“We’re totally getting sued,” Dustin grumbles under his breath.
“Nah, she’s right.” Jack smiles. “I liked it. Well played.”
We high five, and I leave the game.
The rest of the hour only one more team gets taken down, and it’s Jude’s. He couldn’t get the dude to so much as budge; I mean, he got even more desperate than me, going as far as to ask if he could tickle the guy’s feet.
Or suck his toe.
I mean to each his own, right?
At the end of the competition, we reign victorious. Anderson and his partner came in second. I can almost taste the margaritas on my tongue when Dustin approaches, still in his stark black-rimmed glasses, what looks like ironed jeans, and a blue button-up that’s tucked severely tight into said jeans. “Follow me.”
“He’s totally going to have a nervous breakdown,” Jack whispers under his breath.
I snort out a laugh. “His boss is Max; what do you expect?”
“Never work for family.”
“Never,” I agree.
Dustin sighs. “I can hear you.”
“Sorry.” Jack coughs out a laugh. “Thought we were being quiet.”
“I lack in many ways.” He looks over his shoulder. “But my ears are a gift from God.”
“Ummmm.” I give him a thumbs up. “Good for you.”
He rolls his eyes and opens the door to the outside parking lot, where a black van is waiting. “Get in.”
“Wait, are we being kidnapped?” Jack asks, holding up his hand, then grabbing my wrist like he needs to protect me.
Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.
I need to forget about our kiss and about his amazing smell and— Wait! Kidnap? He did say kidnap, right?
Dustin looks heavenward. “You aren’t getting kidnapped. This is your ride to your happy hour for the top two teams with the most points. Drink responsibly. Wear a condom. World peace.” He aggressively opens the van door. “Well? You getting in or not?”
“Question,” Jack asks as we get in the van. “What does world peace have to do with condoms and drinking responsibly?”
Dustin’s eyes are haunted as he whispers, “Everything.” Then he shuts the door in our faces.
I gulp. “Yeah, something’s not right with him.”
The driver’s door opens, revealing Dustin yet again. “Heard that.”
“Sorry.” I shoot him a too-sunny smile.
He puts on a pair of aviators and looks at us through the rearview mirror; actually, he glares, it wasn’t much of a look, and then he starts the engine.
“Do you feel unsafe? Because I feel unsafe,” I mutter under my breath, earning another glare from Dustin before he puts the car in drive.
Jack reaches across and grabs my hand and holds it.
He just holds it.
My enemy and partner in crime right now is holding my hand, and his hand isn’t clammy. It doesn’t feel weird. It feels right. Which is terrifying because why would it feel so good? Why would everything feel so good with someone who I can’t even stand to look at while working?
I try to pull my hand away, but he doesn’t let me. After I fight for a few seconds in vain, he grips it harder and then puts it on his thigh, then leans back and closes his eyes.
I don’t know why, but I like this side of him.
I like it when he’s playful and forceful like he knows me better than I know myself, and I like that he’s brave enough to put my hand close enough to his dick, knowing full well I’d punch it if he tried anything.
And they say romance is dead.
I smile, then close my eyes too, relaxing my hand on his thigh and wondering where it all went wrong before it went right.
Chapter Nine
Jack
After holding her hand, I suddenly feel like I’m back in middle school, going to skate night, and wishing I could ask a girl to skate with me for boys’ choice. Like, what the hell is wrong with me?
I feel like I just went through a horrible case of puberty and no longer know what to do with my hands when I’m sitting. Do I cross my arms? Do I rest them on the desk? Do I grab my phone?
I’m uncomfortable, and she’s beautiful.
That’s really the only assessment I have.
I’m so pumped we won, but now I’m like, “is this a date?” Because it feels like a date. We’re downtown at a sick bar that probably charges fifty bucks a napkin, and all I can think about is how pretty she looks sipping her Manhattan.
And what’s even worse?
She didn’t order a diet soda and vodka, though there’s nothing wrong with that. No, she straight-up ordered a Manhattan with Pendleton.
Is it weird that I got hard just hearing her order?
Fuck, I’m so screwed.
Her pink lips touch the martini glass as she sips. I try to lean back in the booth and exhale, then reach for my drink. Is she still wearing that damn pheromone perfume?
Because she smells amazing.