Seth nods like, ‘yeah right.’
Ethan acts as if he’s concentrating on the reps, but his glimpses at me say he’s trying to decipher exactly how I feel about Rian.
“Just mind your own business and worry about your stalker,” I say.
Seth throws his towel at me and we continue our workout without any more talk of stalkers or women who can bake.
Later that night, after a dead night at Ink Envy, I walk into the apartment to find a half-eaten cake. Jax comes out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist.
“Clothes aren’t optional around here,” I say.
He spots me eyeing the cake. “She’s a great baker, huh? Lemon is my favorite.”
“Lemon?” I mumble. “I fucking hate lemon.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Oh shit, am I already taking your place?” He chuckles and stalks off to his room.
Rian knows I hate lemon. Why would she bake that?
Chapter Three
Rian
I sit at the kitchen table, working away and waiting for my cinnamon muffins to finish baking. The paperwork from the Mathematical Society of America sits on the counter like a puppy starved for attention.
What would I do if I won the money? I don’t think I’d go back to school. My mom texted me twice this morning, asking if I’ve started the problem. She’s fooling herself if she thinks she wants me to win for me. She wants me to win because Johann has beat me at everything our entire lives.
A key in the door startles me and I bury my head in my project. Fractions are a bitch for kids to learn and the recipients of this textbook will be lucky if I don’t take out my frustration by making them harder.
“Hey, Rian,” Jax says.
I blow out a relieved breath into my papers.
“Were you expecting a burglar?” His arms slide out of his jacket and he hangs it on the hook by the door.
I take a moment to soak him in, see him in my space. We only met briefly the other morning, so it still kind of feels as if a stranger lives with me. Even so, he’s not the one I was worried was going to walk through that door. But I can’t be honest about that with Jax.
I stand and bury my head in the fridge. “No. I was working, and you startled me when you came in.”
“Grab me a beer while you’re in there?” he asks. The sound of chair legs sliding along our wooden floor rings out.
I twist off the top of a beer and hand it to him.
“My own personal waitress. I could get used to this.” He grins.
I sit back down. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
He sips his beer, his gaze on me the entire time he rests the bottle on his lips and lowers it back down. I glance up a few times.
“So what’s your story?” he asks. His approach leaves something to be desired, but he seems genuinely interested in the answer, based on the fact that his eyes haven’t strayed anywhere but my face.
I place my pencil down and lean back in my seat. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything you want to offer.”
He sips his beer again. Most women would probably be drooling from having Jax’s attention. His dark hair and five o’clock shadow, the definition of the muscles in his arms—it all works to make him more than appealing. So although it feels nice, it’s obligatory. We’re sharing a bathroom now.
“I write math textbooks for elementary grade levels,” I say.
He nods and sips his beer. “So you’re like genius level, or math just gets you all excited?”
“Definitely not genius level.” My gaze veers to the stack of papers by my purse, where the contract for the contest sits.
“You probably got some perfect score on that ASS test,” he says.
I giggle. “You mean SAT or ACT?”
“Whatever.” He shrugs. “I never took it.”
“Why not?” I relax back into my chair and push my work to the side.
He downs another gulp of his beer. “I wasn’t meant for college. That shit only gave Phillips a hard-on.”
I nod, not sure if I should ask more questions or not.
“Boyfriend?” he asks.
At first, I think the question is rude, but mostly because my two good friends are now in serious relationships, which makes me wonder if I’m going to end up as a cat lady cliché. But I’m allergic to cat hair, so I’d have to be a bird lady or fish woman. Which sounds even worse. I imagine myself in a tank while my fish swim around my head or having birds resting along the lengths of my arms, their tiny claws digging into my skin, and I shudder.
“No boyfriend.”
“Really?” He tilts his head and one side of his lips tip up.
Heat rushes up my neck. “Yeah. Why?”
He shrugs. “I’m surprised Phillips hasn’t locked you down yet.”
“Locked me down? Next you’ll be calling me someone’s old lady.” I place my pencil in the crack of the book to keep my place and close it.
He laughs and tips the mouth of his beer in my direction.
“I think you can probably think of a nicer way to say that?”
He chuckles. “You’re one of those, huh?”
“So far I’d say we’re not on the best of terms with your word choices.” I don’t mean anything horrible, I’m mostly joking, but I don’t believe anyone is going to “lock me down.”
“I didn’t mean any offense, I’m just surprised. You’re hot in that innocent schoolgirl way. Makes me want to make you all dirty.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. No one has ever said anything like that to me. I never thought I was the type of girl who would get turned on by it, but my core aches with his words.
“There must be something wrong with Phillips. How long have the two of you known each other?”
I shrug. “A few years.”
He nods, his gaze dipping to my cleavage. I shouldn’t like the way his eyes almost sear the clothes from my body. I have no doubt he’s envisioning me naked right now. I shouldn’t like it, but I do.
I’ve found myself feeling like a wanton woman about as often in my life as I’ve found myself the winner of the lottery. Which is to say never. I always ended up in that middle ground.
“And you guys have never…”
We both know what he’s asking.
“That would be none of your business.” Luckily the oven buzzer goes off, so I have a reason to excuse myself from this conversation.
“So you write math equations and bake. Those are your turn-ons?”
I pull the muffins out of the oven and place them on top of the stove. “They aren’t my turn-ons. I just enjoy baking.”
“Ah, but not the math? Good girl has a secret.”
I whip my head in his direction. His cocky smirk says he’s already figured me out.
“I think it’s time we shift the focus of our conversation to you.”
He twirls his beer bottle in circles on the table, following my movements as I transfer the muffins from the pan to the cooling rack.
“Name is Jax Owens. I’m a tattoo artist. Grew up in New York City. Once I turned eighteen, I aged out of the foster care system and got the fuck outta Dodge as fast as a criminal who slipped his cuffs before being thrown in jail. Right now, I need some calm from my chaotic life. So here I am.”