Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
He shakes his head, amused. “Of course you measure distance that way.”
“And you knew what I meant,” I say, buoyed by our common interests. I can still ask him. I just need to do it in the next ten seconds.
“Course I did,” he says, then drives past a pink bakery and turns onto my street.
I give him the house number, wishing I lived farther away. I wish this moment weren’t ending. I wish I had the guts to ask him to go car shopping with me right now.
I practice the words—want to come in and we can pick a Porsche dealer? I’m this close to trying out the question for real when Jason pulls over and clears his throat. “Thanks for that before.”
“For what?” I ask, curious.
“For saying no to those candid pictures going up,” he says quietly.
But my heart jumps so loudly in my chest I’m sure he can hear it. Jason saw the same thing in that photo I did—the way we let down our guard with each other, the way we dared to for a few seconds today with Asher.
And Jason needed me to say no for him. To protect that moment and keep it private.
“I don’t want people to be able to tell,” I admit, and the vulnerability is a little terrifying, but it feels so good too.
Jason grips the steering wheel tighter. “Me neither.”
I have to fight not to touch him. But it’s a battle. I let my hand move closer on the console. He stares at it like he did earlier. I slide another inch over, making the choice easier for him. Or maybe harder.
“You tempting me?” Jason asks in a low voice.
Nerves thrum through me, chased by desire. “I don’t know. Am I?” I hope he says yes.
Jason lowers his face, doesn’t meet my gaze. “You know you are,” he whispers, and it sounds like a warning.
He’s saying be careful.
But I don’t know if I can when tingles rush down my spine, hot and electric.
You could go to a food truck.
You could shop for a car.
You could tell him you can’t stop thinking about him and then wind up in his bed.
Like my pants are on fire, I point at my home. “I should go. Thanks, Jason,” I say, then grab the handle and fly out before I do something risky.
Or really, riskier.
15
NIGHT WALKERS
Beck
One hour and one Báhn mì later, I’m helping Portia refill bird feeders in the backyard.
“How long have you been a Renegades fan?” I ask as I pour millet onto the tiny porch of a mini bungalow. It looks like a yellow dollhouse.
She stares at the sky, thoughtful. “Since the womb, I’m sure.”
I laugh as we move to the next birdhouse—a white colonial. I hold up the bag of millet in question.
Portia shakes her head. “This home is just for nesting.”
“Have any birds done that?”
“Purple martins,” she says proudly. “They’re quite social. And this colonial has lots of bird apartments in it. My son Bryan made it for me.”
I look at the birdhouse in a new light. It’s intricate. “He’s a birdhouse architect,” I say as she guides me to a eucalyptus tree.
“He’s very talented. He’s a contractor in Los Angeles, restoring old homes. The birdhouses are a hobby,” she says, then she waggles a cylindrical red feeder hanging on a branch, checking its contents. “The hummingbird juice is all gone. I’ll have to make them some more.”
“Water and sugar, right?”
“Exactly!”
“I’ll do it,” I offer. I like being helpful. Plus, this passes the time. The busier I stay, the less I’ll think about Jason. If I can just make it through today without going crazy from lust, I’ll know I can withstand seeing him every Monday morning.
After she gives me the recipe—four parts water to one part sugar—I tell her I’ll meet her back here in thirty. Inside my place, I heat the concoction on the stove, so the sugar dissolves faster, then pour it into a large measuring cup when it cools off. Yup, these tasks are helping. I have a purpose that’s not him.
I head back outside and find Portia pruning the bushes at the yard’s edge. She sets down the shears and joins me at the eucalyptus tree as I refill the feeder.
“You’re becoming too helpful, Beck. I’ll have to offer another discount,” she says.
“And you already owe me two discounts for my wins. Here’s hoping it’s three after next Sunday. The team will be four and oh then.”
“The Tarot says it will be.” Her smile brightens, turning sort of . . . motherly. “I enjoyed your post-game interview last night. So did Bryan. He’s gay.”
Oh, boy. Here we go. Looks like this birdhouse talk was all a ruse.
“He’ll be in town for Thanksgiving,” she continues.
“Cool,” I say, bracing myself. I don’t want to be a dick and turn down her son in advance, but I loathe set-ups.