"Right. Very dutiful of you." He pushed off from the counter and took a step closer to me. "So when you were there, watching me make an ass of myself with The Killers—was that wincing, or were you enjoying the show?"
"You didn't make an ass of yourself."
"That's not an answer."
He took another step closer. Jake was less than three feet away, close enough for me to smell a faint whiff of cologne mixed with the beer.
I chose my words carefully. "You have a good voice."
"Better than my rapping?"
"That's not a high bar."
Jake laughed. "Fair enough, but you still didn't answer my question."
I retrieved a glass from a cabinet and poured a glass, buying myself time to think. The truth was his performance mesmerized me. It wasn't only his voice but how he'd transformed from the Jake who left socks in the fridge into someone commanding, confident, and magnetic.
"I wasn't wincing."
"Good." Jake moved closer again, close enough to touch. His hair fell across his forehead in waves, and I thought about how soft it would feel against my fingers. "Because I was singing for you."
Something cracked inside me.
"Jake—"
"I know this is complicated." He paused. "I know you like things organized and predictable, and I'm neither of those things. Still, when I was up there tonight, all I could think about was whether you were watching. Whether you wanted to be there while I sang."
My grip tightened on my water glass. "I wanted to be there."
My admission was like stepping off a cliff without a net below.
Jake reached out to touch my cheek
"Can I kiss you?"
He asked for permission, and I melted. Instead of answering with words, I leaned into his touch.
Jake kissed me. It was more confident than before. He tasted like beer and something sweeter, mint gum maybe, and whenhis tongue touched mine, I forgot how to think about anything except the heat building between us.
I barely managed to set the glass on the counter without dropping it. Jake's hands were suddenly in my hair and he pushed me back against the counter. Every one of my nerve endings began firing at once.
His mouth was hot and urgent against mine, and when I pulled at his shirt—needing to reach for his bare flesh, feeling skin instead of cotton—he made a sound, something like a whimper, that pierced me to the core.
"Evan," he breathed against my lips. Hearing my name in a cloud of lust made me dizzy.
I kissed him harder, one hand sliding up under his shirt and the other gripping his waist. He was warm, solid, and real.
Jake's fingers began to work at my shirt buttons, and I arched into his effort without conscious thought. It was all inevitable. Hog was right. We'd been building toward it since Jake moved in and started disrupting my carefully ordered life.
Suddenly, my hands started to shake.
It was barely perceptible at first—only a slight tremor in my fingers that rested on Jake's waist. Then, it grew stronger, spreading up my arms until I couldn't ignore it anymore.
Jake noticed immediately. He pulled back, breathing hard, eyes dark with concern.
"Hey. You okay?"
I stared at him, taking in his swollen lips, disheveled hair, and how his shirt had ridden up slightly to reveal a strip of pale skin above his jeans. He was beautiful, and I wanted him so badly it hurt.
