Friction(9)

"Where do you think I got the idea from? If you bring up the subject of kids to Bells, on the other hand, she breaks out in hives. Literally, hives all over the place. She told Mom and Dad the only grandkids they're getting will spring from my lady parts. Dad wasn't impressed because she said vagina—and you know how he is about that word—but my mom said she'd come around."

I snort. "No, she won't."

"I know, right?" She cups her hand around my glass, probably checking to see if my drink has gotten warm from all my stirring, then drums her fingertips on the counter. "I told Mom she's got the wrong twin in mind because Bella's stubborn as hell. She avoids the maternity ward and the nursery like they’re the home base for the zombie apocalypse.”

Like Jamie, Bella is a nurse, but that's about the only similarity between the Armstrong twins. I've known them since my family moved to Massachusetts when I was nine, but I've always been closest to Jamie. We bonded right away over a mutual obsession with Hansen (we had the same book bag and lunch box), and the rest is history. After I found out about Tom's infidelity, it was Jamie, and not my mother, who talked me into coming home.

Of course, it hadn't taken much convincing. At the time, I was living in a small studio apartment. I was quickly running out of what little money I had left and being turned down for position after position because my once pristine job history had taken a dive after I left Java Org.

"You never know," I say at last, clearing my throat uncomfortably. I grab my mojito and press the cold rim to my lips. "Baby fever is contagious. Bella will catch it sooner or later."

Jamie murmurs a thanks to the bartender when he delivers her shot of tequila then she turns to me, her brown eyes full of concern. "Since you redirected the conversation, I'm taking it you haven't heard back from anyone else.”

"Zilch.” An image of steely blue eyes and golden, inked skin forces its way into my thoughts. Damn, I hate myself for getting my hopes up. About the job at EXtreme. About Jace giving me a chance to prove myself. About finally being able to move on with my life. “Not even that interview with Jace Exley earlier this week, and—”

Jamie’s eyes bulge. She holds up her hand, takes a moment to catch her breath, then twirls her finger in a backwards motion. "Wait a second, you lost me there. Are you talking about dark hair, blue eyes, British-accent Jace Exley?"

"That’s the one, and I haven’t heard a word back from him.” Saying that aloud pierces the center of my chest. “The British-accent has faded, though.”

"Jesus, wow." Gliding her fingertip around the rim of her shot glass, Jamie tips her head to one side and wrinkles her nose. "What exactly did he interview you for? A pot farm?"

I nearly choke on my drink. "A metal-working shop here in Boston. He's very...." My thoughts wiggle back to his comment about being good with his hands, and I squash the shiver threatening to ripple through me. “He’s very talented.”

Her head tilts even further to the right, and I swear it'll start spinning around at any second. “I bet he is. Did he recognize you?"

I take another drink, nodding as I swallow the watered-down cocktail. Callback or not, it’s still a shock to my system that he knew who I was. Jace had always been popular with girls. I have no doubt the number of women willing to throw themselves at his feet has multiplied over the years. The fact he remembered me, wielder of Brainiac sorcery as he so smoothly pointed out, is bewildering. And depressing since my witchcraft clearly wasn’t enough to get a job offer.

"Nice. So ... is he still ... Jace-y."

"Jace-y?" A smile tickles my lips, the first since I sat down at the bar and ordered my drink. "We're making him an adjective now?"

"I haven't seen the guy in eight or nine years, but yeah.” She fans her face with her hand to make a point and blows out a dramatic breath. "He deserves his own adjective."

"Yes. He's still ... he's very nice to look at."

"Very nice to look at?" She scoffs. "Please, the guy was gorgeous, all capital letters, underlined, bolded, and italicized." She throws back her shot and makes a sour face. "Does he still have all that hair? I still remember that black beanie he wore whenever the weather sucked. Every time he pulled the thing off it was like a damn shampoo commercial."

I offer her a vague shrug. "He cut it." But he still runs his hand through it when he's speaking and witnessing that still drives my pulse from zero to one hundred in three-point-five seconds.

It's almost as if Jamie can read my thoughts. Her dark eyes taper and she drums her fingertips together wickedly. "Aww, you're turning red. I don't think I've seen you blush in years—not even when Bella got strippers for your bachelorette party."

Yes, well, she’s also never seen Jace Exley all grown up and looking like he stepped out of all my lumber-fantasies—complete with tattoos and facial hair my fingers itched to touch. And that’s exactly why it’s a good thing I didn’t get the job, I tell myself, trying to soothe my ego, which has taken a hit every time I checked my phone over the last few days. Because wanting to stroke the boss’s beard is a hard no.

"Ugh, I can’t believe you didn’t mention you interviewed with him! Did he say when he’d get back to you?"