“Okay, so you can hear me,” he grumbles. “And you’re just ignoring me.”
“No, I kept hearing pinging noises on the window but I thought it was the rain.”
“Why would the rain ping? Rain makes more of a pitter patter sound.”
“Take your pitter patter and shove it up your butt, Jake.”
His husky laughter tickles my ear. “Are you going to let me in or what?”
“You couldn’t ring the doorbell like a normal person?”
“Cool, you want me to ring the doorbell?” he says mockingly. “Sure, I’ll go do that—”
“Oh shut up. My dad is in the living room watching TV.”
“Well aware of that. I saw him through the window. Hence the rocks.”
I scan my brain, wondering how I can let him in. You can’t access the stairs without passing the living room. And even if he did manage, this Victorian is old and squeaky, and the fourth and fifth stair treads creak like a haunted house. It’s our alarm system.
“Um, yeah…I think the only way you’re getting in is if you climb the drainpipe up to my window.”
“Are you serious? You’re really making me Romeo and Juliet this? Can’t I come in the back door?” He chortles. “That’s what she said.”
“Your maturity levels astound me. And no, you can’t. The living room looks onto the back door. Dad’ll see you.”
“Here’s a great idea,” Jake says cheerfully, “you could come outside.”
“Then he’ll ask where I’m going. Besides, it’s raining. I don’t want to go out there.”
“It’s raining! I don’t want to be out here!” A loud, aggravated sigh reverberates through the line. “You are so fucking difficult. One second.”
He hangs up. For a moment I wonder if he’s calling it and going home. I hope not, because I don’t want to be with a man who gives up so easily.
A grin touches my lips when I hear the creak of metal. It’s followed by a rustling noise that grows louder and louder, until finally a sharp knock shakes the windowpane, and a blurry fist appears in the rain-streaked glass. As I approach the window, a finger pops out of the fist like a Jack-in-the-Box. Jake is giving me the finger.
Fighting laughter, I quickly open the window. The screen ripped years ago, so I have a perfect view of Jake’s wet face. A streak of dirt mars his sexy cheek.
“I can’t believe you made me do that,” he accuses.
“I didn’t make you do anything. You’re the one who showed up without warning me. You wanted to see me that bad, huh?” I feel guilty all of a sudden. Not because he scaled a drainpipe for me, but because of the ripples of happiness the sight of him evokes.
I just spent several hours with a group of Briar hockey players, listening to them indict Harvard for the juvenile bullshit with Jesse Wilkes’s car. Meanwhile, I sat there, harboring secrets. Knowing I’ve been in contact with Jake, that I’ve gone out with him, kissed him…
It feels like a betrayal of my friends, but at the same time, we’re not in middle school anymore. I’m not going to stop seeing somebody because my friends might throw a hissy fit.
“Come in,” I order. “If anyone drives by and sees half your body hanging out the window they’ll call the police.”
Jake climbs over the ledge, his boots gracefully landing on the pine floor. “Let me get rid of these so I don’t get mud all over your floor.” He unlaces his boots and tucks them directly beneath the window. Then he shrugs out of his jacket and shakes his wet head like a dog that just had a swim.
A cascade of moisture splashes my face. “Thanks,” I say sarcastically.
“You’re welcome.”
The next thing I know, his hands are on my waist. No, scratch that—his cold, wet hands are sliding underneath my tank top.
“You’re so warm.” He sighs happily, then rubs his damp hair against my neck.
“You are so obnoxious,” I inform him as I try to squirm out of his grip. “I really hate you right now.”
“No, you don’t.” But he does release me and conducts a quick examination of my very plain bedroom. “This is not what I expected.”
“I was already living on my own when Dad bought this house. Neither of us bothered to give my room a personal touch. Now, are you going to tell me why you showed up out of the blue? Actually, wait. First I’d like to know what the hell was up with that stunt you pulled at Malone’s tonight. That was incredibly immature.” I texted him about it when I got home from the bar, but he hadn’t provided an explanation. Or a response, come to think of it.
