Page 35 of Second Chance Ex
“Yes!” Jack punches the air as we walk out of the store. And frankly, I almost do the same, for significantly different reasons.
I’ve been wrestling with drop sheets for twenty minutes and I’m the literal definition of a not-so-hot hot mess when there’s a knock on the door. Joey. Oh God. I feel sick. I momentarily contemplate pretending I’m not home. But then there’s another knock. Dammit.
I loathe the way my heart picks up its pace, the way I subconsciously start smoothing my hair back from my face. Like I care what he thinks of me. I don’t. At all. And besides, he has a girlfriend. And I have a (fake) boyfriend.
Granted, I don’t really know what this whole thing is, but for now I’m calling it some kind of truce. Joey offered to help me, and I grudgingly accepted because, well, for one thing, I need all the help I can get despite how much I hate not being able to do things on my own. But also, maybe it’s time heand I try move past what happened between us. Our best friends are getting married, for chrissake. I need to learn how to be in the same room as Joey Tanner without the memories of our fucked up past getting the better of me.
I tuck my hair behind my ear as I go to open the front door, a forced smile on my face. But as I open the door, my smile immediately falters because holy shit, he’s wearing gray sweatpants. Gray. Fucking. Sweatpants. I have to force my eyes up instead of allowing them to wander in search of a dick outline like I normally would.
“Hey, sorry that took a bit longer,” Joey says with a casual smile. “I didn’t realize Jack was due at his grandma’s house. I had to drop him off.”
It’s only then I realize the adorable six-year-old I’d been planning on using as a buffer is currently not on my porch, and goddammit, why did I ever agree to this? Not only is Joey here, at my house, dressed in gray sweatpants that are really tugging around those big thighs of his—eyes up, Prue—but he’s here alone. Fuck. I clear my throat and bite down on the inside of my cheek, opening the door wider to allow him entrance.
“I brought beers.” Joey holds up a sixer of pale ales as he walks past me, and I’m forced to grip the door like it’s my lifeline when his hard body brushes up against me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, wondering if he chose Sierra Nevada because he remembers it’s the only beer I like.
I linger in the archway, watching Joey walk through to the kitchen, putting the beer away in my fridge like he owns the place. And I can’t ignore the feeling in my chest. The fact that he’s here, in my house, doessomething to me. Something I can’t even begin to understand. His huge frame and overwhelming presence take up so much of the scarce space in my tiny house, but it’s almost comforting. And I’m absolutely not ready to delve into whatever the hell these emotions are that are currently warring inside of me.
“Okay.” Joey claps his big hands together, eyes scanning my living room. “Put me to work.”
I find myself staring at him, despite my brain screaming at me to stop; it’s like my eyes have a mind of their own. I blame the criminally snug sweats and the slightly too-tight matching crew neck. It’s suddenly stifling in here. I quickly turn away, grabbing one of the rollers and handing it to him without so much as a word because, frankly, I don’t even think I can talk right now. Not with the way my hormones have me in a fucking chokehold.
Okay. Focus, Prue. You can do this. We’re just—what? Friends? I wouldn’t go that far... not yet, at least. We’re simply two people who used to know each other, painting walls in a house. That’s it. Nothing more. I press play on my Apple watch, music suddenly coming to life through the house snuffing out the awkward, tension-filled silence.
With a sneaky glance over my shoulder, I watch him roll the roller through the paint before reaching up high, coating the walls. My traitorous eyes instinctively zero in on where his sweatshirt has ridden up, showing off a hint of his taut waist and the Gucci print on the band of his underwear, because of course he wears Gucci fucking underwear. My eyes trail downwards, to his ass, to the way those sweatpants practically taunt me,pulling tight, emphasizing his muscular glutes. Jesus Christ. I quickly spin back around and close my eyes for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. I’m going to need an icy cold shower after this.
“So, can I ask you something?”
I’m pulled from the same patch of wall I’ve been painting for probably far too long, glancing back at Joey. He’s not looking at me, focused instead on rollingFluffyMallowlike it’s his life’s calling.
“Sure.” I shrug, facing back to my side of the room.
“How long have you and Hopper been a thing?”
Hopper? Oh, yeah. Adam. My boyfriend.
“Um, it’s pretty new,” I lie, mentally trying to figure out what would be an acceptable amount of time in a relationship for a couple to be together enough to go on a weekend away with friends, but not to have been together two weeks ago, at the same friends’ engagement party.
“We’ve been dating for a while.” Not a total lie. I’ve been on oneofficialdate with Adam before. We got way too drunk and kissed, but that was it. I quickly came to my senses when I walked out of the bathroom to find him getting another woman’s phone number; a refreshing slap to the face as if to remind me that of all the things Adam Hopper is, boyfriend material is not one of them.
“We made it official a few days before Ryan and Maddy’s party… which is why Adam wasn’t there,” I explain with the kind of conviction a woman flat-out lying really shouldn’t have the audacity to possess.
“Huh.”
It’s Joey’s tone that irks me. Disbelieving orconfused, maybe even a little smug. I’m not quite sure, but immediately my defense is up.
I spin around, quirking a brow. “Huhwhat?”
He turns, looking at me, and there’s something almost knowing in his eyes that makes nerves pinch deep in my belly.
“Nothing.” He offers a small smile. “Just… be careful with him.”
My brows knit together. “Why?”
He scoffs, turning back to his wall. “He’s cheated on every woman he’s ever been with.”
You’re one to talk.
