Page 35 of The Match

“Jake!” I say, and whoa I need to simmer down because I sound way too excited to see him. Play it cool. I’m supposed to be walking down the stairs toward the field, not full-on sprinting and skipping steps.

He likes it, though, because he smiles until his eyes crinkle in the corners. “Hey, Evie.”

Then his gaze drops and takes in my clothes.

And this is the moment that I remember what a lovely ensemble I am wearing. I have on an extra-large shirt that reads Dolly is my fairy godmother, which lands just above my knees, tall socks, and no bra. To make it worse, I’m wearing flannel pajama shorts under my shirt, but there’s no way you can see those, so basically I look like I’ve opened the door without pants on.

Although I would never have worn this if I knew he was coming over, I also have to admit that I am enjoying the appreciative look in his eye.

No. Bad, Evie.

I fold my arms across my chest (but let’s face it, my boobs are so small that this part is only for show) and feel the need to blurt, “I’m wearing shorts!” And if that wasn’t stupid enough, I uncross one arm to lift up my shirt just enough to show him my green-and-red-checkered flannel bottoms.

He’s so smug now. I swear he looks like a man who’s just been told he won GQ magazine’s Sexiest Man of the Year award. I’m squirming under his gaze, and he’s loving the effect he has on me. “I like the Christmas trees on them,” he says, and yes, I do wear Christmas PJs in July.

“It feels wrong to leave something in my drawer all year just because it’s eighty degrees out. Do you want to come in?”

He nods and my heart races. Jacob Broaden is going to come into my apartment. My tiny, minuscule mousehole that really should be called a playhouse rather than an apartment because it looks like dolls could fit in here easier than humans. He ducks his head as he steps through the door, and oh my gosh, I just remembered that I’m a slob.

I quickly survey what I like to think of as my boho apartment through the eyes of Jake and see what he’s seeing.

Unfortunately, since my whole apartment is only one room, he gets to see it all. Unmade bed. Cereal bowls stacked up on my itty-bitty kitchen counter (but the butcher-block top still looks adorable). Half-empty cups of old coffee sitting on my end table. Clothing dotting the hardwood floor. And is that . . . ? Yep! My bright-pink bra is definitely draped over the back of my couch from where I took it off as soon as I got home earlier.

I make a lunge to grab it before Jake sees it, but it’s too late. He’s looking at it now and smiling. I grab for it anyway and tuck it behind my back, aiming a tight smile at him. “Clearly, I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I’m glad. I like seeing how you live.” He looks right at me, and I think I might fall over. This apartment is too small, and he’s too big for it. If he moves, I’ll bump into him.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous having someone in my space before. Jake is so grown and adult and hot. And I’m . . . well, I’m grown too, but I definitely don’t feel adult. Never have. Probably never will. I’ve given up any aspirations of becoming the woman who rinses out her mug and puts it right into the dishwasher when I’m done with it. I don’t need that kind of pressure in my life.

My nerves are sizzling like bacon in a frying pan, and I feel the urge to bounce. Why is he here? I only left his house about two hours ago. His presence in my apartment doesn’t make sense.

“Did I forget something at your place?” I ask after a minute more of his quiet surveying. I want to blindfold him.

“Nope.”

Oh great. Now he’s walking fully into my apartment and sitting down on the couch. I want to laugh—no, I do laugh—because he makes my love seat look more like an armchair.

“Okaayyy. Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?”

He grins, his dimples come out to play, and now I’m way too aware that it’s after eight P.M. He’s not texting me. He’s in my living room, breathing my air, and adding at least ten degrees of heat to the room.

“Do I make you nervous being in here?”

“No.” I shift my weight to my other foot, shove my pink bra under the blankets on my bed, push my hair behind my ear—don’t like that—untuck my hair. “Okay, maybe a little. Is this payback for me snooping around your room?”

He chuckles and moves his big arms to spread out over the back of my love seat. He looks mighty comfy there. Like a man who’s in no hurry to leave. What the heck is happening?!

“Actually, I came by to bring you an invitation.” He eyes me, and his brows pull together. “Are you going to stay over there all night?”

If this were a movie, this is the part where the camera would pan to me and I’d be gone. It would have to tilt up to find me plastered in the farthest upper corner of my apartment, like Spider-Man.

Why am I being so weird? I’m twenty-six years old and acting like I’ve never been alone with a man before. So what if Jake is here at my apartment? No big deal. Friends visit other friends’ apartments all the time. I just wish this friend was wearing a bra.

“An invitation?” I ask, moving closer to Jake. He scoots toward one end of the “couch” and makes room for me.

Okay. I guess I’m sitting there. With Jake. That’s fine.

I sit down, and we are so close now that I feel like I might as well be sitting on his lap. I adjust so that my legs are up in the seat with me and I’m somewhat facing Jake. Because having my feet touch his leg is way better than the whole right side of my body. Well, not better. Just friendlier and less steamy.

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