Charming Like Us (Like Us 7)

I thumb the sensitive spot around his tip, and he swallows hard, his other hand flying to the back of his head. Got him.

Jack bites down on the sucker stick to force back a noise.

And then Charlie stirs, the program falling off his face. We both go rigid and retract our hands. Charlie is…still sleeping. Eyes shut.

I touch my earpiece. Working. I’m working. Shouldn’t have fallen into that so easily. “Sorry, Highland,” I breathe.

“Don’t be sorry.” He pops out the sucker stick, pent-up tension in his flexed shoulders. “I should get back to this too.” He unpacks his Canon to take more footage for the show.

No one has ever been that understanding when I have to prioritize work. Hell, I’ve never been able to have a date on-duty—or a non-date. Whatever the fuck we’re doing.

On occasion, his job can even be more grueling than mine, and I respect his tireless work ethic. But I’m just thinking about after. When I’m off-duty tonight. He’s put away his camera. I don’t really care what time it is or how long we’ve been awake. And considering he fought exhaustion before just to talk to me, I don’t think he’ll care either.

So I whisper, “Highland?”

“Hm?”

“It’ll probably be another late-night. You can stay at my place, if you don’t want to drive back.”

He smiles. “I’d like that.”

20

JACK HIGHLAND

Oscar switches on a Phillies game and passes me a beer bottle. The leather couch bobs as he sinks down beside me. We undo our black bowties and pop a few constricting buttons of our white shirts. After the ballet, coming back to his studio apartment feels like the hottest romantic invite I’ve ever been extended.

So I took it.

There is no denying how attracted I am to him, or how badly I’d like things to progress upstairs. To his loft. His bed.

But I can’t tell if that’s where this is going.

Not yet, anyway.

“Try these.” I pass him a bag of corn nuts, which I packed in my camera bag for him.

Oscar reads the label. “Boy Bawang Cornick. Chili cheese flavored.” He grins as he rips open the snack-sized bag. “Are these your favorite, Highland?”

“They’re up there, as far as Filipino snacks go.”

He tosses a corn nut in his mouth, crunches, and my smile widens while he assesses. He blows out a breath and swigs his beer.

“Too spicy?” I laugh and grab a different snack.

“Should’ve warned you, I’m a baby when it comes to food that makes me breathe fire.” He takes another hearty swig. “And then you have my sister Jo who carries around a bottle of molho picante.” He explains, “Brazilian hot sauce.”

I take the Cornick from him. “Looks like me and your sister are two peas in a pod.”

Oscar gives me a look. “If all it takes is spicy corn nuts to get in the same pod as you, then hand them back.” He reaches for the bag, and I put a hand to his chest.

We both flex, heat pulsing my veins, and I raise another snack bag. “Clover Chips. Plain cheese flavored.” I chuck them lightly, and he catches.

While he tears the bag, I cut the taut silence. “Jesse loves the garlic flavored Cornick. Next time I see you, I’ll bring some.”

His mouth lifts, almost grinning. Almost because he seems to stare off for half-a-second while he digs into the cheesy melt-in-your-mouth chips. It’s not surprising since Oscar has been hot and cold towards me.

But it is alarming.

Fuck, my leg nearly bounces. That hasn’t happened in a while. When I was ten, eleven, my leg would jostle, I’d break out in a sweat, my throat would close up—all because a teacher called on me to answer a question or I’d need to recite a poem in front of the class.

I look at myself in the past five years—speaking to network heads, interviewing celebrities—and I feel like a different person. My parents paid for a tutor to help me with public speaking when I was younger, and after a while, my anxiety retreated.

I learned to breathe.

Inhale. Exhale.

I learned to believe that I can. Even when it feels like I can’t.

Breath and confidence have guided me without a stumble for years, but with WAC filming starting, plus the stress of Charlie’s show, and the newness of what’s happening between me and Oscar—my anxiety has made a slow but mighty return.

I exhale.

My leg stays stationary. “Verdict?” I ask him.

He pops a chip in his mouth, and a satisfied noise rumbles out. “So good,” he expresses as he shovels a handful between his lips.

I smile in a sip of beer. We eat Clover Chips, drink, and talk about the Phillies. After Oscar groans when the Braves hit a homerun, bases loaded, I ask him, “Baseball is your favorite sport?”

“To watch, yeah. What about you?” He washes down chips with beer.