Page 13 of Lovesick
He grinned. “Yes, he has that. But I don’t want to keep investing in businesses. That’s his thing, which is why he’s doing this ...spa... without me. He’s a brilliant man. Energetic. Full of ideas. He’s not really afraid of anything. Since our parents’ divorce, he’s sort of been the glue that’s kept me, Megan, and him together. But that’s not who I am or what I want.”
“Then whatdoyou want?”
He hesitated, gaze on me. “Not sure yet. Still working that out.”
I could sense that JJ had opened up as much as he ever would. He yanked his hair out of its bun and ran his hands through it. I jerked my gaze back to the pancakes to avoid an awkward open-mouthed-drooling encounter.
“Anytime you need to talk about it,” I said, “I’m here.”
His mouth cracked a half smile as he grabbed the empty plates from the small table. “You mean you didn’t expect to do therapy while you were here?”
“Naturally, I did. It’s being Mark’s therapist that scares me the most.”
His laugh rang through the snowy cabin, warming me all the way to my bones.
6
JJ
Lizbeth had curled up like a cat on the couch. Unexpectedly, having someone else in this house had been ... nice. Despite being a contented bachelor who loved the quiet, I didn’t want her to stop talking. I only knew her as the barista at the Frolicking Moose. Mark and I bummed Wi-Fi off there all the time. She had a green tea ready whenever she saw me coming and seemed happy enough, if occasionally quiet. But I’d never really noticed her.
Now I couldn’t stop.
“Liz,” I called, “you up for Scrabble?”
Snow was still collecting rapidly outside, but the wind had calmed. Within the hour, I’d start unburying the truck and shoveling the worst of it away from the door.
Lizbeth set asideRobinson Crusoewith a cheery expression. “Anything but this, please.”
“You don’t like the classics?”
“Notthoseclassics.”
“Ooh, do tell.”
“Truthfully, I mostly read romance, but for every five romance books I read, I venture into a different genre. It’s a rule. It keeps me from getting too jaded.”
“What are your favorites?”
“Right now?TheLais of Marie de France.” She brightened. “They’re poems about love, written in 1170, or something like that. I adore them. They’re all courtly love, illicit affairs, and romantic tragedy.”
“Ah, you love a little drama?”
“I love a little love,” she quipped,then murmured, “I saw this lady; now a dart of agony has struck my heart. It makes my body shake and shiver. I think I really have to love her.”
“One of the poems?”
She smiled and tossed me the bag of tiles, her own already neatly arrayed on her tray. “Since you’re the hero, you go first.”
The fire crackled as I regarded my options.L,P,F,U,H,M, andQdidn’t give me many. I laid out a rather patheticL-U-M-P.
“You just finished college, and now you’re taking a break for a year, but you have a job application in somewhere, right?” I ventured.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Where is it?”
“Pinnable.”
