TWENTY-SEVEN
JACKSON
My cock had its own heartbeat. All the blood in my body had pooled in my groin. One lingering look from Bianca and I was twelve years old again, unable to control the sudden shocking flare of hormones that ignited a forest fire in my pants and left me speechless and sweating, and feeling guilty to boot.
Judging by her flight of terror into the bathroom, I was pretty sure I’d just made a fatal mistake.
“You fucking moron,” I said to the carpet as I leaned over the bed with my head in my hands. “You complete, colossal fuckwit.”
I couldn’t even console myself with the memory that we’d already shared two kisses before I lost my mind and almost shoved her hand down my pants. Those kisses didn’t count. They didn’t mean anything, at least to her. The first was simply a ploy to make her ex jealous. The second was simply my infantile ego throwing a fit over being called nonsexual.
Though both kisses were scorching hot—I thought so, anyway—it wasn’t like she wanted to kiss me in either instance. And now here I was again, mistaking what was probably a look of worry or concentration or something else altogether for a look of lust.
Could I be any more of a cliché? If a woman like Cricket couldn’t love me, Bianca Hardwick was the last woman on earth who would.
My brain was scrambled eggs. I wasn’t thinking straight. Bianca had told me not fifteen minutes ago that she was my friend. My friend. Not the girl who’d think it was a super great idea to play handsy with the aching, throbbing, twitching monster between my legs right before we went down to dinner with my estranged parents.
This was a disaster.
The water went on behind the bathroom door, followed by some faint gasping noises. That was probably Bianca puking into the sink. I had to make this right. I had to apologize.
I lumbered to my feet and went to the bathroom door. I rested my forehead against it and closed my eyes. When the sound of running water stopped, I said, “If you want to hit me with something, there’s a very heavy bronze reproduction of the obelisk in Saint Peter’s Square on the credenza. I can bring it to you. It has a conveniently pointy tip.”
Her response was muffled by the door. “I don’t want to hit you.”
I didn’t dare hope that meant anything other than she’d rather shoot me than clobber me over the head. I waited, my hands pressed flat against the wood, my heart pounding.
She moved closer to her side of the door, because her voice was clearer when she said, “Maybe we could just . . . forget that happened.”
I was swamped by relief. Until she added softly, “For now.”
I bolted upright and stared at the door. For now? For now? What the hell did that mean? Was she going to wait until after dinner to yell at me, or . . .
Or what?
Holy fuck. I was having a heart attack. No, I was letting my imagination run away with me again.
No. I was having a heart attack.
The doorknob turned. She cracked open the door and peeked out at me through a two-inch sliver. Only the left side of her face was visible, and all of it was flushed.
“You mentioned something about clothes,” she said.
I nodded.
“Is the dress I’m wearing appropriate for dinner?”
“Yes. But there are things in the closet you can look through if you’d like to wear something else.”
Her left eyebrow arched.
I said, “I had a few things brought in for you.”
She swung the door open wide. “You shopped for me?”
I couldn’t tell from her expression if she was pleased or thought that was creepy, so I just nodded again.
“How did you know my size?”
Now I knew it would be creepy if I said I’ve spent a lot of time staring at your body, so I went with, “I guessed.”
Her expression soured. “Please tell me you didn’t guess I’m a size two, because if you did, I’ll be wearing this dress for the rest of the weekend.”
Pressing the smile from my lips, I turned and went to the wardrobe. I opened the doors and stepped aside.
Bianca poked her head out the bathroom door and gazed at the wardrobe. It was a big hunk of carved oak, an antique from Italy, I think, and had enough drawers and hanging space for even the most dedicated clothes horse. Intrigued, she walked over and stopped by my side. She stared into the wardrobe for a while, then looked up at me, her face serious.
“There are a lot of clothes in there, Jax.”
“They don’t belong to someone else, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just wanted you to have choices.”
She looked back at the wardrobe and kept looking at it without saying anything.
I wasn’t sure what this reaction meant, but I was getting a little desperate. “You don’t have to wear anything you don’t like, of course. But anything you do like we’ll take home . . . I mean, assuming you want to. Or we can leave it all,” I finished lamely, looking at my shoes.