Page 45 of Just One More Thing
“Because you and Bethany were talking.”
“We’re just two girls having a beer. You’re safe.”
He studies me for a moment, then he lets it go.
“So,” he says. “What brings you here? Miss me?”
“Maybe.”
His smile softens. “I’m really glad you’re here. Come to the kitchen with me?”
The kitchen is quiet. Jake moves through it easily, the space belonging to him in a way that has nothing to do with paperwork or ownership. He pulls ingredients from the fridge without thinking.
“You hungry?”
“Always.”
“Good.”
The pan heats. Butter melts and starts to sizzle. Hank settles between us, flopping down, officially off the clock. Jake adds a hunk of fish to the pan.
I lean against the counter, watching Jake’s hands. I remember those hands bandaging scraped knees. Fixing bike chains. Braiding my hair when Granny was too busy and I’d refused to let anyone else touch it.
He was terrible at it. Created something that was more knot than braid. But he tried every time without complaint.
He reaches past me for something. His arm brushes my waist.
Barely a touch.
Still, I feel the warmth of his forearm through the thin cotton of my shirt. My body notices before my brain can issue an official statement. Heat quickly slips low, and I suddenly become very invested in whatever he was reaching for.
“Sorry,” he says.
“It’s fine.”
He doesn’t move right away.
Neither do I.
The kitchen seems to pull tighter around us. Butter hisses in the pan. The fan hums overhead. Hank lets out a soft snore.
Jake turns slowly.
I tilt my head up.
He’s close enough now that I can see the faint scar near his jaw where I accidentally hooked him while casting a line when we were eight. The crease between his brows when he’s thinking too hard. The tiny shift in his throat when he swallows.
His hand lifts.
Hesitates.
Then his thumb grazes my wrist.
Every thought I have carefully arranged in the last ten years scatters like startled birds.
My heart is pounding so loud, I’m sure he can hear it.
He leans in. Just a fraction. Enough that I feel his breath. I feel the heat of him and the place where his thumb is still touching my skin. Enough that I forget what year it is.
