The Match (It Happened in Charleston 1)

“Get some slip-ons.” I flash him a haughty grin. “And allow me to point out that you’re not busy right this minute.”

His smile falters ever so slightly. “I don’t have my swim trunks on.”

Oh, silly little practical Jake. As you’re about to find out, I don’t give one hill of beans if your trunks are on or not.

I smile wickedly, and then, before he has time to process the evil about to befall him, I give him a shove from behind and dump his practical butt in the pool.

He comes up out of the water like a cologne ad that never made it to live television because it was too sensual. His navy shirt is clinging to his chiseled body, and his hair is dripping wet before he dashes his hand through it, sending glistening water droplets through the air—and basically, I’ve never been prouder of a decision in my entire life.

Sam has dissolved into a fit of laughter beside me, and I’m pretty sure that Charlie just called Jake a moron under his breath. (Obviously, he likes Jake, but I think he’s a tad bit jealous of our new friendship. He can go cry to Rachel Green.)

“Laugh it up, chuckles,” Jake says with a heart-melting smile. “You’re next.”

I see what he’s doing. He’s inching toward the edge of the pool with a smirk that says I’m coming for you. Jake is so certain that I’m going to scream and run away like the girl who just got her hair done and would rather die than ruin her blowout. He doesn’t know me very well yet, and my hair appointment is so overdue I think my hairstylist has given up on me completely.

Ladies, if you don’t take any other advice from me, listen to these words, because they are the most important you will ever hear: if a sexy man is in a pool and smiling at you like Jake is smiling at me, don’t waste a single moment standing on the side.

Before he has a chance to make it to the stairs, I take off running and cannonball in right beside him.

Chapter Sixteen

EVIE

I’m wringing out my hair from my shower and listening to Leon Bridges croon over the speakers. I have a sweet, warm, scented candle lit on my coffee table, and everything is right with the world. It’s been a good week. A good day, especially.

I can’t put my finger on it, but something about me feels different. I’m still working my same job; I still have my same thimble-sized apartment; there is still the same chance I’ll have a seizure today as there was yesterday, but something feels different. It’s like I had a pile of books stacked on my desk, and although I can’t be certain, I think someone came in at some point and rearranged them. I’m rearranged.

Laughing in the pool tonight with Jake and Sam made me feel a sense of belonging. It scares me as much as it excites me, but I don’t want to give into the fear. I still feel like I’m sitting up in the nosebleeds, but maybe I’m ready to walk down a few flights of stairs to get closer to the field.

I think Jake feels this way too. I could try to talk myself out of it—run a fake play on my own heart and choose to believe that he’s not interested in me. But here’s the thing: I catch him looking at me a lot. And it’s not a normal look. It’s a smoldering, knock-your-socks-off-kissing-until-midnight kind of look. He’s at least attracted to me—I know that much.

So, what kind of dance are we doing here?

I just finish squeezing the water out of my hair and neatly hang up my towel on the drying rack (ha ha, just kidding! It’s laying in a bundle on the floor where it will probably live for the rest of the week), when I hear a knock at my door.

“Did you order cookies again?” I ask the lazy dog lying on my bed.

He gives me a look that says stop blaming your poor eating habits on me and then lays his head back down. It’s a good thing he’s so cute.

I open the door and then realize I should have looked through the peephole first. I could have just opened the door to a murderer, or a rapist, or—gasp—my mama. But thanks to my incredible luck in life lately, I open the door to none other than Jacob Broaden.

“Jake!” I say, and whoa I need to simmer down because I sound WAY too excited to see him. Play it cool. I’m supposed to be walking down the stairs toward the field, not full-on sprinting and skipping steps.

He likes it, though, because he smiles when he says, “Hey, Evie.”

Then his gaze drops and takes in what I’m wearing.

And this is the moment that I remember what a lovely ensemble I am wearing. I have on an XL shirt that says “Dolly is my spirit animal” which lands just above my knees, tall socks, and NO BRA. To make it worse, I am wearing flannel PJ shorts under my shirt, but there’s no way you can see those, so basically, I look like the world's biggest hussy right now. But it isn’t my fault! I obviously wouldn’t have worn this if I knew Jake was coming by.

Although, I have to admit that I am enjoying the appreciative look in his eye.

No. Bad, Evie.

I fold my arms across my chest (but let’s face it, my boobs are so small that this part is only for show) and feel the need to blurt, “I’m wearing shorts!” And if that wasn’t stupid enough, I uncross one arm to lift up my shirt just enough to show him my green-and-red-checkered flannel bottoms.

He’s so smug now. I swear he looks like a man that’s just been told he won GQ magazine’s Sexiest Man of the Year award. I’m squirming under his gaze, and he’s loving the effect he has on me. “I like the Christmas trees on them,” he says, and YES, I do wear Christmas PJs in July.

“It feels wrong to leave something in my drawer all year just because it’s 80 degrees out. Do you want to come in?”