Page 13 of What Happens In Vegas: Jessa & Jaxon
“I’m fine.”
The bathroom door opens, spilling steam into the hallway. And there she is, wrapped in coconut and jasmine, freshly scrubbed, looking softer than I’ve ever seen her.
“Dad, I should go. But call if you need anything, alright?”
“Don’t need anything.” He pauses, and for a moment I think he might say something else, something more. But then, “Watch out for downed lines.”
With that sage advice, he hangs up. No goodbye, no “take care,” definitely no “I love you.”
I stare at the phone for a second before slipping it back into my pocket.
“Everything okay?” JJ asks, hovering in the doorway. Her face is freshly washed, hair wrapped in a satin scarf, wearing an oversized t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. She looks young and vulnerable and impossibly beautiful.
“Yeah,” I say, shaking off the familiar weight that always settles on my shoulders after talking to my father. “Just checking on my dad.”
Something shifts in her expression. She’s aware of the strained relationship with my father. I’d spent many nights at her house with her brother Kamal when I was a teenager. She knows what he’s like.
“Is he alright?”
“Same as always.” I smile. “Grumpy and self-sufficient.”
JJ nods, and I see her hesitation, like she wants to say more but isn’t sure she should. We’re in uncharted territory here. Beyond our usual bickering into something that feels dangerously like genuine concern.
“He’s got a generator,” I add, filling the silence. “Better equipped for the storm than us.”
“That’s good.” She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “My parents are out of town, thankfully. Dad would be trying to clear the whole neighborhood’s driveways if he were here.”
Mr. Smith was always ready with a helping hand, quick with a joke, and hadn’t questioned why I spent weeks in his home when I was a teenager.
“Your dad’s a good man,” I say simply.
She clears her throat. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
I enter the bedroom, taking stock of my territory. Her eyes track my movement, though she tries to hide her interest. I don’t bother concealing mine as I study her position.
She’s already under the covers on the far left side, rigid as a board, arranged as far from my side as possible.
Predictable and amusing.
“I left you a candle,” she says, nodding to the other nightstand. “In case you need to get up in the night.”
“Thanks.” I set my phone beside it and lift the blanket on my side. The mattress shifts.
JJ slides toward me involuntarily, her body stiffening the moment we touch. Gravity has never been so satisfying.
“Stay on your side.”
“I am on my side,” I reply, amused. “It’s not my fault your mattress has a dip in the middle.”
“It does not.” She shifts, trying to put more space between us, which only makes the mattress dip further.
I turn on my side to face her, propping my head on my hand. “Relax, JJ. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”
Her sharp inhale is audible in the quiet room. “For the record, I’m perfectly relaxed.”
I raise an eyebrow, not bothering to hide my amusement. Every inch of her is coiled tight as a spring — from the rigidity of her shoulders to the tight grip she has on the edge of the blanket.
“Could have fooled me,” I say. “Your whole body’s so tense I could bounce a quarter off it.”
