“The movie’s starting.” I drag my gaze away, certain my cheeks are fire-engine red right now. “Coming?”
I regret my word choice right away, because I hear him chuckling as he follows me into the theater. “Soon enough,” Jake says, and I try not to think about what that would be like. It’s even worse once we get settled in our seats: sitting side by side in the dark. The screening’s half-full, but still, it feels like we’re totally alone in front of the flickering screen. I fidget in my seat—why are these things always so damned uncomfortable—and when my hand brushes his on the armrest, I pull it away as if I’ve been burned, mumbling a “sorry” that he doesn’t return.
“I hope you know you’re sharing this,” I say, as I grab a handful of his popcorn and shoving it in my mouth.
A girl’s got to eat, right? Besides, he has a history of stealing my drinks, so turnabouts fair play. Or something.
“I had a feeling,” he says dryly as he grabs a handful of his own and we chew in silence. Well, I mean, it’s not like the chewing is silent—it’s noisy as hell, like we’re crunching on blocks of Styrofoam. The trailers roll, but I feel Jake’s eyes on me. I turn.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He grins. “Just wondering what happened to Mr. Hollywood? Did he stand you up?”
“Nope,” I reply. “He met me at the top of the Empire State Building, if you must know. He even showed up with flowers!”
“Then what are you doing here?”
I sigh. “Turns out, he just wanted to fuck me.”
Jake laughs.
“Gee, thanks for the sympathy.”
“I’m not gonna say I told you so.”
“Then don’t,” I snap. The lights go down, and the movie starts, but I can’t focus on the screen.
I can’t help thinking that the last time we were this close, we were kissing back at my apartment, and suddenly, I’ve got an X-rated instant replay running in my mind. Plus, he’s wearing some kind of citrusy cologne that makes me think of near-naked beach vacations, which is making it nearly impossible for me to keep my mind on Bruce Willis and his impressive biceps.
Chill out, sex maniac, I tell myself, trying to ignore the warmth of Jake’s body next to mine. But it’s no use. As hard as I try and as badly as I need to, I can’t seem to disappear into the world on screen the way I usually do. Everything about his presence is a massive distraction . . . and I already know what a massive distraction he’s got in store.
Thin cotton pants don’t hide a thing.
After the lights come up, I’m pretty sure I’m still blushing from all the fantasies I’ve been entertaining, but Jake seems relaxed and totally nonchalant. We head outside and pause on the sidewalk. “We could get a drink,” Jake suggests casually. “Unless you need to get back.”
“Sure,” I agree.
“I know a place nearby.” Jake nods south, and we start walking. One of the things I love about this city is traipsing around it at night when it’s all quiet, staring into the shop windows and ducking into all-night diners for pie and coffee when I get hungry. The early spring air smells like blossoms, and I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath.
“I love spring,” I say. “I love that moment where it seems like the whole city bursts into bloom and everything smells so clean.”
“Right.” Jake grins. “And you probably love kitties and puppies and rainbows, and look! There’s a unicorn!” He points off to a dark alleyway, and I roll my eyes at him, even though he isn’t looking at me.
“I forgot, Mr. Cynicism. At least you have to admit that was a great movie, though,” I say. “I watch it every year. Nothing gets me in the Christmas spirit like watching Bruce Willis get subjected to immense amounts of pain. I mean, the man walks on broken glass and barely flinches!”
“Kind of reminds me of Christmas at my mom’s house,” he snorts. “Minus the explosions.”
“That bad?” I ask. “It’s not like my house was a Normal Rockwell painting either—before they finally split, my parents fought 24/7,” I sigh. “And when they weren’t fighting, they basically just ignored each other. They would actually spend meals sending messages to each other through my sister and I. Like ‘Lizzie, please tell your father to pass the butter.’ It was totally bizarre, now that I think about it.” I shrug, even though the memory stings a little. “I guess that’s when I got into classic movies, it was kind of reassuring to see that people actually loved each other and not all marriages were doomed to fail.”
“I guess I grew up mistrusting everything about that kind of stuff,” Jake says thoughtfully. “My mom was so insecure, even though she was a knockout—as gorgeous as any film star. But my dad was a real ladies’ man—always out on the town or stuck in ‘business meetings’ that lasted until dawn. Anyway, she always thought she was one step away from losing him, so to pacify her, he bought her gifts—huge bouquets of flowers, jewelry, cars, designer clothing and furs—you name it. But none of it helped. I mean, a diamond necklace wasn’t enough to make up for what she wasn’t getting from him—his time, his attention. How could it? It was an expensive substitute that felt cheap because she expected so much more.”
“So what happened with them?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Eventually, she got sick of his running around, and they split. He remarried a bunch of times, but nothing stuck. I got my stepsister, Ruby, from his second wife—we get along great—and a half brother from his third, who’s Satan’s devil spawn.”
“Which one—the wife or the brother?” I laugh.
“Both.” Jake grins. “Now he’s engaged to some Polish model he met last year. It’s a disaster in waiting, but what can you do?”
I turn to look at him, his profile chiseled against the night sky. For the first time, I realize that all his anti-romance, no-commitment bullshit actually comes from somewhere real. It makes perfect sense—anyone who grew up the way he did would be the same way—thinking they were a series of meaningless gestures, a trap.
Which means he’s a total train wreck for women—not that it’s his fault or anything. But still. He’s the hottest train wreck I’ve ever seen, and now on top of it, he’s probably not the jerk he makes himself out to be . . .
I feel a pang of sympathy for him, closely followed by a wave of desire.
“Listen to me.” He shrugs self-consciously. “This is the kind of shit I should be telling a therapist, not you.”
“It’s OK.” I shrug. “I mean, you’ve heard most of my deepest romantic secrets by now. You and fourteen million people.”
He laughs. “Guess so.”