For Real (Rules of Love #1)(17)
Author: Chelsea M. Cameron

“No. I don’t think I have ESPN.”

“Tragic.”

“It’s my cross to bear.”

His hands start playing with my hair, twirling it around his fingers. It feels really, really nice, and I realize that this is the most physical contact I’ve had with another person in a long time. My parents were never really into hugging, and my brother would punch me sooner than hug me. Hazel is hands-on, but it’s different with Jett.

I close my eyes and his hands start massaging my scalp.

“I’m not going to get in trouble for this, am I?” he says quietly.

“Only if you stop.”

Screw the Rules for the moment. I’m enjoying this.

Jett ends up carrying me to bed again when I fall asleep as he’s stroking my hair. But this time he climbs in beside me, and pulls me into his chest. We spoon every night now, because we end up wrapped together like a twist tie by the morning anyway. Every. Single. Time.

This morning (or almost afternoon, if I’m being honest) I wake to find something pressing into my stomach and when I realize what it is, I almost shove Jett away. Poor guy. It’s not his fault. He’s wrapped around me, and extricating myself from this situation is going to be worse than defusing a bomb. The key is to move slowly and carefully enough that I don’t wake him.

First I pull my arm out from under his, and then start slowly pulling my legs away. If I can get myself on my back, then I’ll be good. I think.

But as soon as shift even the slightest bit away from him, his eyes snap open and lock with mine.

Hello, most awkward moment ever.

“Good morning,” I say, fluttering my eyes as if I’ve just woken up. I stretch my arms up and yawn. Jett’s jaw is clenched and I know that he’s wondering if I know about his little friend.

“Good morning, princess,” he says warily. I just smile at him and hope it looks natural.

“I’m starving. Want some breakfast?” I’m never this perky when I wake up, but I hope it doesn’t set off any warning bells. When I get up, I make sure that I don’t pull the covers too low as I dash to the kitchen.

I hear nothing from Hazel’s room. She’ll probably be passed out for at least a few more hours.

I get breakfast going and it’s a few minutes before Jett joins me. I can’t look at him as he goes to the coffeemaker to get it going.

“I hate staying out so late because then it throws off my whole day. It takes me at least two days to recover from going out. I swear, I’m like a little old lady. I wish I didn’t need sleep.” I’m babbling as I start mixing batter for waffles.

One of my favorite Christmas presents from Hazel last year was the waffle iron that made waffles shaped like penguins, and I use it as much as possible.

Since I don’t like just plain waffles, I’m making caramel apple waffles. Jett hasn’t had them yet, and I kind of want to give him something delicious to make up for the fact that he couldn’t control his penis this morning.

I have got to stop thinking about it. Thank God I don’t have to deal with crap like that. I’d seriously be walking around all day with a hard-on. A very tiny part that is getting louder and louder wants to ask him if he was thinking about me. But that’s weird. And very self-centered. I mean, back in the day, they used to cover up table legs because they were thought to arouse men, because they would then think about women’s legs. How ridiculous.

“Do you need any help?” I’m so busy thinking about Jett and table legs that I kind of forget about Jett.

“Could you spray the waffle iron and plug it in?” I whip the batter in the bowl to get the lumps out without over mixing it. Doing that is a sin that cannot be undone.

Jett is cautious of touching me, trying to keep at least a three-foot bubble around me that he doesn’t violate. It’s very different from last night when he’d been so far in my bubble that he couldn’t really get any closer. Unless he was . . . well . . . in my bubble.

I gotta stop thinking about this.

He pours me a cup of coffee, adding cinnamon and nutmeg, which is something that I only get to do at home. I love that he knows how I like my coffee.

“Thanks,” I say taking the cup from him. Our fingers touch and he flinches away.

“Something wrong?” This can’t go ignored.

“No. Just tired from last night.” He gives me a tight smile that almost looks painful, and goes to get his own cup before sitting down at the table.

“Yeah, me too.” Things are a little tense, so I turn on some music, but keep the volume low so I don’t wake Hazel. “Everything Has Changed” by Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran comes on. I almost laugh at how ironic it is. Jett’s eyes aren’t green like the lyrics, but pretty much everything else is spot on. Creepy.

I hum along a little bit as I wait for the first set of penguin waffles to be done. Jett sips his coffee and seems lost in thought. I don’t want to bug him, so I get out the plates and so forth myself.

The waffles are done and I dish them out. Jett drenches his in syrup, but I’m a little more conservative than he is. I like to actually taste my waffles. We eat in silence, except for the music, and I almost can’t stand it. I’m trying to think of something to say to start a neutral conversation, but I’m coming up empty. Jett ends the silence for me.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” He’s looking into his coffee, and swirling his fork in the leftover syrup.

