Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(28)

Huh. Jack as a child—there’s a thought. Jack with a motorcycle. Jack with an entire life outside of school. Jack as a multifaceted human.

My gaze drops from his eyes to his neck where his sweat-dampened hair is clinging to his skin, all the way down his jacket to his hands, where his gloves were a few minutes ago. A memory of those gloved hands raising to me in an amused lazy wave flashes and I should have instinctively known it was him. Effortlessly sexy has always been his thing.

But outside of our first bad encounter on the way to class, he’s never used it on me. It was . . . interesting to be on this side of it without the usual bad blood flowing between us.

According to Jack, he saw an opportunity and took it. I don’t know . . . maybe it’s time I do the same.

“When did you get a motorcycle?”

His expression is hesitant of my abrupt change in subject, like he’s preconditioned to watch out for any unexpected grenades I might throw at him. “I’ve had it for a few years.”

“How come I’ve never seen it before?”

A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and he catches it with his forearm. “I only ride during the nice-weather months. And during the school year, my commute was too far, so I pretty much only rode on the weekends.”

I don’t like the thought of him riding that thing on the interstate. Can’t say I like the idea of him riding it at all actually. It was one thing when it was just a stranger I’d never care about but now—wait, no . . . I didn’t mean that I care about him. Take it back, brain!

“Have you ever ridden?” he asks, unlatching the top of the leather jacket and unzipping it before peeling it off, leaving him in only a sweaty white T-shirt and riding pants. And yep, I can confirm it was not just the pads making his body look so good—damn him.

I take a reflexive step away. “No, I have not.”

He smiles and runs his hand through his hair. “Do you want to? I have a spare helmet at my hou—”

“Absolutely not. I value my life too much to put it in your hands like that.”

His head tilts. “My hands are very competent, Emily.”

I bypass Jack’s innuendo and the funny thing it does to my stomach, and instead, I advance on him. I go out the door, backing him up until he’s forced to go down a step. We’re eye level now and I’m only inches from his face. I’ve been working through something during our idle chat, and I just made up my mind.

He looks braced for a slap and can only blink in response when I say, “I forgive you.”

Understandably Jack is silent for a long moment. This is new terrain for both of us.

“You . . . forgive me?” he repeats, shifting on his feet and looking between my eyes. “Is this a trap? Are you trying to lure me into passivity so you can stab me in the back when I least expect it?”

What a twisted relationship we have.

“Maybe,” I say, smiling at him over my shoulder as I go back into my house—leaving the door wide open behind me. “Or maybe I’m already holding too many grudges where you’re concerned and don’t feel like adding any more to the pile. We’ll have to wait and see, I guess.”

I don’t know what I’m doing leaving that door open. Jack doesn’t either, judging by the look on his face as he cautiously steps inside. He watches me slip out of my boots and hang my purse on the hook.

His shoulders suddenly jump, and he looks down—startled by Ducky, who is now wrapping herself around his ankle.

“What is that?” he asks as if his eyes are betraying him.

“A cat.”

“You really do have a cat.”

“You thought I was lying?” I laugh, scoop her up, and nuzzle my face into her fur. Now he really looks like he’s seen a ghost as he watches me snuggle her. Apparently he thought I went home every night and plugged myself into the wall to recharge.

“I’ll admit,” he says, cautiously, “I’ve always pictured you as more likely to wear animals than snuggle them.”

“First, that’s horrendous and I never would. Second . . .” I lift a brow. “Just how often do you picture me, Jackson?” I guess a little of that flirtation from the road has lingered.

His smile is a feral thing. “More than either of us is comfortable with.”

Oh.

He steps in a little further and does a complete circle, seemingly taking in the scenery. It makes me nervous. I love my house and my décor, but I live on a teacher’s budget. Everything is pretty minimalist because I enjoy a tidy space. Big white couch. Cozy blankets. Pottery vases passed down from my grandma. Golden-toned, wooden breakfast table and chairs acquired in a yard sale. But there are a few choice pieces in my house that I saved and scraped and eventually splurged on, like my couch, my cushy area rug, and my mattress. Those things were nonnegotiable for me.

Having Mr. Top-of-the-Line-Everything in here is making me antsy. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Is that why there’s one coaster out of place?” he asks, pointing to the rogue one sitting on the arm of my couch instead of the coffee table.

I hurry across the room and return it to its pile, then realize it was a trap. Jack’s motorcycle boots creak over the floor as he moves around slowly to run his eyes on every corner of my space. I half expect him to be taking pictures of anything slightly incriminating. He’ll point and laugh at any mess he can find.