Professor Feelgood (Page 66)

Ah, yes. Mr. Stone was always warm and supportive. I remember the time Jake told his dad he wasn’t going to follow in his footsteps and become a cop, and Mr. Stone had shoved him into the kitchen wall so hard, it cracked the plaster. Jake was ten.

“Well, at least he was consistent to the end,” I say.

“Yeah.” Jake picks some fluff off the sofa cushion. “He did one thing that surprised me, though. When I told him I’d be working with you, he said two words.”

“Let me guess – Get out? Quit now? Do drugs?”

Jakes stands and looks down at me. “He said, ‘Marry her.’” He shakes his head. “He may have hated my guts, but he always loved you.”

I sit in stunned silence as he gathers up empty coffee cups and half-eaten pastries from the coffee table and takes them over to the trash.

“Jake?” He turns to me. “Do you want some company tonight? I wouldn’t mind saying goodbye to your dad, too.” No matter how rocky their relationship was, I know that this is something he absolutely shouldn’t do alone.

“Are you sure? It’s Friday night. You probably have a million more important things to do.”

I shake my head. “Nothing’s more important than this. I wasn’t there for you in the past, but I sure as hell can be now.”

He nods, and I don’t miss how relieved he seems. “So, friends can’t hug or hold hands, but they can attend the ritual incineration of recently deceased family members?”

I smile. “They absolutely can.”

TWENTY-ONE

____________________

No Regrets

ALL FRIENDSHIPS ARE DIFFERENT. Some are so strong they can weather any storm, while other are so fragile, they’d disintegrate in the mildest breeze. Then there are those that defy definition. They straddle an invisible line like a circus performer on the high wire, and you’re not sure if you’re craving the comfort of making it safely to the other side, or the stomach-tingling exhilaration of an unexpected fall. It’s those friendships that can either result in lifelong bonds, or a sudden and inglorious curtain call.

That’s where Jake and I have been living for the past few weeks––right in the middle of a teetering balancing act that could go either way at any second.

Since our close call last month at the HEA party, the pressure to be our past selves isn’t a problem. Despite our years of animosity strung together by hurt feelings and blame, spending time with him is like putting on a favorite record; I may not have listened to it in a while, but I know every note and lyric. He still makes me laugh like he used to. He still has a giant heart, fluctuating levels of patience, and a stubborn streak as wide as the Grand Canyon. We still fit together in so many important ways, but there’s also a lot that’s different. Like the way I can’t help but stare at him when he’s not watching; the tight pull in my chest every time he writes about his time with Ingrid; the subtle dance of distance we engage in to ensure we don’t stand close enough to trigger tense moments of mutual longing.

I’m constantly reminding myself that despite my extreme attraction to Jake, some lines just can’t be crossed. Sleeping with my author and best friend would be unprofessional and risk everything we just got back. And of course, sleeping with a man who’s still in love with someone else is just begging to have my heart broken.

But even if all those issues magically disappear, and I’m free to act on my most base urges, let’s not forget my pesky intimacy disorder that would bring any sexual activity to a screeching and embarrassing halt. Falling for Jake amid all of these obstacles would be emotional suicide, and yet … I can’t help wanting him.

Is it any wonder I’ve started making Mylanta part of my morning routine?

There’s a saying that love is just friendship on fire, and it couldn’t be more true. Right now, I feel like I’m living in a burning building, and even though there’s a chance I’ll be incinerated, I’m just sitting here roasting marshmallows and humming the chorus from “Disco Inferno” to drown out the sound of sirens.

“You sure you don’t want to join me?” Jake asks. He’s shirtless, sweaty, and holding some sort of crazy inverted yoga pose that makes all his muscles pop in the most distracting ways. I don’t know how he can only be wearing long shorts this morning. Even with him unintentionally raising my temperature, my gray fleece sweats are only just keeping out the chill.

“Totally sure. Thanks for asking.” The one time I’d agreed to try yoga with him, he’d guided my alignment with gentle, electro-charged hands. “Lift this arm a bit. Rotate that leg. Get your butt as high as you can.” He’d said that last one while standing behind me with his huge hands gripping my hips. After that, whenever he said the name of the position, all I could think of was Downward Doggy style, and then I couldn’t stop blushing. Of course, that meant I kept losing my line, which in turn led to him putting his hands on me more, etc, etc. In the end, I only made it through fifteen minutes of slow-moving sensual torture before I tapped out.

Now, he usually does this stuff before I arrive each morning, but I wanted to get an early start today, so here we are. I try to keep my eyes on my computer screen, but my head seems to turn of its own volition. He may be on the other side of the apartment, but because of his stupid non-walls, there’s nothing to block his insane physique from my view. I’m sure he has an unnatural number of abs.

“Stop counting my abs,” he says in a tired tone as he lowers himself into a position where he’s holding himself off the floor with just one arm. “I’ve already told you, I’m not abnormal.”

“Well, that’s debatable. You don’t like cake. That makes you a total weirdo.”

“Yeah, well you’re a coffee-hater who’s addicted to coffee. Glass houses, lady.”

I salute him with my coffee cup before finishing off the dregs. God, how can something with four sugars and a bunch of creamer still be so goddamn bitter? If my brain didn’t scream for its regular hits of caffeine, I would have given it up years ago.

Redoubling my efforts to keep my eyes off Jake and his magnificent body, I go back to typing up his work from the previous day. Despite the constant simmer of sexual tension between us, the book is starting to take shape. Both Serena and Mr. Whip have been receiving chapters as we finish them, and they’re pleased with our progress.

My computer emits a low beep as an instant message pops up on my screen. It’s from Joanna.

<Heyyyyy. Watcha up to?>

<Not gawking at Jake doing hot yoga, that’s for sure.>

<Ugh. You have the toughest job. Got time to give me a call? I did something you may be angry about. Don’t call until you’re sure Jake can’t hear you. I’ll be waiting.>

Well, that’s mysterious and intriguing.

I glance over at Jake. He’s doing a plank position with his feet off the ground. My God, his core strength must be off-the-charts.

I grab my phone and purse and head toward to door. “Going to get snacks. You want anything?”

He lowers himself to the ground. “Cheetos, M&Ms, Oreos, Cool Ranch Doritos, Fruit Loops, Snickers, a couple of tubs of Betty Crocker frosting … you know. The usual.”

I shake my head in disgust. “How do you not have every single type of diabetes?” I open the door and step out onto the landing.