How to Fail at Flirting(45)
“I like lists.”
“I remember. Have we checked anything new off? At least a few things from last night were on there, hopefully.”
Heat rose on my cheeks, and I shifted closer to him without answering. Dating isn’t on the list.
“I’m guessing so, because you’re blushing. I find your blushing kind of hot. It’s actually on the list. I’ll send you the rest of it later. I promise.” He yawned again. “I never get any sleep when I’m with you, but I need to get ready for a meeting. I’m holding you to Cincinnati, though.”
I ran a hand down his forearm, the short hairs tickling my palm. “Scout’s honor.”
* * *
Later that morning, I’d begun poring over my interview data from spring with the fourth graders. Before inviting me to play kickball, one of the kids had been telling me about the math game and how he wanted to show it to his abuela because she didn’t speak English, and the game would translate his game stats to Spanish. I smiled, hearing my grandfather’s voice in my head. I returned to reviewing, though my mind would trip on something Jake had said, or how he’d beamed when he gave me the pencils. I wondered if maybe in some universe I could have him, keep my job, and hold on to this contented feeling. Like he knew I was thinking of him, my phone buzzed with an incoming text from Jake followed immediately by a second, third, and fourth.
Jake: The spot on your neck, just below your jaw. The skin is so soft, and you make a little whimpering sound when I kiss you there. That sound ends me.
Jake: This tiny, crescent-shaped scar on your left inner thigh. How did you get that?
Jake: When your whole body quivers and shakes right before you come with my mouth on you and you grip my hair.
Jake: The way you seem to let go of every inhibition when you’re on top of me, all bossy-like.
Goose bumps pricked up my arms as I read, and a tension coiled low in my belly as I flicked a glance between the manuscript sitting lifeless on the screen and the bouncing dots on my phone, indicating Jake was drafting another text.
Jake: I had a few minutes, and I promised to share a list.
Jake: My list of things I like about you outside bed is much longer.
Jake: Your laugh, the look you give me when I tell a bad joke, how you get all twitchy when you’re nervous.
Jake: This is all on top of your cheese puns and kickball prowess.
Naya: You are something else.
Jake: Something good?
Naya: Something very good.
Jake: Something you can’t get enough of?
Naya: Something who ends sentences with prepositions.
Jake: Nerd.
I set my phone down, a giddy uneasiness bubbling in me, because his texts had me making my own list about him, and it was growing longer by the minute.
Twenty-six
The board flashed as his flight changed from “delayed” to “arrived.” I looked down to find a text from Jake containing only a winking emoji, and I sniffled. What had started as a small tickle in my throat when I woke up that morning had blossomed into a runny nose, body aches, and a light head as I sat in the Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport.
I’d shaved, waxed, and plucked with care and packed my favorite lingerie for a sexy weekend. After two weeks apart, my body reverberated with the same bundle of nerves I had the first night we were together. Only this time, the onset of chills and a dull ache behind my eyes clouded everything. I’m nothing if not on-brand.
Jake strode through the small crowd and wrapped his long arms around me. His lightweight maroon sweater was soft against my cheek, and the closeness of his body felt right. The hug lasted only seconds, but the rest of the airport receded into the background.
“Hi,” he said.
I tipped my chin up, but soon my head whipped downward and bumped gracelessly against his chest. Not in a ladylike, dainty “achoo”; this was a wet, loud, humiliating honk.
“Bless you.” He looked down at me, and his expression turned to one of concern. “Are you getting sick?”
I tried to smile, shaking my head. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I reasoned, fighting back the urge to sniffle and cough, losing both battles. “I was fine when I got on the plane. Now . . . this.” I motioned to my face.
We’d planned on a weekend full of steamy, naked activity. We’d discussed it, at length, and in a level of detail that made me pray Muriel from HR never happened upon our texting history. Jake held the back of his hand to my forehead and cheek, his skin cool against my face. “I think you might have a fever.”
I closed my eyes momentarily. “No time for that—we’re in Cincinnati and only for two days.”
“Uh-huh, let’s get to the hotel so you can rest.”
My heart sank, and I blinked slowly, slumping against him.
Jake linked his fingers with mine, steering me forward. “How was your flight?” He dipped his lips to kiss the top of my head, ignoring that I’d just sneezed all over him.
* * *
Our room was on the fifteenth floor with a view of Cincinnati. In the sunlight, the Ohio River reflected the blue sky, and the city’s skyline sparkled. I only took in the view for a moment before sinking gracelessly to the bed like a sack of potatoes. The fever seemed to have broken, but a chill coursed through me, and I wrapped my arms around my knees.