Page 70 of Fluke
My cheeks flush.
“If you want to cover up, then do it,” he says. “I want you to be comfortable. But, my God, Pippa, if you had any idea how lucky I feel to have you sitting in my bed.” He shakes his head as his face flushes. “Okay, how about this? The whole time we’ve been lying here together, I’ve been waiting on you to want to go home.”
He searches my eyes as if he’s desperate for a life raft.
“Why would a girl like you want to stick around with a guy like me?” he asks shyly. “You can have anyone you want, Pip. How on earth would I ever get you to pick me?”
I don’t know what to say to that, but I figure I won’t have to say anything. Surely, he’ll smile or wink or say something arrogant that will break the preciousness of the moment.
Except he doesn’t.
I tilt my head, my hair brushing against my shoulders.Can he actually be serious?
“I hope you’re joking,” I say.
“About what part?”
“All of it.” I pull my knees up under me so I’m sitting on them. Fully aware that I’m uncovered, I let the sheets lay on my lap. “You aren’t serious, are you?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I study him, trying to determine whether he’s screwing with me or playing me … or telling me the truth.
“How on earth would I ever get you to pick me?”
I’ve not doubted that Jess is attracted to me. I believe that he thinks I’m pretty and wants to have some sort of physical relationship with me. But all of the times he’s said or joked, I thought about truly wanting something deeper together—I thought he was just being sweet. Or playful. Or charming.
But maybe I was wrong.Is it possible that Jess Carmichael has feelings for me? If so, what in the hell are we doing?
A shot of panic—a distinct need to protect myself—ripples through me.
“Jess …” I swallow with more force than necessary. “You don’t have to say all of this stuff, you know. I know you like to play around that I’m your dream girl or whatever, but I get it. You don’t have to take it this far.”
He pulls away, his forehead marred. “You think I’m playing around?”
I still. “You are, aren’t you?”
He laughs, but it’s anything but amusement. It’s almost disbelief as if he can’t process the situation.
That makes two of us, buddy.
“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You’ve thought I was joking around for the lastfifteen years?”
“Well …” I grin. “You know, yeah. I guess. Mostly.”
He scoots up until he’s sitting against the headboard.
The lines of his muscles shine in the Golden Hour rays filtering in through the window. He’s brilliant and beautiful. Tanned skin, swollen lips, messy hair from the hour-long bath we took together where he washed me, massaged conditioner in my hair, and told me stories about growing up with four brothers.
There’s no mask, no veil to hide behind. No joke on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t even try to hide behind his trademark smirk.
Instead, he watches me with an openness that takes my breath away.
He chuckles, shaking his head like he, too, can’t believe this is happening. “All right, let me be crystal clear so we’re on the same page.”
I hold my breath.
“I think you are the most interesting, witty, capable woman I know. I could sit and talk to you for hours—and then replay the conversations in my mind for days. Just being around you makes me walk a little taller when I leave because it feels special to breathe the same air as you.”
