I’m still embarrassed when I think about how that puppy thing threw me into a funk in front of Dylan, but it warms my heart that he planned a night with our friends to cheer me up.
“Do you mind if I go with you?” Jax asks.
“Um… no.” I wouldn’t mind the company. Dylan works late on Saturdays, so it’ll just be Jax and me around the apartment tonight.
“You sound unsure. You worried Phillips will have a problem with it?” He grabs his phone off the charger and pockets it.
“No,” I say in a tone that would only convince a senile eighty-five-year-old dementia-ridden grandma.
“Right.” He opens the door and holds it, not hiding his smirk.
We walk down the hall and ride the elevator down.
“You guys don’t use that roof nearly enough,” he says.
“Yeah, I know. But it’s just getting nice out again. We will.”
I don’t necessarily feel uncomfortable around Jax. He’s an easy-going guy who doesn’t bite his tongue. But we haven’t spent that much time together since he moved in. Usually because I’ll go to my bedroom if he’s watching television when I come home.
“We should watch a movie tonight,” he says.
I nod and rock back on my flats. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
We walk out and he’s a gentleman, allowing me to go first and holding the door open for me.
“So we’ll make something to eat and watch a movie on the roof?”
“Um…”
I’m not sure what has my tongue tied? Is it because part of me worries I’m going against Dylan? Like I’m picking Jax’s side over Dylan’s?
“I’m not asking you out, Rian. This is strictly a platonic thing.”
I yank the cart at the grocery store, but the damn thing won’t separate from the one in front. I move to the next row, and it’s the same fucking thing.
Jax puts his hand on mine to stop me. Stay True is inked across his knuckles. “I’ve got it.”
He fixes the child seatbelts so they’re not interlaced with the metal openings and a cart slides out easily. Instead of handing it to me, he takes control, pushing it ahead. “What should we make tonight?”
“Um…”
“You know, for a girl, you sure don’t talk a lot.” He chuckles.
I giggle because I’m still tongue-tied. Jax is intimidating in the same way I found Dylan to be when he moved in with Knox across the hall.
“I’m just…” I’m what? Finish the damn sentence, Rian.
“How about we ask each other questions? You ask me one and I’ll ask you one?”
I pick up a head of lettuce and put it in the cart. “Okay.”
“Ladies first.” He stops the cart and throws in a bag of pistachios.
“How long are you staying in Cliffton Heights?”
“Man, right for the jugular, huh? I underestimated you.” His head moves side to side. “At least six months. We’ll see how it goes.”
“You signed a year lease…” I say. Technically it was a sublease through Sierra.
He tugs on my ponytail. “I pay all my debts. If I leave before a year, I’ll pay you.”
“Okay.” I push away the reoccurring fear of me living alone like Ms. Merrigold on the first floor. Except for the cats, since I’m allergic.
“My turn then.” He rubs his hands together and looks me over as though he’s trying to think of something that will embarrass me. “Why on Earth do you write math textbooks?”
I chuckle. “That’s your question?”
“Would you rather me ask how long you’ve had a female boner for Phillips?”
My cheeks heat.
“Relax, your secret is safe with me.” He grins.
“It’s not like that.”
He holds up his hand as though he doesn’t want to talk about it. “I simply asked you why you chose your profession.”
I nod and put some apples in the cart. “I was always good at math. I don’t have to interact with many people. And it pays the bills.”
He nods. “But you don’t love it?”
“I like that I’m good at it.”
“Interesting.” He grabs oranges and puts them in the cart.
“What does that mean?” I ask, pulling my list out of my purse, along with my pen.
“It means it’s interesting. I always like to hear why people chose to do what they do.” He pushes the cart and rides it to the deli counter, where he tosses in pita bread and pulls a number from the red ticket dispenser.
I stop since I don’t have meat on my list. “Why did you become a tattoo artist?”
His smile is wicked and cocky and drop-dead gorgeous. “I love art, but I hate confinement. I love giving people ways to express their beliefs or celebrate the life of a loved ones or just make a statement. It’s an honor when someone lets me put my art on them permanently.”
I’m stunned silent. Those are all good reasons. I have nothing like that for being a math textbook writer. He winks when he realizes I’m second-guessing why I do what I do for money.
“I love baking,” I blurt.
“I’ve noticed. Do you do that because you’re good at it too?”
My mouth hangs open. Few people have ever talked to me like this. I guess it’s his don’t-give-a-shit attitude. “I enjoy tweaking recipes. I love the preciseness of it. Baking is really mathematical and scientific when you get down to it. And I love seeing people enjoy something I made.”
He taps my nose with his finger. “Then why aren’t you doing that?”
His number gets called and he holds up his hand without looking away from me until he absolutely has to. As he requests from the nice lady an order of every processed meat that’s doing absolutely horrible things to his insides, I peruse the baked items. None of them look half as good as mine.
“Ready?” he says, and I nod. “Round two?”
“You have more questions?”
“I have lots of questions. But it’s your turn.”
I look him over and decide to stay away from his childhood. “Why are you here?”
“I thought I’d get some groceries to eat so that I don’t die from starvation.” I tilt my head, and he laughs. “My life was getting out of control. I don’t like that feeling. I called Knox at the right moment to snag the opportunity for a place to stay.”
“You’re so honest,” I say.
He looks over the meat in the coolers. “I noticed you didn’t have any steak the other night. Are you only a chicken gal, or do you eat red meat? Please don’t tell me you’re the tofu girl.” He dodges my comment, so I let it die.
“I eat all three, although if you ask my mom, I only eat red meat once every two weeks and I prefer fish over anything.” I pick up some organic chicken breasts and put them in the cart.
He laughs, picking up a package of steaks. “Oh, I love you parent-pleasers. You guys amuse me.”
I roll my eyes. “Steaks again?”
“If I’m cooking for you, you can’t complain.”
“True enough.”
“And it’s my turn now. You’re digging deep here, so I feel like I should nail you with something you don’t want to answer.” He makes an exaggerated effort of hemming and hawing.