The Risk (Briar U #2)(63)

20





Brenna





Ping ping ping.

I ignore the rain beating against my bedroom window. I don’t remember when it started, but it was sometime after I got home from Malone’s. I’ve been focused on my assignment since then, but now the noise is starting to annoy me. On the bright side, the rain will wash away the whipped cream on Jesse Wilkes’s car and maybe he’ll quit crying over it.

Ping ping.

Then my phone buzzes.

JAKE: Please tell me I’m not throwing rocks at Chad Jensen’s bedroom window.





I fly up into a sitting position. What the hell is he talking about?

I immediately call him. “Are you standing outside my window?” I demand.

“Okay, so you can hear me,” he grumbles. “And you’re just ignoring me.”

“No, I kept hearing pinging noises on the window but I thought it was the rain.”

“Why would the rain ping? Rain makes more of a pitter patter sound.”

“Take your pitter patter and shove it up your butt, Jake.”

His husky laughter tickles my ear. “Are you going to let me in or what?”

“You couldn’t ring the doorbell like a normal person?”

“Cool, you want me to ring the doorbell?” he says mockingly. “Sure, I’ll go do that—”

“Oh shut up. My dad is in the living room watching TV.”

“Well aware of that. I saw him through the window. Hence the rocks.”

I scan my brain, wondering how I can let him in. You can’t access the stairs without passing the living room. And even if he did manage, this Victorian is old and squeaky, and the fourth and fifth stair treads creak like a haunted house. It’s our alarm system.

“Um, yeah…I think the only way you’re getting in is if you climb the drainpipe up to my window.”

“Are you serious? You’re really making me Romeo and Juliet this? Can’t I come in the back door?” He chortles. “That’s what she said.”

“Your maturity levels astound me. And no, you can’t. The living room looks onto the back door. Dad’ll see you.”

“Here’s a great idea,” Jake says cheerfully, “you could come outside.”

“Then he’ll ask where I’m going. Besides, it’s raining. I don’t want to go out there.”

“It’s raining! I don’t want to be out here!” A loud, aggravated sigh reverberates through the line. “You are so fucking difficult. One second.”

He hangs up. For a moment I wonder if he’s calling it and going home. I hope not, because I don’t want to be with a man who gives up so easily.

A grin touches my lips when I hear the creak of metal. It’s followed by a rustling noise that grows louder and louder, until finally a sharp knock shakes the windowpane, and a blurry fist appears in the rain-streaked glass. As I approach the window, a finger pops out of the fist like a Jack-in-the-Box. Jake is giving me the finger.

Fighting laughter, I quickly open the window. The screen ripped years ago, so I have a perfect view of Jake’s wet face. A streak of dirt mars his sexy cheek.

“I can’t believe you made me do that,” he accuses.

“I didn’t make you do anything. You’re the one who showed up without warning me. You wanted to see me that bad, huh?” I feel guilty all of a sudden. Not because he scaled a drainpipe for me, but because of the ripples of happiness the sight of him evokes.

I just spent several hours with a group of Briar hockey players, listening to them indict Harvard for the juvenile bullshit with Jesse Wilkes’s car. Meanwhile, I sat there, harboring secrets. Knowing I’ve been in contact with Jake, that I’ve gone out with him, kissed him…

It feels like a betrayal of my friends, but at the same time, we’re not in middle school anymore. I’m not going to stop seeing somebody because my friends might throw a hissy fit.

“Come in,” I order. “If anyone drives by and sees half your body hanging out the window they’ll call the police.”

Jake climbs over the ledge, his boots gracefully landing on the pine floor. “Let me get rid of these so I don’t get mud all over your floor.” He unlaces his boots and tucks them directly beneath the window. Then he shrugs out of his jacket and shakes his wet head like a dog that just had a swim.

A cascade of moisture splashes my face. “Thanks,” I say sarcastically.

“You’re welcome.”

The next thing I know, his hands are on my waist. No, scratch that—his cold, wet hands are sliding underneath my tank top.

“You’re so warm.” He sighs happily, then rubs his damp hair against my neck.

“You are so obnoxious,” I inform him as I try to squirm out of his grip. “I really hate you right now.”

“No, you don’t.” But he does release me and conducts a quick examination of my very plain bedroom. “This is not what I expected.”

“I was already living on my own when Dad bought this house. Neither of us bothered to give my room a personal touch. Now, are you going to tell me why you showed up out of the blue? Actually, wait. First I’d like to know what the hell was up with that stunt you pulled at Malone’s tonight. That was incredibly immature.” I texted him about it when I got home from the bar, but he hadn’t provided an explanation. Or a response, come to think of it.