JACK DARCY

It’s not about the soup, I repeat for the hundredth time. It’s not about the soup.

I replay this mantra in my head as we set to work making soup on a ninety-five degree Sunday—in a room with no air conditioning. This would normally be torture, but oddly enough, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.

I could pretend this development has nothing to do with the fact that my body’s reacting to the sight of Allie Jenkins in nothing but lingerie. She says she’s wearing sweatpants. She’s wrong.

All that seems to matter to my libido is the fact that I can see the curve of her butt under those tiny shorts—not to mention the softness of her skin which brushes against me just enough to keep me alert. Then she turns on the smile, and my blood pressure soars.

I can’t admit to her that my heart just about stopped when she opened her apartment door earlier with massive sex hair. It might be the first time I’ve ever been speechless around her. Thankfully, my panic attack had been for naught.

“Chop the carrots smaller, will you?” Allie instructs. “This is the size of my finger! Who takes bites this big?”

She holds up half of a long carrot, and I can’t help but smile. “Sorry.”

“Come on,” she coaxes. “You still haven’t told me what’s wrong. Is something on your mind?”

“Besides your lack of shirt,” I mumble, too softly for her to hear. “I’m fine, really. Just preoccupied.”

“Okay,” she says, sounding unconvinced.

I want to tell Allie how I feel about her, I truly do. But I’m afraid it’ll make things weird between us, and I can’t risk that happening. If we were meant to be together, surely we would’ve figured it out by now. I’ve known her for twenty-seven years; I’d have to be a huge idiot to miss signs that she’d been interested in me along the way.

“That’s a little better,” she says, surveying my handiwork with a newly chopped carrot. “The size of my thumb.”

“How long does this take?”

“Jeesh, you needed more sleep last night, Mr. Grumps. Go look at the recipe,” she says. “I have it saved in my Favorites on the computer.”

Thankful for the break, I wander into Allie’s bedroom where her computer sits on an antique, rickety old desk that she seems to love. She picked it up from some old lady’s estate sale, and I keep trying to tell her that it’s unsanitary.

As always, she never listens to me.

Sitting at a desk that’s much too small for me, I pop her laptop open and enter the password. Neither of us make huge efforts to keep our passwords secret, and after a lifetime of knowing Allie, we have few secrets between us.

Her password? OrangeChicken7777.

The screen unlocks and I’m left with a view that looks like the backend of a website. I shouldn’t be snooping, but it’s the first thing that popped up on the computer, and naturally, I’m curious.

I take one glance at the name of the site, and then immediately feel guilty for spending the extra second on her computer. Flipping to a new tab, I click the Favorite button for soup and pull up the website.

“Did you find it?” Allie pads into her bedroom and glances over my shoulder, her finger trailing down the recipe until she reaches the needed cook time. “Thank you...wait, what’s wrong?”

“I looked at your screen.”

“What?”

“I looked at your screen when it unlocked.”

“So?” Her face pales as she glances over my shoulder, and she sees the tab open. “Oh. Well, forget it. It’s nothing.”

“I’m sorry; I should’ve closed it out quicker.”

“What did you see?”

“Just the name of something that looked like a website.”

“It’s fine,” she says, feigning nonchalance. “I asked you to use my computer, and I left the page up. I’ve nothing to hide.”

“Are you starting a blog?”

“No.” She stomps back to the kitchen, and I follow. She’s in the middle of slicing carrots when she flicks her eyes to me for a brief moment. “Maybe.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Maybe not, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

“How come you never told me you were interested in blogging?”

“Because it’s stupid; I mean, not blogging, but the idea of me doing it. Nobody cares what I have to say.”

“Of course they do. I care.”

She wrinkles her nose, gives a shake of her head, and throws everything into the pot that’s simmering on the stove. “Just forget about it, Jack.”

“What do you want to blog about?”

“Stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“You know, the things I like.”

“What things?”

“You’re annoying, you know that?” She gives me the briefest of smiles. “It’s nothing you’d be interested in hearing about.”

I’ve been moving slowly toward her this entire time, and eventually, I reach her side. “I beg to differ. I’m interested in things you’re interested in. That’s what friendship’s about.”

She gives a soft snort. “Friendship, right. Well, forget about it, Jack. I don’t want to talk—”

I can’t help but reach out then, rest a hand on her shoulder, and spin her around. By the time I realize I have her pinned against the counter, our bodies are pressed against one another’s in all sorts of ways that have my mind spinning, and it’s too late to retreat.

“Why are you dodging my questions?” I ask, and it comes out a little lower, a little huskier than I anticipate. If I don’t get my act together, she’s going to feel the racing pulse of my heart, the quickening of my breath. “I don’t think it’s stupid—whatever it is. If you’re passionate about it, you should give it a proper go.”

