Page 14 of Hiding from Hope

Present Day

I knock again, because I don’t think my first three were heard. If they were, I’m certain he would have answered. I know he is home because the café doesn’t open until 7am, and it is 6:23am according to my phone. I check again–6:24am.

“Jay, I know you’re awake. I can see the shadow under the door.”

Jessie opens the door and gives me a bored stare, like my presence here is the last thing he wants. “Why are you here, and why so goddamn early?” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, but I wouldn’t have been able to answer even if he had… because he is freaking shirtless right now.

Jessie Motherfucking Jenkins, in all his glory, is bare chested, with low cut jeans and a tea towel over his shoulder and just standing there like he is a six-foot version of Charlie Hunnam, ready for a cowboy photo shoot. I haven’t seen him this revealed since I was sixteen. And I certainly haven’t felt this woozy about a guy since… well, since I was sixteen. “Umm…” is all I manage, and instead of acting like a grownup, I peruse the male specimen in front of me, taking in the tower of muscle and the way his skin looks both smooth and rugged. The boy I had ogled eleven years ago is now a man, and he must have been busy with his hobby of furniture making because he is stacked with muscle.

I shake my head and snap my eyes back to his, not missing the knowing smirk he has on his face.

“You alright there, Ace?” His voice is deliciously rough, and it teases me. Good lord, Casey Moira Baker, you need to get laid. Fast.

I waltz into his apartment, eager to pretend I’m completely fine and not tingling in places I have no business tingling in, and head to his one single living room window. More pretending as I look out to the view, but all I see is the memory of Jessie shirtless, and I continue with the words of the English language that form the sentence I came here to say.

“Are we friends?”

There is no response, and so I turn. Thankfully, the Husqvarna model found a shirt to put on and stands by the stove as he looks over at me. “Well?”

“Do you want to be friends?” he asks, or rather, grumbles.

I roll my eyes and then plop myself down at his dining table. “Well, of course I want to be friends.”

He rolls his eyes, that familiar scowl firmly in place as he shakes his head slightly, returning his attention to the stove and releasing a big sigh. “What are you doing here, Casey?” he asks as though I am a bother. So much for friends.

“Well, I, firstly, came to determine if we’re friends.”

“And secondly?” Still not looking at me.

“I need to find the first thing out first.” He looks at me over his shoulder, an assessing look before his brows furrow and he faces back on the pan. From the scent, I think it is an omelet. Also, it smells delicious.

“We’re friends.” He doesn’t sound pleased about it at all. Still hasn’t offered me an omelet.

“Do you like being my friend?” I ask and lean forward on the kitchen table, propping my chin on my hand. “Because it doesn’t seem like—”

“Is this line of questioning going somewhere? I typically like my breakfast in peace.” Well, okay then, grumpy pants. His tone cuts through the room like a knife as he turns the stove off, flips the omelet on to the plate–still hasn’t offered me one–and practically throws it back to the counter. I swallow deeply as he pinches the bridge of his nose, his shoulders tense, but I refuse to let him get to me, so I roll my shoulders and sit straight, making a mental note to move up my scheduled emotional time. I’m feeling a bit more sensitive than I should be. Feeling like the edging on my control is not the typical type of edging I’m usually down for.

“It’s okay, I’ll leave. I’m sorry I interrupted you.” I give him a soft smile and stand for the door.

“Don’t do that,” he scolds.

“Do what?” I tilt my head and beam at him, because I’m not letting some guy ruin my internal strength.

“Pretend I didn’t hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t. But I know when I’m not wanted, Jessie. I’ll leave you be.” I pluck a blueberry from the container on my way out and make a show of popping it in my mouth before offering him a closed-lip smile and making for the door. The picture of calm and unbothered.

“Wait.” He puts a hand up in front of me and steps in front of my path to the door. He mutters a low dammit before he continues. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I haven’t had my coffee yet. And I wasn’t expecting company. You’re also very… sunshine for this time of day.” I don’t have the energy to laugh at him. My emotions aren’t as easy to control today, so I just smile and get the words out that I came to ask.

“Okay, well, I was just coming here to ask if we were friends. And then, if you said yes, I was going to ask you a friend question.”

He drops his hand and sighs while shaking his head and this time, it’s him who is smiling and laughing instead of me. “We’re friends, Ace. What is it?” I narrow my eyes and assess him. Only for a minute before my excitement gets the best of me.

He grabs the plate and heads for the table. As I turn to follow him, he pulls my seat back out and gestures for me to sit down. I say nothing and take the seat. He pushes me in, like some kind of 19th century gentleman and then takes a seat on his side. I shake my head and ignore all of those things as I continue. “Well. I have a self-defense class tomorr—”

“What happened? Did someone hurt you?” His voice is rough, and his eyes pinch together with what I can only describe as a mix of anger and worry, which has me relaxing into the seat.

“Chill, nothing happened. I am hosting a self-defense class at the studio. We have an instructor coming to teach a class to see if it is something we are going to start adding to our roster moving forward.” He visibly relaxes and starts on his omelet, gesturing with his hands to continue, and I try not to salivate at the smell. Why has he not offered? Mid-century manners, and yet, still a caveman. “Noah was supposed to come with us to be the dummy we practice on, but he got called to Chicago for some work thing and isn’t going to be around. I was wondering…”

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