Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“Okay,” I finally concede, my voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
Jack’s smile widens, and he gently places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me out of the cafe. The warmth of his touch seeps through my damp shirt, any my mind becomes even foggier than it was when I started this day. I’m hyperaware of every step, every breath. The hangover, the guilt, and now this unexpected turn of events has my head spinning.
As we walk the short distance to Jack’s apartment, I’m acutely aware of the silence between us. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s charged with an energy I can’t quite define. We reach an older, but clean and well-kept building, and Jack leads me inside, his hand still resting lightly on my back. The elevator ride is mercifully short, but it feels like an eternity as I stand there, coffee-stained and disheveled, next to Jack’s put-together presence.
Jack’s apartment is on the third floor, and as he unlocks the door, I find myself holding my breath. The space that greets me is surprisingly cozy—warm colors, well-worn leather furniture, and bookshelves lining one wall. It’s lived-in but tidy. It also has a live Christmas tree in the far right corner that is full of ornaments and topped with an angel. Christmas lights line the windows, and tinsel cover the tops of his kitchen cabinets. I immediately feel both comforted and surprised that a single man would go all out in Christmas decor.
“Make yourself at home,” Jack says, gesturing to the living room. “I’ll grab you that shirt.”
As he disappears down a hallway, I stand awkwardly in the middle of the room, afraid to touch anything. My stare roams over the bookshelves, taking in titles ranging from classic literature to modern thrillers. A framed photo catches my attention—Jack, younger and sun-kissed, arm slung around an older woman who bears a striking resemblance to him. Mother and son, I assume.
“Here we go,” Jack’s voice startles me out of my observations. He’s holding out a crisp white button-down. “It’s the smallest I’ve got, but it should do the trick.”
Our fingers brush as I take the shirt from him, looking around for what I had expected to be greeted with sloppy kisses and large paws. “Where’s your dog?”
He freezes with a look that almost appears to be confusion. “Dog?”
For a minute, I second guess my memory. But I clearly remember him walking his dog when we first met. Hung over or not—but wait. I thought he lived in my neighborhood.
“Oh, right,” Jack says, looking slightly flustered for the first time. “That wasn’t my dog. I house- and dog-sit for a friend in the crew sometimes.”
I nod slowly, trying to process this information through my hangover fog. Something about his explanation doesn’t quite sit right, but I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it’s the lingering confusion from last night clouding my judgment.
“Oh I see. I just assumed,” I mumble, clutching the shirt to my chest. “Um, where can I . . . ?”
Jack points down the hallway. “Bathroom’s the second door on the left.”
I shuffle toward the bathroom, my mind racing. As I close the door behind me, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wince. My makeup is smudged, my hair a tangled mess, and my blouse is a disaster. I look exactly how I feel—like I’ve been hit by a truck.
With shaky hands, I unbutton my ruined blouse and peel it off, tossing it into the sink. I splash some cold water on my face, trying to clear my head. I quickly put on Jack’s shirt, rolling up the sleeves and tying it at the waist. It smells like him.
Taking a deep breath, I step out of the bathroom. Jack is in the kitchen, pouring two mugs of coffee. He looks up as I enter, his eyes widening slightly.
“Wow,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. “You make that shirt look good.” He extends a mug of coffee to me. “I can’t make your latte, but this coffee does have creamer and sugar.”
Man, this guy really is perfect.
I take the mug gratefully, wrapping my hands around its warmth. “Thanks,” I say, taking a sip. The coffee is rich and smooth, infinitely better than what I usually make at home.
Jack leans against the counter, watching me over the rim of his own mug. There’s something in his gaze that makes me feel both exposed and intrigued. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken words.
“You clearly like Christmas,” I say, taking in more of his decorations. There is a Charles Dickens village set up on a side table, complete with tiny Victorian-era figurines and miniature snow-covered buildings.
“It was my mother’s favorite holiday.” Jack’s eyes soften at the mention of his mother. “Yeah, she always went all out for Christmas. The little village was her favorite.”