“He always has been. Barks at thunder like he’s telling the sky to shut up. Short-guy syndrome.”
I never did get to see what Jen’s bedroom looked like. I was strictly a first-floor guy because finding her coffee maker was more important than anything. “I don’t need the clocks tonight. I have you to wake me up,” she said.
I nearly dropped the stack of bowls I’d just finished unwrapping.
She swatted my arm. Again. Jensen MacKenzie is a very smacky girl. “Good lord, not like that. I meant it like please, Tack, call and wake me up at four-thirty.”
Great. I haven’t even known her for a whole day and she’d managed to worm her way into speed-dial.
Two boxes labeled Kitchen later and we were no closer to finding Mr. Coffee. “I can’t believe you didn’t write coffee pot on the box.”
Jensen dropped another box onto the granite-topped island. “I thought I’d remember. It was a smaller box.”
“They’re all smaller boxes, Jen.”
She sighed and cut the tape on the newest box.
Then let out a little whoop.
“Caffeine machine?”
She nodded as she reached in and crumpled newspaper hit the floor. I sent up a prayer of thanks. This whole scene was feeling far too domestic and I was desperate to escape.
“Hey, Tack?” she asked, ever so sweetly.
Uh-oh. “Yeah?”
“I hate to ask,” she said.
“But you will,” I finished.
“Well… I don’t have any coffee. If it’s not too much trouble–”
And that was how I found myself staring at the selection of java at Vons, kicking myself for not asking what she wanted.
I settled for a bag of the stuff she’d nearly had an orgasm over this morning (holy hell, the flashbacks. Down, boy). And a few aisles over, grabbed a bag of sugar. Inexplicably, I was reaching for a quart of half-n-half without even knowing how I got to the dairy section.
I reminded myself that she was not my pet project. Then I reminded myself that I needed a coherent and happy co-host and dropped the carton into the handbasket. It is not my fault that there was a whole display of Pop Tarts on the way to the checkout and a couple of boxes fell into my basket.
I love Pop Tarts.
She squealed, jumped on her toes a few times, and hugged me for the pastries. Turns out she hadn’t food-shopped yet. I went home feeling like I should have kissed her on the forehead because she was so damned adorable.
No. Not adorable.
And absolutely not sexy.
It would have been just a simple thank-you between friends for bouncing that rack of hers where I got to watch.
Chapter 5
*Losing My Religion*
Tuesday morning and I was the groggy one. Jensen called at four-fifteen to say she’d stayed up all night to finish unpacking. Good thing she had—I’d dozed off watching Ted on HBO.
I love that movie. It’s funny as hell, and in the end, the girl comes to her senses and figures out that she can’t change the guy.
It was around the halfway point of our show when something just felt… wrong. I tried to write it off to bad sleep on Monday and being irritable. Quite possibly from the semi I’ve endured while hearing her talk for the last two hours. I congratulated myself on becoming more immune to her sex-kitten voice.
But—
Jen was acting like we actually knew each other. Half a pizza and unboxing a kitchen did not make us chums. Neither did giving her all of my Pop Tarts.
I grumped (off the air) while she chippered, and once again, ten a.m. could not come soon enough.
She pounced again when I held the studio door for her to exit.
“Do you want to come by for dinner around five?” I must have looked even grouchier, because her voice faltered a little when she explained, “Just to say thank you for fixing my couch.”
I know I was curt when I told her that I normally slept during the day and wouldn’t be up, but I didn’t care. I was tired. My balls still hurt. Or were hurting again; I wasn’t certain which.
Wednesday was better.
Sort of. At first.
Jensen sent me a Good Morning text right when I was picking up my cell to call and wake her up. I thanked whatever gods there were that I didn’t have to take a shower half hard. I was sure to be getting enough of that torture later.
Once again, she was at work before me. And like yesterday, I heard her laughter before I steeled myself (not that way, so shut up) to the sound of her. I really needed to figure out where she parked her Highlander so I could scope out when the coast was clear and when it wasn’t.
Yes, we both drove Toyota hybrids. I refused to make anything of it other than escalating fuel prices. I don’t know how she could see over the steering wheel in that behemoth.