“Romance, okay? A romance and book blog. I told you that you wouldn’t be interested.”

“I’m not interested in writing one myself, but I’m interested in you, and therefore I’m interested in your ideas. I think you should do it.”

“See? You just said—” She hesitates, leaning forward, pressing into me as she studies my face. “Do you mean that?”

Her lips hover right beneath mine, and it’d be a simple matter for me to lean forward and press mine to hers. To get a taste, a sample of what that’d be like. It’d probably earn me a slap to the face and some awkward moments between friends, but for a second, I think it might be worth it.

I’ve already forgotten the question. My gaze is fixed on her pouty lips, the curve of excitement in her smile. “Um—”

“You’re not even listening.” Those lips turn into a deeper pout, and suddenly, the smile disappears, too. “Forget it.”

She shakes her head and tries to step away from me, but I’m faster. Gentle, so gentle it’s as if we’re barely touching, my fingers come to rest on her lower back, and it’s enough to hold her in place. We’re balanced here, on the edge of a precipice, and it’s this single point of contact that holds us in place.

“I mean it,” I say, thanking my brain for finally catching up. “I believe in you.”

“It’s just a blog.”

I shake my head and move just centimeters closer to her, bringing our bodies to brush skin to skin against one another. She doesn’t move away; if anything, she relaxes against me.

“I mean it,” I tell her. “I don’t give a damn if you blog or not. I don’t care if you take up marathon running or cookie baking. But I would support you in it. Why should this be any different?”

She bites her lip, and it’s tantalizing in its subtlety. For a moment, I wonder what it’d be like for me to nibble on her there, to drag kisses down her neck, past her collarbone, to the sweet skin beneath her ear.

She’d be ticklish, I know it. She squirms if I so much as brush against her the wrong way. It takes several moments to feel her stare on me, the subtle, inviting gleam in her eye as her hand wraps around mine and her fingers interlink there.

We’re holding hands.

I’m holding the hand belonging to Allie Jenkins, and it’s the next best thing to sex that I’ve ever experienced. Possibly a sad statement, but a true one.

Unfortunately, we both realize this at the same time, and we separate like oil and water. Backing to the center of the room, I clear my throat first and wrinkle my nose. “Is something burning?”

“Oh, shit.” Allie turns around, smacking at the stove with a dish towel. “That’s not good.”

A napkin too close to the stove has gone up in flames, and it takes several good whacks for it to disintegrate into the sink. I flick the water on as Allie sends the charred remains down the drain, and only once the threat of a full apartment meltdown is passed, do we both grin.

“Close call, huh?” she asks, and I’m not sure if she’s referencing the fire or the hand holding.

I nod, since it applies to either one. “For what it’s worth, I meant what I said.”

“Thanks.” She sounds clipped, as if there’s another shoe that’s waiting to fall. Eventually, she raises her eyes to meet mine. “I was thinking of adding our training to the blog, too. With your permission.”

“Training?”

“You know, like...” she shrugs. “Romance Academy stuff. Example: Rule number 9: Don’t snoop on a potential girlfriend’s computer.”

“We’re on rule number eight.”

“Oh.” Her face colors as she reviews what she said internally. “Also, I’m not a potential girlfriend, but you know what I mean.”

“I understood what you meant.”

“Would you mind?”

“Mind doing what?”

“Mind if I include some of it on the blog?”

“Yes.” The answer escapes before I have any control over it, and Allie looks slightly disheartened.

“I expected you to say that. No problem, really—”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” It is what I meant, but I hate seeing the look of disappointment in her gaze. “I just meant I’d like my name and identifying information kept from being public.”

“Well, duh! You really wouldn’t mind?” Allie flings herself into my arms and squeezes tight for a hug. “Rule number nine. You’re the best.”

As my arms squeeze her back and the sweet scent of her shampoo wafts between us, I can’t help but think she’s utterly and completely off base with Rule number nine.

If I were the best, maybe Allie Jenkins would fall in love with me. I rest my chin against her head, the hug lingering for an extra second, my fingers teasing through her hair.

She sighs against my chest, and I tuck her closer to me, noting the subtle fact that we are a complete and utter perfect fit. Maybe if I hadn’t let things get so far into friendship territory; maybe if I’d been more assertive; maybe if I’d read a single novel instead of medical non-fiction for the last twelve years, maybe then I could’ve been winning over Allie, instead of learning how to win over some mystery woman I haven’t yet met, and don’t yet love.

My body goes entirely rigid at the thought. Love. The elusive word that is so difficult to find and so fragile to keep. And with it, the fifty-million-dollar question: have I fallen in love with my best friend?