“Hey,” he says defensively, “don’t lump me in with my idiot teammates. I investigated after you texted. Turns out the Whipped Cream Bandits are two of my sophomores—Heath and Jonah. They were in the Hastings area tonight, off their faces. They claim it was just a joke.”
“Dumb joke. I could’ve come up with something way more diabolical.” I give him a stern look. “You should keep a better eye on your guys. Jesse Wilkes wanted to drive out to Cambridge tonight and exact his revenge. Me and Nate talked him out of it, but that boneheaded stunt nearly started a prank war.”
Jake’s expression becomes pained. “Thanks for doing that. Last thing I needed was a brigade of angry Briar boys storming the Dime. Don’t worry, I’ll have a talk with them tomorrow.” He walks toward the bed and falls onto it, making himself comfortable.
I admire the long, lean body stretched out on my mattress. He’s wearing cargo pants and a black sweatshirt. The latter doesn’t stay on for long—he peels the shirt off and tosses it on the floor, then settles back down. The T-shirt he’s left with is so thin it looks like it’s been washed a thousand times. There’s a hole near the hem, and the logo is almost completely faded away. I can barely make out the words Gloucester Lions.
“Is that your high school team?” I ask, while trying not to focus on how the thin material clings to the most impressive chest I’ve ever seen. And I’m constantly surrounded by ripped dudes, so that says a lot.
Connelly’s body is amazing. Period.
The crooked grin he gives me sends a shiver up my spine. “Yup, we were the Lions.” He picks up my closed laptop and puts it on the nightstand, then pats the empty space. “Come here.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I go there, we’re going to fool around, and my dad might hear.” I immediately feel like a total loser for saying those words. It’s like I’m fifteen years old again, sneaking Eric into my room.
But I snuck him in often, I remind myself. And in all that time, we didn’t get caught, not even once.
The reminder of my previous stealth is what propels me to join Jake on the bed. I settle beside him in a cross-legged position. He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing the inside of my palm in lazy circles.
“Why are you here?” I find myself blurting. “You didn’t come all this way to talk about the whipped-cream incident, did you?” A thought suddenly strikes me. “How did you know where I live?”
“I came because I wanted to see you,” he says simply. “And how did I know where you live…I’m gonna take the Fifth on that one.”
“Oh my God. Please don’t tell me you hacked into my school records or my phone or something.”
“Nothing that nefarious.”
“Then how?”
He shrugs sheepishly.
“Connelly.”
“Fine. Freshman year we played Briar and got our asses kicked. Your dad was an asshole to Pedersen after the game, and, well, we loved our coach and wanted to avenge him, so…”
“So, what?” I demand.
“So we drove back to Hastings later that night and toilet-papered your house,” he mumbles.
I gasp. “That was you? I remember that! Dad was livid.”
“That was us. In my defense, I was eighteen and kind of a moron.”
“Not much has changed,” I offer sweetly
He laces his fingers through mine and squeezes. Hard.
“Ouch,” I complain.
“That didn’t hurt.”
“Yes it did.”
“No it didn’t.” He pauses. “Did it?”
“No,” I admit.
“Brat.” Jake brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles.
I gaze down at him, trying to make sense of this guy. He constantly shows me new sides of himself. It’s unnerving. “I can’t believe how touchy you are.”
“Touchy as in testy, or touchy as in I like to touch you?”
“The latter. I honestly didn’t expect you to be so cuddly.” I purse my lips. “I don’t think I like it.”
“We already talked about this, babe. You love it.”
“Stop telling me what I love. I don’t like that.”
“Sure you do.”
I groan in exasperation. But I can’t deny that his silly humor amuses me. I trace the Gloucester Lions logo with the tip of my finger. “Did you play any other sports in high school?”
“No. Only hockey. What about you?”
“I played volleyball, but I never really took it seriously. And I certainly wasn’t good enough to land a scholarship and play on a college team. I didn’t even get into college.”
Jake looks startled. “For real?”
“My grades weren’t the best.” A flush rises in my cheeks. “I did two years of community college until I was able to transfer to Briar.”
“So you really were a bad girl,” he muses.