ALLIE

I didn’t love leaving the Darcy home with so many unresolved issues.

Why had Jack called? Where was he? Was he in trouble? Why had he called me nine hundred and three times during the hour I’d forgotten my phone?

Does Jack love me?

I barely made it through my apartment to retrieve my phone when a knock pulls me back to the front door. Cracking it open, I find my downstairs neighbor, Martha, waiting for me. Her hair is curled in tight spirals, and her lipstick covers half her face. As always, a cigarette burns in her hand.

I give her my standard please-don’t-bother-me smile. “How’s it going, Martha?”

“I didn’t get a nap in today,” she says, pushing a pair of thick lenses up her nose. “Some lunatic broke into your apartment.”

“My apartment?” I glance behind me. “Really?”

“He didn’t get inside. I called the cops first, so he only got away with breaking your window. I gave the policemen your number, and they tried to call you, too. But you didn’t answer.”

“I forgot my phone here, and I just got back. Do you know who it was? Er—why someone would want to break into here?”

“The man was handsome as all get-out. Tall with dark hair and real studly-looking; then again, they say most serial killers are pretty suave. He came to the door, but when you didn’t answer, he started throwing rocks at your window. Shattered the whole thing.”

An image of Jack’s face flashes into my mind. Quickly, I pulled up a photo of him on my phone. “Do you recognize this man?”

“That’s him,” she says. “Do you know him?”

“Sort of.”

“Think about keeping different company.”

“I’ll consider it,” I say, inching back inside. I have a window to scout out and a few details to process. “I’m really sorry you missed your nap.”

Martha studies me more intensely through her glasses. “Should I have not called the cops?”

“No, no—of course. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“Is this about love?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you fighting?”

“I’m not sure about that, either.”

Martha turns to head back to her apartment. “I’m too old for this.”

I agree, wave goodbye to her, and slip my way back inside. A quick analysis tells me that Martha was right about the window. Glass is everywhere on my bedroom floor. Another scan of my messages shows one from the police asking for a call back, and I take care of that quickly, agreeing not to press charges on one Mr. Jack Darcy.

I debate calling Jack back, but I’m assuming he’s with his mother right now, and God only knows I don’t want to interrupt whatever’s happening there. Instead, I’ll give him some time to process his visit to the police station and call me back later once he’s home.

Every minute of those few hours goes by painstakingly slow. I try to write. I try to nap. I try to relax with a glass of wine and none of it helps. The writing is blocked, I’m too wired to nap, and the wine makes my gut churn.

I’m waiting for the tea kettle to boil in an attempt to try some soothing chamomile, or so it says on the wrapper, when another knock sounds on the door. Thinking it’s Martha coming back to check on me, I pull it open without glancing out the peephole.

It’s definitely not Martha.

In fact, it’s the same tall, dark, and handsome man who recently shattered my window.

“Jack?” I gape at him as he moves through the door without invitation. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s Sunday night.” When I don’t look up, he raises his hand as if I’m the one not making sense, and he blinks. “I thought we had dinner plans.”

“What?!”

“It’s Sunday night.”

“Yeah, um...” I’m racking my brain trying to figure out how that’s relevant now when we have so many other things to worry about. “Sorry, I guess I was still stuck on the fact that I’m missing a window.”

He paces around my apartment, his sharp eyes studying the kitchen, the boiling water, the empty cup with the waiting tea bag and the notebook next to it. I snatch the notebook up before he can see my list of title ideas for my next article.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “Do you have any sort of explanation, or are we going to pretend that it didn’t happen?”

He pauses, giving me a disgruntled look. “I was trying to be romantic.”

“By breaking into my place?”

“I realize now,” he says through gritted teeth, “that I was misguided.”

“You think?”

“I panicked!”

“Because we kissed last night?” I’m still confused at what’s happening, and I want to give him the option to back out gracefully. “Look, Jack, I’ve had plenty of first kisses that didn’t lead anywhere. This one doesn’t have to make things between us complicated.”

Jack flinches at this. “You think it’s not leading anywhere?”

“Didn’t seem to me like you wanted it to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, Jack, you know what it means.” Just then, the teakettle whistles, punctuating my annoyance with a shrill scream. I turn off the water and pull my mug closer as I lift it from the burner. “Don’t play stupid.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t make me spell this out for you.” I spin to face him. “If you wanted to be romantic, here’s an idea: you could’ve jumped into bed with me when I asked. Or at least explained why you didn’t.”

He stares at me, his lips parted in surprise.

“I don’t need anything fancy, or...or, rocks thrown at my window. I just wanted you.”

“Back the hell up.” Jack waves his hand. “I’m missing the piece where you gave me any sort of signal. How was I supposed to know that you wanted me?”

“I freaking wrote it down! How much clearer did I have to get?”

“Is this another one of your analogies?” he roars, waving a hand and speaking with such animation I’m sure Martha’s hovering nearby with her fingers resting on the 9-1-1 keys. “Class is over, Allie. Don’t make me figure this out on my own.”

“You’re the one who threw the damn note away! And you wonder why I’m feeling awkward. Did you think I’d forgotten about it?”

“Forgotten about what? What note? You never asked me to get in bed with you.” Jack takes a step forward and wraps his hand around my wrist, snaking his fingers down and looping them through mine. “I would’ve remembered every damn word of that invitation if you had.”

“It wasn’t a word, it was a note—just like I said. On the pillow. It wasn’t there in the morning, and I didn’t move it, so unless it grew legs and walked away...”

His confusion appears to be growing, which raises the hairs on my neck.

“The bright orange Post-It,” I clarify. “You came into the room, I know you did; the window was open when I went to bed, and it was shut in the morning.”

“There wasn’t a note,” he says, squeezing his fingers tighter against mine. “I would’ve seen it. I stared right at you, for crying out loud. I checked on you, made sure you were comfortable. You were sleeping, and there was no note. So, I took the couch.”

We’re standing nose to nose, so close every one of his breaths trickles across my lips, crisp and clean, welcoming me to step closer. I don’t move, and neither does Jack. We wait, still as stone.

Jack’s jaw works overtime as he struggles to speak. “The reason I shut the window last night was because it was breezy. You had wet hair from your shower, and I didn’t want you to get sick.”

“I’m telling you, I looked on the floor. It wasn’t there. When I went to bed, there was a note.”

“Why would I throw it away and not say anything?” he growls. “Better yet, why the hell would I not have jumped into bed with you? Did you not feel how much I wanted you before I left for the hospital?”

“I thought—”

“Allie.” Jack’s watching me through the purest gaze. “I wouldn’t have done that—no matter what.”

I can’t quite look at him. “Maybe you wanted to pretend nothing happened.”

“That’s impossible.” Jack’s eyes roar with flames, and he presses me hard against the counter. “I didn’t—I don’t—want things to move on like nothing’s happened.”

“Maybe it’s for the best if they do,” I suggest, his mother’s words fresh in my mind. “Maybe we’re not cut out for romance.”

Jack stills at the quiet in my voice, the firmness there. As he waits, he studies my face. Before I can say a thing, he grasps my chin between his fingers and tilts my eyes to meet his. “I want things to be different between us. I’ve gone too long in our bubble of friendship, and I can’t live there anymore.”

“It’s a risk, Jack. What if things don’t work out?”

“What if it does? This feels right to me, Allie. I want you. Come home with me.”

At this, our eyes lock, and there’s a challenge there.

“Okay,” I rasp. “But I’m driving separate.”