That’s it. This man is going to be the death of me.
“Jameson Hayes, please report to the house watch desk,” I say into the speaker system. Before I can say something wholly inappropriate for the entire house to hear, I remove my finger from the talk button and shove the microphone as far into the corner of the desk as I can. I don’t really want everyone knowing he’s coming up here for something personal, so I scramble to grab the log book I use to record all the activity in the house and see if there’s a legit reason to talk to him. You know, in case anyone asks. Not that they will, but paranoia is a fine thing that makes me more narcissistic than usual.
“What’s up, Lulu?” he says upon approach.
I spin around in my rolling chair and smooth down my FDNY volunteer polo that Chief Delgado gave me. Jameson’s bulky frame climbs the four steps up to the raised platform I call my home five days a week for six hours a day. It’s enough to keep me busy—and off Mom’s charity circuit—but not enough to cure me of my obsession with the middle Hayes brother.
No, my bright idea to ask Daddy to get me this volunteer job is backfiring. Big time.
He plops down in the wooden chair that’s squeezed between the squat filing cabinet and the printer. The house watch desk is barely big enough for one person, let alone two. His navy cargo pants and matching polo, his last name, the FDNY logo, and the house’s individual logo stitched into the breast, are greasy, and he’s got a line of sweat at his brow.
“How in the hell is it possible for you to look this dirty when I know damn well you haven’t gotten a lick of work done today?”
The smile that lights up his face is epic. He doesn’t even seem bothered by the fact that he’s getting on my nerves—proof that he is not perfect after all—and instead blows out a heavy breath and relaxes into his seat.
“No, seriously,” I say. He doesn’t respond. Instead, he stretches his right foot out and hooks it around the back of my chair and pulls me closer. My eyes widen and my jaw tenses. I don’t try to stop him, because we’re too close now and the only way I can see pushing back is to kick him in the nuts. And even infuriating as he is, I can’t bring myself to break his dick.
“You might not be responding to my texts, but you’re thinking about me.”
Now it’s my turn to be silent.
“Every time you think about me, you touch your necklace.” His eyes fall from mine to the gold wishbone that hangs from my neck and rests against the hollow at the base of my throat. I remove my hand from my necklace. I don’t even realize I’m doing it half the time. I could lie, that I’m not thinking about him, but he wouldn’t believe me.
“You hear my voice and you touch it,” he says slowly with a soft smile that creeps up on his lips. “You see me walk by and you touch it.”
“And we’re friends,” I say, reminding both of us of this fact.
“Kind of hard to be friends when one of us is refusing to participate.”
“This is stupid. We’re attracted to each other, but we’ve chosen not to do something about it. I’m going back to New Orleans until graduation, and you’re stuck in a lease with Miss Cranky Pants. That’s our lives, and every time you start being all Mr. Gorgeous, you make it hard for me to remember that.”
His shoulders shake as he laughs, looking carefree for the first time in over a week, and he breathes deeply as he calms himself. “Miss Cranky Pants—that’s a good one.”
I don’t even have the decency to be embarrassed for letting my nickname for Lydia slip in front of him. It’s bad enough I said it in front of Roy, his dad, who’s now using it on an almost exclusive basis. Thankfully, Jameson doesn’t call me on referring to him as Mr. Gorgeous.
“I want to be your friend, but we need boundaries,” I say. I don’t really want friendship, but I’ll take what I can get.
“List your demands, and I’ll list mine.”
Christ, this man is ridiculous.
“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “You stop being all possessive and boyfriend-y, because you’re not my boyfriend.”
“I’m not?” he says in faux shock.
“Yeah, know how I know? You’re not my boyfriend because I’m not your girlfriend. Her name is Lydia, and as cranky as she may be, you still sleep in the same bed with her. Every night. So do us both a favor and fucking remember that, will ya?”
He laughs, still smiling, and uses his foot to swivel my chair left and right. Left and right.
“That it?”
“Yeah.” I’m sure there’s more, but I can’t really think with all the smiling and laughing and the fucking swiveling. Left and right. Left and right.