is startling, equal parts self-loathing for himself and affection for me, but that can’t be right. It confuses me.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he says after a long stretch of silence. “I need a friend like you.”