Page 22 of What We Broke

“You mean Zara?”

“Zara, your best friend?”

“Yeah,” he clarifies, but not before the cab pulls into a driveway. I take note of the suburban surroundings and cozy-looking brick house.

Not wanting Jesse to pay again, I lift my hips up off the seat and drag my wallet out of my back pocket. I quickly extend my arm to the driver, handing him cash.

“Thanks, man.” I tap the seat and then turn my body to face the door. Opening it, I slide myself out as Jesse steps out of the other side.

“I could’ve paid, you know,” he says, repeating the exact words I said to him at the diner.

I ignore him. “So, how long have you lived here?”

We make our way up his driveway and I follow him up the two steps that lead to his adorable patio. There’s a cute little outdoor loveseat and a vintage, Tiffany-blue, child-sized bike with black streamers on both handlebars and a little basket up front.

“A few years.”

“Cute bike,” I say as he pulls open the screen door.

“She hates it.” He unlocks the main door. “But I’m still trying to convince her to keep it.”

“She doesn’t like bike riding?”

“She doesn’t like ridingthatbike,” he corrects. “Apparently it’s too girly.”

My mouth tips up in a half smile, imagining Jesse trying to reason with his daughter.

Jesse turns some lights on as I follow him inside, and my eyes can’t help but dart all over his house. It’s a complete contradiction to what I would expect from a twenty-six-year-old. It’s homey and lived in. Every wall is covered with framed photos and artwork. But not just any artwork. He has, what I assume to be, every single thing his daughter had ever even attempted, all over the place.

There are finger paintings and colored handprints from every age. There are drawings of people and almost every animal known to man. They range from scribble to stick figures to full-bodied figures with labels. It’s like watching his daughter grow up without ever meeting her.

I shift my gaze to Jesse to find him holding a pile of folded clothes, trying to tidy up.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting company.”

I walk over to him and take the stack out of his hands and place it back down on the coffee table.

“Your house is lived in.” I place my hands on his shoulders. “I like it.”

And I do.

I like the way I know his family is his priority just by standing here. His love and adoration for his daughter is everywhere and it tugs at something buried deep within my chest.

Something I desperately need to stop from attempting to rise to the surface.

He reaches for me, his hands on my hips, his expression soft but serious. “Thank you for coming back here with me,” he says.

I smile. “You didn’t really give me much of a choice.”

“I didn’t, did I?” His eyes drop to my mouth and then back up again, nothing but want staring at me now.

Standing here like this is the closest we’ve been, outside the club, and it’s already too much. The mood is changing, and the nerve endings in my body are dancing in anticipation.

Do I want him to kiss me?

My bravado is slipping, because here, in his house, I don’t just want kissing. I want to get to know the man he is inside these four walls.

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