“Do I hear the doorbell?” she asks.
“You hear the doorbell. Expecting anyone?”
“No. Maybe it’s Boone coming to check on you.”
My heart begins to patter at the sound of his name and thought that he might—could possibly, although not likely—be here. To see me.
Ding-dong.
“Shit,” I say, wiping my hands off on an eggshell-blue towel that probably isn’t for wiping hands on. “I … gotta go. I also owe you a decorative towel.”
“Oh, Jaxi.”
“Sorry,” I eek out.
“Don’t worry about the towel now. Just check your face in the mirror before you open the door.” She sucks in a breath. “I’ve seen you cook. And check your teeth!”
“Okay. Check face. Check teeth. Got it,” I say, blowing out a breath. “Bye, friend.”
“Bye, Jaxi.”
I push the red button on the phone before spinning around and heading for the door.
My body is awash with excitement even though it’s likely not Boone at the door. It’s probably a salesman with a brochure in his hand.
I pause at the mirror as instructed. My hair is wild, and my face is a little sweaty. I fix myself up as quickly as I can, say a prayer that if it is Boone, I can manage not to act as ridiculous as yesterday, and then tug the door open.
A zip of energy bolts through my system as my eyes land in a sea of green.
Seven
Boone
Wow.
My lips are parted. The words—some dumb line I prepped on the walk over to Libby’s—are on the tip of my tongue. Nothing comes out, though.
My gaze falls on Jaxi as she stands at the threshold of the door, and the line I’d prepped so carefully fizzles away.
She’s a mess. Dots of liquid and a plethora of crumbs decorate her shirt. There’s a dark stain on the thigh of her right leg, and on the left side of her face near her ear, a glob of red has taken up shop.
Yesterday, Jaxi was calm and collected. Today, she’s a hot mess—emphasis on the hot.
There’s something about her like this—something approachable and a little vulnerable—that appeals to me on a level I feel deep inside my bones.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” I say, running a hand through my hair and reminding myself to play it cool.
She cracks a grin that makes her eyes sparkle. “What brings you by this fine evening? Did you happen to smell the wonderful aroma of spaghetti with meat sauce that I have bubbling away in the kitchen?”
“Spaghetti? That makes sense.”
She wrinkles her forehead. “So, you smelled it?”
“No.” I point to the spot of red next to her ear. “I was going back and forth between ketchup and hot sauce. But spaghetti makes more sense.”
Her eyes go wide as she places a palm to the side of her head. When she pulls it back, it’s streaked with pureed tomatoes.
“I’m glad you didn’t decide to cook at my house yesterday,” I tease.
Jaxi’s lips twist into a pursed pout. “Keep it up, and I’ll break in on Monday while you’re at work and make a six-course meal.”
“Thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to lock all of my windows.”
She laughs. The sound drifts through the air and lifts the corners of my mouth toward the sky.
In an instant, I’m glad I came over. I almost didn’t. I nearly went to Gramps’ to watch golf instead because my cousin Larissa told me that Jaxi might want to be alone—especially since she didn’t invite me in last night.
It’s lucky I followed my gut because I think Jaxi’s happy to see me.
She takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “So …”
“So …”
“So, I made you dinner. I was going to bring it by in a little while. It’s just spaghetti, so it’s not a big deal at all,” she says in a rush, brushing a hand through the air.
She made me dinner?
“I—”
“It’s just a silly way for me to say thank you for helping me out yesterday,” she says, her words running right on top of mine. “I’m not a great cook, though, so it’s not some gourmet thing that you should get excited about. Keep your expectations low. Quite frankly, you might still have to order takeout but—”
“Breathe,” I tell her, laughing. “How can you say that many words in a row and not take a breath? It’s impressive, but I’m worried you’re going to pass out.”
Her cheeks flush. “My mom always said that she knew when I was nervous because I would start talking really fast.”
Nervous?
I reach with a hesitant touch and wipe the remaining smear of sauce off her face. She stills, her skin warm beneath mine, as my thumb grazes her cheek. It’s an impulsive move. I don’t realize I’m doing it until it’s done.
My stomach twists once my hand is back to my side. What if I just overstepped my bounds? But, as I search her eyes, I think I’m okay.
“Now,” I say, watching the pupils of her eyes steady, “let’s start over. Did you say you made me food?”
I don’t think she notices that she touches the spot my hand just occupied.
“Tried,” she says, smiling. “I said that I tried to make you food. I didn’t know what else to do.”
I grin. “You didn’t have to do anything. Food is definitely my love language, though—”
“Love language? I’m not speaking to you in love languages.” She shakes a finger at me. “It was a goodwill gesture. That is all.”
“Calm down.” I chuckle. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
As soon as I say the words, I want to recant them. What if I did mean it like that? I mean, I didn’t. I’m not totally sure what a love language even means. But what would be so terrible about wanting to speak to me in one?
I’m lovable, dammit.
I cross my arms over my chest.
She does the same. “What?”
“I’m love language-able.”
She bursts into a fit of laughter.
“I am,” I insist.
“Are your feelings hurt that I’m not talking to you in a love language?”
I think about this. “Yes.”
“You know,” she says, resting her head on the door. “You’re more offended about this than the fact that I broke into your house yesterday.”
“Because this is more personal.”
“More personal than your personal space?”
I nod. “Yes. My personal space is space. My love language is my person. Or about my person. You know what I mean. It cuts deep that you refuse to consider that you’d talk to me in a love language.”
“Well, genius, I don’t love you. Speaking to you like that wouldn’t be necessary, now would it?”
Good point.
She laughs and pulls the door open. “Do you want to come in and get this food or not?”
“I would love to.” I lift my chin and walk inside. “Because I’m not afraid of love things.”
She snorts but otherwise ignores my poke at her.
We move through the foyer and into Libby’s kitchen.