Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

“I brought you a drink, Noah. Not a wedding ring. Also, the lemon juice is from a bottle—it’s not even fresh-squeezed. You totally don’t deserve fresh-squeezed juice.”

I smile a little at that. “I was a jerk.”

She nods. “Yup.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jenny sighs and looks somewhere over my shoulder, her eyes slightly unfocused as though she’s lost in thought, before she finally looks back to me.

“You know, we’ve done this a couple times now. You’re a jerk—and I mean real, grade-A asshole stuff—and then you apologize. And I say okay. But then you do it again, and I think…”

She studies me, and I’m holding my breath, hoping she won’t say what she’s about to, even though I know she will. Even though I know I deserve it.

“I think I’m done,” she says quietly. Finally.

There it is again. The stomach drop. It’s what I wanted. What I’ve been pushing for. But it doesn’t feel right.

“Whatever this is”—she waves her hand between the two of us—”it’s unlike anything I’ve felt before. But as you said, we scratched the itch, right?”

“Right,” I say, even though I’m positive my body’s not even remotely done with hers. I’ve yet to discover her taste, or what she’ll feel like when I’m buried deep inside of her. “But—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupts, holding up her hand and leveling an unsmiling, zero-bullshit look at me. “Let’s just avoid each other as best we can until I leave.”

“Which is when?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

This time she does smile, but it’s a sad one that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m thinking the sooner the better. Aren’t you?”

No.

But I don’t say it. I don’t say anything as she sidesteps me and walks into the house.

I stand there unmoving for several minutes, wishing I’d carried my drink with me instead of leaving it in the shed. I think about going back for it, but what I really need is water, and maybe someone to explain how the hell this girl has gotten under my skin so fast and so thoroughly.

I go into the kitchen, letting the door slam behind me. I automatically search for Jenny, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

I grab a glass from the cupboard, jerking open the fridge door for the pitcher of filtered water.

It takes my brain a few seconds to register what my eyes are seeing…to put it all together.

A pitcher of the drinks she made, along with a jar labeled “lemon juice” in her girly handwriting. She lied. She did hand squeeze it.

But that’s not the most damning thing.

That would be the steak.

Steaks. Plural.

As in there are two steaks on a plate, already seasoned. There’s also a plate of vegetables carefully lined up on skewers, just waiting to be grilled.

I try to tell myself not to read into it. That maybe she’s having a friend over for dinner.

But I know better. That’s what the cocktail was for. And the dress.

Jenny Dawson was planning to cook dinner. For me.

No, for us.

And as I stand there, trying to tell myself that I dodged a bullet, all I can think is that it feels like I took the bullet right in the chest.