His mouth moved. The words were audible. But there’s no way that’s right. “Did you ask me to go to a movie?”
He winks. “Sure. Remember? That’s where there’s this big screen and a bunch of people play-act some kind of story for entertainment purposes. I hear a lot of people really enjoy going, and even more when they go with a friend.”
A friend?
I let out a small sigh. Friends. Disappointment dampens the heat in my nether regions.
Disappointment? What is there to be disappointed about?
The answer to my unasked question hovers just out of reach, perhaps because I don’t really want to know.
He heads to the kitchen. “You don’t like the movies? We can do something else, if you want—no indoor skydiving, though. I promise.”
My stomach is heavy and my skin prickles.
The water turns on. Dishes clink as he washes them.
Jackson Tremaine—washing dishes in the house I live in. Jackson Tremaine, who said we’re friends. Jackson Tremaine, a man I never wanted to be my friend.
My feet root to the carpet as I try to work out how I got into this mess. Was it the way he took such good care of me when I busted my head? Is it because he keeps showing up, always smiling, joking, bringing the sunshine from the outside in? Or how he works so hard to bring me pleasure, even putting off his own?
I swallow. No. This isn’t right. It can’t be. I didn’t even particularly like him when we met. Do I actually like him now? Or could it be that my body likes what he does to it?
My muscles suddenly weaken. I drop to the sofa and squeeze my eyes shut.
Memories trip through my mind. All the smiles, his green eyes, his teasing dimples. Extravagant gifts and gentle—and some not-so-gentle—touches. The truth bears down on me like a boulder coming off a cliff.
I don’t just like him. I might love him.
THIRTEEN
Ronnie’s quiet as I stack the last plate on the drainer. Too quiet.
I head into the living room. She sits on the sofa, a dazed look on her face, chewing her thumbnail.
“Peaches? You not up for a movie?”
“Movie?” Ronnie stares at me as though I’ve sprouted a dick from my forehead.
“Just a thought. What were your plans for this evening? Besides leaving me with a raging case of blue balls?”
The blank expression fades. There she is.
She stands and brushes her curls aside. “Since we’re supposed to keep our time together on the low down, I have a new desk I’m going to put together. I’m not sure what you want to do.”
“I’ll help you. I’m mechanically inclined.”
She leads me to her bedroom, where the box for her particle board desk lies in the floor. Taking a screwdriver from the top of her chest of drawers, she pries open the end of the box.
Thirty minutes into it, we still sit in the floor with pieces and parts and screws and bolts scattered. I’ve put together a large portion of the furniture.
“It’s starting to look like a desk at least.” I slide my hand along the smooth surface.
Ronnie’s beautiful lips curl up in a gorgeous smile. She nods. She’s barely said two words since I started. The few women I know would probably prattle on and on and on. Not Ronnie. She’s content to just sit and be. It’s as if she’s happy just to watch me work.
Weird that an audience of one should give me this kind of thrill, but she’s watching me as though it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever seen.
I continue working, and she sits on her hands and smiles.
Finally, it’s finished. I flip it over so it’s upright.
Ronnie stands next to me as we both admire the work of art. Because it is art. Abstract fucking art.
I turn to her. “Why are you still smiling?”
She slips her arms around my waist, pushes up on her tip-toes, and kisses my cheek. There’s a little tingle where her lips press against me.
“Thank you for taking the time to do this for me.”
I smooth my hands down her arms and set her away from me. “Did you look at it?”
She nods, her smile still wide.
“Can you not see what I see?”
She lifts one eyebrow. “What? All I see is that the desk that I was going to have to struggle to put together is finished for me and I didn’t have to do a thing.”
I turn her to face the furniture, holding her gently by the shoulders. “It’s lopsided. Can’t you see that? I fucked it up.”
“It’s fine. It’ll work great.”
What the fuck? Is she blind?
Several unused pieces litter her carpet, along with a handful of nuts and bolts. “I should’ve read the instructions.”
She picks up the extra items, stuffing them back into the box. “It’s great. Really. I appreciate that you spent your time to do it for me. What counts is that you cared enough to help me. So it’s not perfect. Big deal.”