Professor Feelgood (Page 33)

He’s not wrong about that. The dull pounding from earlier is becoming sharper with each passing minute, despite the painkillers.

I send positive thoughts to the Advil in my stomach, willing them to dissolve faster. “You shouldn’t even be in here. It’s the ladies’ room.”

“Well then, technically you shouldn’t be in here, either.”

I ignore the jab. “You know you have a whole room of people waiting for you, right?”

“I told them I needed to go to the bathroom, which is true. It just so happens I got sidetracked by you looking sad and pathetic.”

He grabs some more paper towels and places them against the existing wad. “And I know you’re all about pleasing me these days, because I’m your star author and all, but I could have done without the roadkill impersonation.”

When I frown up at him, he turns me and gestures to my reflection.

“Dead emo raccoon,” he says. “Uncanny likeness.”

Crap. By scrubbing at my face, all I’d done was smear my long-wear mascara and eyeliner everywhere. I look like something out of a Japanese horror movie.

I drop my head in defeat before grabbing some towels and wiping around my eyes until they’re sore and puffy.

“Much like you,” I say, weariness coloring my tone, “this day can officially go screw itself.”

Jake chuckles, and I’m suddenly aware his chest is mere inches away from my face. He’s so big these days, he makes the space around me feel small, and his thick t-shirt is doing nothing to camouflage all his stupid muscles.

You don’t find him sexy, I remind myself. Notsexy, notsexy, notsexy.

Despite my new mantra, parts of me react to his closeness favorably. And when I say favorably, I mean with vicious and unwanted arousal.

I throw the paper towel I’m gripping into the trashcan and close my eyes. If only there were a Snapchat filter that could make this grown-up, crazy-hot version of Jake seem gross and disgusting.

God, technology, get with the program, please. You’re no help.

Even with my eyes closed, his nearness is dizzying. The scent that infused his jacket last night is wafting over me, all citrusy and clean. I’m getting more uncomfortable with this whole situation by the second.

“Hey.” He shakes me a little. “Look at me.” He cups my cheek and tilts my head up.

“What?” I open my eyes, but focus on the dark scruff on his jaw.

“Asha.” He bends down so he can look into my eyes, and the second our gazes lock, a whole mess of memories tangle together, trying to struggle to the surface. I get flashes of him as a boy, dabbing at my bloody knees after I fell playing basketball. Him pounding on Kelvin Stott for shoving me into a patch of mud at school. Him holding my hand every time we crossed the street to make sure I was safe.

Protector Jake. It’s been a long time since he’s emerged. Part of me has really missed him. I’d forgotten how much I used to crave his comfort. So much so, I have to close my eyes again to block him out.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep. You might have a concussion.”

“I’m not sleeping. I’m just …”

After everything that’s happened this morning, the thing I’m most distressed about is how Jake taking care of me and pressing his warm, lemon-scented hand to my head is making my throat tight and my eyes prickle. The world is officially backward today.

“Jake … stop.”

“Why?”

“Because …” I take a breath and push him away. “I can take care of myself.”

He stares at me for a second, his jaw tense. I stare back, trying to appear stronger than I feel.

Honestly, being around him is exhausting. And it’s not because of our constant enmity or verbal sparring matches, even though those are draining. It’s because we’re being crushed beneath the weight of all the things we’re not saying. All the topics of conversation that lead down paths that have been torn up and paved over.

Jake stares for a few more seconds, then passes me a fresh paper towel. “If you say so.”

I press the towel to my head, and when I pull it away, there’s barely any blood at all. Thank God.

“See?” I say, showing him. “My super-human healing has kicked in. You can go back to the meeting.” And vacate this tiny, enclosed space where I can’t get away from you or the confronting things you make me feel.

I turn back to the mirror to finish my facial fix-it job, unsurprised when he doesn’t leave.

“One of the reasons I came to find you,” he says, “was to talk about the text Joanna sent. You want to pretend we don’t know each other?”

I open my small makeup bag and apply concealer to my puffy face. “No, but I think it would be for the best. Our history isn’t relevant. And honestly, with me campaigning so hard for you, and then you having it written into your contract that I have to be your editor … it would look bad.”

“Okay. I see that.”

I look at him in the mirror. “This whole process has already been full of drama. I don’t want any more.” His mouth twitches at that, so I clarify, “If Serena and Mr. Whip found out you catfished me, it would throw this whole deal into doubt.”

He takes a step forward. “Catfishing means I misrepresented myself. I didn’t.”

“Not exactly true. The professor seemed to be someone unique and amazing when in fact he was just … well … you.”

In the mirror, I see him lean back against the stall and cross his arms over his chest. “Ever consider that I’ve always been unique and amazing, and you’ve just failed to realize it?”

“No. But then again, I never believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny due to a lack of evidence, so …”

I’m used to Jake looking at me with disdain and scorn, but right now, his expression is unfamiliar. If I had to take a guess, I’d peg it as a mixture between smug and patient.

“In that case …” He reaches down to grab something from the floor then places a crumpled paper bag onto the counter next to me. “Merry Christmas from the Grinch.”

I frown at the package. “What’s this?”

“Open it.”

With a distrustful look, I pick up the bag and carefully pull it open. Knowing Jake, it’s probably a dead rat. Or maybe a rattlesnake.

When I see what’s inside, the pounding in my head doubles. I look over at Jake, perplexed and more than a little surprised. “How did you …?” I reach into the bag and pull out my beloved Burberry coat. I thought I’d never see it again. “Jake … I––”

He shifts his weight, seeming uncomfortable with my impending gratitude. That’s understandable. We’re more used to living in a state of constant adversarial angst than exchanging normal human pleasantries.

“Don’t go all soppy on me, princess. I ended up going back to that bar last night to meet someone, so I picked it up. There’s nothing more to it. If you froze to death in the coming weeks because you didn’t have a coat, I wouldn’t have an editor, and that would be inconvenient. So, it was more for me than for you.”

He picks up the collection of soggy and bloody paper towels from the counter and scrunches them into a giant wad. “And you might want to use that coat to cover up before going back into the meeting. Your shirt is totally transparent.” He tosses the towels into the trash.