Naked Love(90)

Grunting a laugh, I shake my head. I honestly thought he was making up the job opening—for me. Because he loves me. Because he’d do anything to keep us connected, even if it’s in a small way like making me his employee halfway across the country. Another epic fail on my part. More bad judgment and inaccurate assumptions.

Me: Glad you found someone.

Jake: Thank you.

Me: You’re welcome.

“Nice, Avery …” I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Really? I just had to say you’re welcome. Why? Clearly because I can’t let go.

Jake’s on this infinitely long string, and no matter how far he goes, I will always feel that string connected to my heart, tugging and pulling. Reminding me that what we had was real.

“What we had was real.” My hand presses to my chest.

My phone chimes again.

Jake: If you need your own space, or if you get evicted from your sister’s house, you can stay in my loft while I’m in Milwaukee.

I grin. There’s no way I’m staying in his loft, but the fact that he’s offering it—that he feels the pull of that string—it makes everything inside of me come to life.

Why did it have to be Jake? The meanie. The bully. The crass-mouthed, over-tatted vegan. Why did my heart choose to take up residency in his lethal hands?

Me: Thank you for the offer. I’ll be fine.

Jake: I have no doubt that you’ll be fine.

Ouch. Letting go of Jake, in spite of all the terrible words that have been exchanged, feels like ripping off a Band-Aid one tiny millimeter at a time. Is this a mistake? Will my pride win at the expense of my happiness?

Me: But …

I draw in a slow breath of courage as the midday sun shifts just enough to steal my shade.

Me: On the off chance that I’m not fine. Knowing where you hide a key would be nice.

Me: If you’re okay with that.

Jake: No key. It’s a code. You can enter from the back of the building.

Jake: 91169#

I giggle.

Me: Emergency 69?

Jake: Get your mind out of the gutter.

I giggle more.

“Daddy to the rescue.”

I turn. “What are you doing home?”

Lautner rolls his eyes as a drenched Asher hugs his leg, saturating his dress pants with pool water.

“My dear daughter messaged me.”

Ocean smirks, beached out on a floating recliner.

“Your mom is not going to be happy that you messaged your dad. I’m here.”

“It’s fine. Family first.” Lautner picks up Asher, not caring that he’s so wet.

“Always Mr. Perfect.”

“You know it.” He grins at me. “Let’s go check on Mommy.” He kisses Asher’s wet head of blond hair.

Me: Need help?

I erase it, having second thoughts. Third thoughts. Four hundred thoughts. I have so many thoughts warring in my head that I can’t make sense of my life at the moment. Jake’s leaving. That’s good. Distance is good. I’ll move on. He’ll move on. We will simply go down in history as a close-but-not-quite relationship.

Me: Need help packing?

Gah! My stupid hands do their own thing. My body has never cooperated with my common sense when it comes to Jake.

Jake: I’m basically packed. Just a few things to throw in my bag at the last minute.

His next text is a facepalm emoji, not something I’d expect from him. It makes me giggle. He’s on his game with me today.

Jake: Yes. Of course I need help packing. Please!

Me: I’ll iron your jeans while you make me dinner?

Jake: Who irons jeans?

“What am I doing?” My teeth dig into my lower lip, suppressing the grin wanting to crawl up my face. He’s leaving. I’m staying. We are toxic together. Nothing good can come from going to his place. Ironing his jeans. Sharing a meal. We can’t be in the same room without wanting to kill each other or rip each other’s clothes off.

Jake: I’m here. If you want to iron my jeans … I’m here until Saturday.

*

Four hours later, I stare at the backstairs to his loft. He has a motorcycle parked next to his truck. I fidget with the long cuffs to my white boyfriend shirt. Then I tuck in just the front before smoothing my hands over my worn denim capris. Still … all these weeks later, I attempt to run my fingers through my hair running down my shoulders onto my chest, but it stops just below my chin. It’s like I’ve lost a limb, and I’m feeling the weight of phantom hair draped down my chest and back.

My feet wobble in my black heels as I take the stairs in slow motion. Why am I so nervous about seeing a man I spent weeks with in a tent and traveled miles with him in his pickup truck? My shaky fist knocks twice on the metal door.

“Hey!” He opens the door, grinning while attempting to tug on a T-shirt over his wet head.

Freshly showered Jake with a naked chest, ripped jeans, and bare feet. This was a really bad idea.

“Nice shirt.” I roll my eyes.

Jake looks down like he has no idea what it says. There’s a hand flipping a coin.

Heads I get tail. Tails I get head.

“It’s just a shirt, not an agenda.”

I nod once, eyeing him with caution as I step inside and slip off my impractical yet highly stylish heels. He shuts the door.