I Want You Back (Want You #1)(15)

“What about sports?”

“If I can’t concentrate long enough to figure out that Miss Scarlet did it in the library with the candlestick, do you really think I have the ability to hit, kick, throw or catch a ball?”

Defensively he lifted his hands off the steering wheel. “Take it down a notch, babe. It was a question. And there are other sports besides ones requiring a ball.”

I shifted in the seat to face him. “Name five.”

“Cycling, boxing, gymnastics, swimming, ice skating, running, hockey, skiing, skateboarding—”

“All right, all right, you proved your point. We can just add all of those to the other list of games I’m not good at.”

“You’ve tried them all?”

I shook my head. “Can we please move on from listing all the things I’m bad at?”

“Fine.”

“But now you have to tell me at least three things you’re no good at.”

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and appeared to be thinking hard, the jerk.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be good at everything.”

“I can’t cook worth shit.”

So he wasn’t some local celebrity chef. “And?”

“And I can’t carry a tune to save my life.”

Not a famous musician either. Wait. Backtrack. I said, “Do you play any instruments?” because he could be a famous guitar player even if he couldn’t sing. He definitely had the charisma to be a rock star.

“Nope. Not even a kazoo.”

He made a sharp left turn, and within two blocks we were cruising down a residential street lined with huge maple trees in that ugly prebud stage. I hadn’t paid attention to where he’d been driving, but I recognized the area now. “We’re close to Dinkytown.”

“Yep. And FYI, I’ve never understood why this area around the U of M is called Dinkytown. It’s stupid.” He pulled up to the curb and parallel parked.

Before he released his seat belt, I put my hand on his shoulder. “Ah ah ah. Not so fast, buddy. You still have to tell me one other thing that you’re bad at.”

Jaxson slipped off his sunglasses.

God. Those eyes. In less than twenty-four hours I’d forgotten the hypnotic effect they had.

After several long moments, his focus dropped to my mouth. His nostrils flared, and I swear the temperature in the car went up fifty degrees. “I’m really, really bad at self-denial. If want something, I’ll do whatever it takes to get it.”

Although I’d fantasized about having his smirking mouth on mine and the slick glide of our tongues warring for supremacy as we thoroughly tasted each other, I realized the longer we dragged out that first intimate contact, the hotter—and the more memorable—it’d be.

So I lit that flame of desire by inching closer. I watched it smolder as I delicately traced the strong line of his jaw with the very tips of my fingers.

He made a noise, a low rumble, deep in the back of his throat.

I let my breath tease his lips, and I caught a whiff of the minty-fresh scent of toothpaste pushing past his half-parted lips.

I felt the fire between us getting hotter and more intense.

A warning buzzed through me as shrill as a fire alarm. Blow out the flare now or you’ll get burned.

Somehow, through the drumlike cadence of my heart, I managed to pull off nonchalant. “See? That confession wasn’t so hard.”

He mumbled something and retreated. Then he exited the car in such a rush that I’d barely released my seat belt and he was right there, assisting me up and out.

His sunglasses were back in place, so I couldn’t read his eyes. His sexy smile returned immediately as he offered his arm. “Shall we?”

“What is this place?”

“A community center. Small scale. It hosts art openings, a more personal variety than the major galleries in the Twin Cities. Occasionally there’ll be a play read-thru or a poetry reading or a novel in progress. Kids can attend classes for free as long as there’s a sponsorship of some sort by an adult.”

I frowned. “Sponsorship? I don’t follow.”

“The concept is community based. Members use the facility for free, but they have to share their skills as a form of payment. So no one can just sign their kid up for basket weaving. If they want their kid to take a class, they have to contribute to the community aspect somehow.”

“But what if the parent has no artistic or creative skills, but their kid does and a place like this is the only affordable and local option?”

“Then that parent can volunteer to clean up the facility or provide snacks or supplies. It’s still a pretty new concept, and they’ll work out the bugs as they go. But it was intentionally structured not to outgrow this space. It’s an experiment to see if it will evolve into whatever the locals and the volunteer teachers need it to be.”

Dumbfounded, I paused on the sidewalk and looked up at him. “Is this what you do, Jaxson? Are you some kind of entrepreneur turned benefactor for the arts?”

He shook his head.

“Then how do you even know that a place like this exists?”

“My mom volunteers here sometimes.”

“And?”

“And that’s all I know. I’ve been here once before. Let’s check out this month’s exhibit.” He slipped his callused hand into mine, and it felt as if he’d done it a hundred times before.