Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Oh you!” I giggle helplessly. “You’re so bad.”
We finish the meal, talking about nothing and everything: his days in the Air Force, my nightmare boss at the law firm, the weird neighbor who tried to sell him a taxidermied armadillo. It’s easy, effortless, like we’ve been doing this for years.
At one point, I drop my fork and say, “Can I tell you a secret, Jack?”
The dark man nods, setting his own fork aside. “Of course, baby. You can tell me anything.”
I take a deep breath because this is a declaration.
“I think I’m addicted to you,” I say, voice barely above a whisper.
Jack doesn’t laugh. Instead, he stands, walks around the table, and pulls me up into his strong arms.
“I could get used to that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and kisses me, soft and sweet this time.
“Oh good, because I don’t want you going anywhere,” I admit in a soft voice. His eyes gleam, but they’re filled with adoration and security. Jack makes me feel safe, and I’m so happy to be here, in his arms.
After, we clean up together, the mundane domesticity oddly intimate. I wash, he dries. Every so often, he flicks water at me, and I retaliate with a soap bubble to his cheek. We move around each other with a familiarity that feels dangerous, like if we’re not careful, we’ll end up wanting this every day for the rest of our lives.
We end the night curled up on his couch, a shitty action movie playing in the background, my head on his chest and his fingers idly tracing circles on my arm. For the first time in weeks, maybe ever, I’m not counting down the minutes until I have to be somewhere else. I’m just here, and it’s enough.
Before I drift off, I hear him whisper, “You’re trouble, Eliza. But I like it.”
I smile, eyes closed, and let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I could be his trouble forever.
I wake up to the smell of coffee and the soft, unmistakable sound of someone humming Sinatra, which is not a thing I would have ever pegged for Jack Landry, ex-military, anti-karaoke, anti-anything-embarrassing. But here it is: low and smooth, almost sweet, drifting into the master bedroom where I ended up sleeping like a log after the movie. I was so tired that we didn’t make love, but that’s okay. I have Jack Landry to myself for the whole weekend, and I can’t wait.
I tiptoe to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and then do the walk of shame—barefoot, bedhead, and nothing else but Jack’s shirt—down the hall to the kitchen. He’s at the stove, making French toast, and the sight of him in boxers and a battered t-shirt, spatula in hand, is so domestic it makes my ovaries clench. There’s something about seeing a man like Jack in a kitchen, cooking for you, that should be illegal, or at the very least regulated by the FDA.
He doesn’t turn around, but he knows I’m there. “Sleep okay, sweetheart?”
“Like a corpse,” I yawn, sliding onto a stool. “You always make breakfast for your conquests?”
He laughs, and the sound is warmer than the sun slanting in through the kitchen window. “Only for the ones who survive the night.”
I smile sweetly, stretching, and let his shirt ride up just enough to see if he’s watching. He is, and the way his eyes darken makes me shiver.
“Hungry?” he asks in a casual tone.
“Always,” I say, and it’s true in every possible way.
He plates the food, pours two mugs of coffee, and we eat at the island, knees bumping under the Formica. It’s shockingly easy, the conversation moving from TV shows to work horror stories to whether we’d survive a zombie apocalypse (“I’d die first,” Jack claims, “because I’d refuse to eat canned fruit. You, on the other hand, would thrive.”)
We’re halfway through breakfast when he leans over and wipes a bit of powdered sugar off my lip with his thumb, slow and deliberate. “You’re cute like this,” he murmurs. “I like it.”
“Like what?” I ask, mouth full of syrup.
“Messy. Human. Not trying so damn hard.”
I freeze, suddenly aware of how rare that is for me. I’m always trying—at home, at work, even on camera. But with Jack, it’s easy to forget. I want to be good for him, but I also want to be real, even if it’s ugly.
“I could get used to this, Eliza,” he says, softer now.
“So could I,” I whisper, and the moment hangs there, fragile and perfect, before the spell breaks.
He stands, pushing his chair back, and lifts me off the stool with a single motion. I yelp, but he kisses me before I can protest, and the taste of coffee on his tongue is the best thing I’ve ever had.
He sets me on the counter, and I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him in tight. The French toast is forgotten as his hands slide under the hem of my shirt, thumbs circling my bare skin. I’m still sticky with syrup, and I can tell it’s driving him crazy.