“Are you going to safe word?” My heart clenches in panic. I’ve only been this scared a few times in my life.

He opens his mouth and the closes it, then picks up his cup and takes a sip. Not knowing what to say, I just sit there and wait in terror. This can’t be happening.

Can your heart stop beating? I think mine does for just a moment.

Jett is looking at me and I can’t help but meet his eyes. They’re looking, searching, trying to find something in me. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I desperately want him to find it. My heart stops again before he says, “No. Nevermind.” And then I get a genuine smile.

My heart starts going at warp speed, like it’s trying to make up for the times it stopped.

“Do you want some more waffles?” I get up and take both our plates over. I hadn’t put any more batter in the iron in case he didn’t want any more.

“Yes, more penguins, please.” I want to release some of the tension, so I do a little penguin walk after I put the plates down. I’m rewarded with a whoop of laughter from Jett and then I hear a groan from Hazel’s room. Jett clamps his mouth shut and I stop acting like a penguin.

“Crap,” I whisper as Hazel emerges from her room.

The term “hot mess” was coined for the look she is currently rocking. Smeared mascara, crazy hair, clothes that she didn’t bother changing out of all askew, pillow mark on her cheek.

“You . . . suck . . .” she says slowly stumbling into the kitchen with her arms out, as if she’s begging for something. I quickly pour a cup of coffee and hand it to her. She stands over it, as a caveman must have stood over a fire when he first lit one. For a moment, she just breathes it in, and then she starts sipping.

“Better?” I say, going to the waffle iron and pouring in a second batch. I’m going to be making a lot more if Hazel wants some now.

She slumps down in the only other chair, so I’ll be forced to lean against the counter. Or I would have, but Jett gets up and motions to the chair.

“I have to deal with the waffles. It’s fine.” He sits down again and Hazel is still enthralled with her coffee. It’ll take at least one more cup for her to be human. And then she’ll probably still go back to bed for a few hours to sleep the rest of her hangover off.

“You know, I think we need to get you a chair,” I say as Jett drowns his penguin pancakes in more syrup.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but I’m not making him stand every time he comes over.

We finish the rest of the waffles and Hazel goes back to bed. Since I’m destitute from buying Jett food, and splurging on the pajamas, we go to the local thrift store to get Jett a chair, despite his protests. As a compromise, he drives.

“Okay, so since you’re the one who’s going to do most of the sitting in it, I think you should get to choose.” I make Jett wait while I assemble the three candidates for him to judge.

“Here, we have chair number one. It is a lovely . . . mahogany chair with lots of . . . chair-like features. Plus, it has four legs, so you don’t fall over.” I present it to him with a flourish of my arm.

“Well, that is a stunning prospect,” he says, clapping.

“And here we have chair number two. It is from the early . . . psychedelic period and is pre-rusted for added style.” He takes in the second chair and claps again.

“Another solid choice. This isn’t going to be easy,” he says.

“Oh, but wait. There is one more choice.” I present the third chair. “This little beauty comes all the way to you from the exotic location of Topeka, Kansas and features a lovely finish, that has been delicately chipped to give it that rustic feel.” In case you couldn’t tell, the third chair is my favorite. It will go best with the other two we already have, and it’s the least beat-up of the three.

“Well, these are all solid choices.” Jett walks up and down in front of the chairs. “You make very good points on all of them.” He taps his chin, thinking.

“But I think I’m going to choose chair number three.” He puts his hands on it and this time I clap.

“Good. That was the one I was hoping you’d pick.”

“Yes, your hints were very subtle.”

“Well, what are you doing? Try it out. You can’t really pick it unless you sit in it.” He agrees and sits down, sighing.

“Yup. This is the one.” I decide that he can’t really try it out without me, so I sit on his lap.

“Perfect. I like this chair.” I lean down and give him a kiss.

“Me too.” I hear a woman sigh about “young love” not that far away from us. Yeah, I’m sure we’re disgusting. I wouldn’t be able to stand me either.

After picking the chair, we go through the rest of the store, picking out the weirdest and wackiest items. Jett forces me into the ugliest sweater ever born from a knitting machine. It’s dingy army green with orange balls on it, and a giant ugly cat face on the back. I force him into an equally ugly sweater that looks like one Bill Cosby might have worn if he was on acid. We take pictures on our phones, and actually end up buying them for potential Ugly Sweater parties that people are always having.

Jett also talks me into buying a ceramic cup that is shaped like a bear that’s running. It doesn’t sound bad, but it’s poorly painted, and the eyes are so big and crooked, it’s cross-eyed.

“Don’t you feel bad for him? He’s just sitting here with no one to wuv him,” Jett says, picking up the bear and pouting. He could get me to do anything with that pout. Anything.