“Why is that?”
“Because if she were this messy, I’d have to reassess everything I thought I knew about her.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask as she begins to laugh. “This isn’t bad.”
“You have an absolutely beautiful home, and it looks like a frat house.”
My jaw drops as I turn to look around the kitchen. An empty juice container sits next to the toaster that I’ve never used. A pyramid of used K-Cups is lined up next to a pile of beef jerky wrappers and a yellow, sticky ring from an overflowed glass of lemonade highlights a dusting of lemonade powder that didn’t make it into the pitcher.
She’s not wrong. But I’m not going to admit that.
“It does not look like a frat house,” I contend. “Have you even been in a frat house?”
“Yes, I have. And, yes, it does.”
“Then I need to fire my housekeeper.”
She turns her head sideways and peers at me through the corner of her eye. “You do not have a housekeeper.”
“Yes, I do.” I nod emphatically. “Her name is Janey, and she’s a gem.”
“A gem as in she’s buried in the earth and doesn’t come to work?”
I try to stay stone-faced, but the twinkle in her eye breaks me quick.
Our laughter mixes together. The stress in my shoulders melts away, and I find myself getting a plan together to ask her to grab some dinner with me. Before I can think it through, she turns toward the doorway.
“Where are you going?” I ask, scrambling off the counter.
“Apparently, I need to break into Libby’s house now.” She looks at her elbow as she walks. “I think I’ll aim for a lower window this time. I had to jump a little to get into yours and sliced my arm.”
She pauses in the doorway to inspect her wound. I reach out and touch her wrist without thinking about it. Our eyes snap together at the contact. Slowly, our lips spread into smiles.
She rolls her arm over. Red, angry scratches mar her soft, otherwise smooth skin.
“Your window ledge is super sharp,” she says softly.
“Probably because it’s not made for people to climb in and out of.”
With a solid dose of hesitation, I drop my hand. My palm still tingles from the contact with her warm skin as my gaze flips to hers again.
“I’ll help you get into Libby’s,” I tell her. “No more climbing.”
My phone buzzes. Again.
I pull it out and see a list of texts from Coy. The previews get increasingly more hostile. Before I can hit reply to any of them, his name flashes as an incoming call. Again.
“You better get that,” she says, pointing at my phone. “I’ll figure this out on my own. No worries.”
I grin. “Nah, you’ve made it my problem now. I can’t, in good conscience, let you climb through another window. Besides, I told your cousin I’d watch out for you.”
Something I said makes her bristle.
Her back straightens in the slightest way, her chin lifting a smidgen. “I’ll be fine.”
“Yes, you will. Just let me answer my brother real quick.” I motion for her to wait and then answer the phone. “Hey, Coy.”
“You’re alive,” he deadpans.
I turn to the side and pretend to look out of the window. “Obviously.”
“You could’ve texted me that, asshole.”
“Let’s dial down the dramatics, okay?” I say, running a hand through my hair as I watch Jaxi head toward the door.
“What? You are telling me to dial down the dramatics?” He groans into the phone. “I’m going to kill you myself.”
Jaxi opens the door and steps onto the porch. I follow her.
“It was the role player, wasn’t it?” Coy asks. “Damn you, Boone. I’ve been worried, and you’ve been—”
“It wasn’t her, actually, but …”
Jaxi stops at the edge of the porch. The evening sun streams through the trees, and every ray seems to somehow find her. She stands in the glow of Golden Hour, the light giving her a soft filter.
“Are you listening to me?” my brother asks, snapping my attention back to the phone. “Oliver wants to play corn hole, and I need you on my team. Me and you against Oliver and Holt because you know Wade’s lame ass isn’t playing.”
Slowly, Jaxi drags her attention back to me. A cautious grin splits her cheeks.
My heartbeat picks up as I lean against the wall. There’s an energy between Jaxi and me, a chemistry that overrides the wild circumstance. I just met her—she just broke into my house, but I feel like I’ve known her longer than ten minutes.
I grin back at her.
“Are. You. Coming. Back?” Coy asks, irritated.
“That’s a negative. But I need a favor.”
“Of course you do.”
“Do you know a locksmith who works on an emergency basis?”
Jaxi narrows her eyes and mouths, “No.”
Coy laughs. “I think they all work that way. It’s one of those things. If you need someone to unlock a door, you don’t want to wait until the next day.”
“So do you know someone or not?”
Jaxi shakes her head back and forth while I shake mine up and down, our eyes glued together.
“Yeah,” Coy says. “Leo is still here. I mean, he’s not a locksmith, exactly, but I’m one-hundred-percent sure he can pick a lock if needed.”
“Send him to my house, okay?”
“I’m too scared to even ask why. But you owe me.”
“Thanks,” I tell him and end the call.
As soon as I put the phone back in my pocket, Jaxi groans.
“I told you that I’d figure it out,” she says warily.
“And I told you that I was going to help.”
She rolls her eyes. “You are stubborn.”
“And you are …”
Beautiful.
Three
Jaxi
Don’t do it.
Boone’s smile licks at my defenses.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was intentional.
Don’t do it. Don’t crack.
I smile back because I’m human, and it’s the polite thing to do. I also dip my chin just a touch because a little flirting—enjoying an utterly divine man’s attention—has never hurt anyone. Too much.
“I’m what?” I prod, wondering where he’s going with this.
The options are endless. He could say that I’m just as stubborn as he is. Maybe he’ll go with the fact that I’m a pseudo-felon at the moment or that I’m funny. I do have a decent sense of humor. But the way my stomach twists makes it clear that I subconsciously want him to say I’m pretty.
I fight hard not to roll my eyes at myself.
Why do I care if this guy thinks I’m pretty?
Because you’re a woman, fool.
Boone begins to answer me twice. Each time, his mouth opens and then closes. With each near-answer, my stomach does a little flip-flop that frustrates the logical part of my brain.
Finally, he seems satisfied with whatever he’s about to say. I hold my breath and hope that I’m just as satisfied … even though I’m not certain what answer that would be.