The Match (It Happened in Charleston 1)

He nods and my heart races. Jacob Broaden is going to come into my apartment. My tiny, minuscule mouse hole that really should be called a playhouse rather than an apartment because it looks like dolls could fit in here easier than humans. He ducks his head as he steps through the door, and oh my gosh, I just remembered that I’m a slob.

I quickly survey what I like to think of as my boho apartment through the eyes of Jake and see what he’s seeing.

Unfortunately, since my whole apartment is only one room, he gets to see it all. Unmade bed. Cereal bowls stacked up on my itty-bitty kitchen counter (but the butcher-block top still looks adorable). Half-empty cups of old coffee sitting on my end table. Clothing dotting the hardwood floor. And is that…? Yep! My bright-pink bra is definitely draped over the back of my couch from where I took it off as soon as I got home earlier.

I make a lunge to grab it before Jake sees it, but it’s too late. He’s looking at it now and smiling. I grab for it anyways and tuck it behind my back, aiming a tight smile at him. “Clearly, I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I’m glad. I like seeing how you live.” He looks right at me, and I think I might fall over. This apartment is too small, and he’s too big for it. If he moves, I’ll bump into him.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous having someone in my space before. Jake is so grown and adult and hot. And I’m…well, I’m grown too, but I definitely don’t feel adult. Never have. Probably never will. I’ve given up any aspirations of becoming the woman who rinses out her mug and puts it right into the dishwasher when I’m done with it. I don’t need that kind of pressure in my life.

My nerves are sizzling like bacon in a frying pan, and I feel the urge to bounce. Why is he here? I only left his house about two hours ago. His presence in my apartment doesn’t make sense.

“Did I forget something at your place?” I ask after a minute more of his quiet surveying. I want to blindfold him.

DON’T LOOK AT MY CRAZY.

“Nope.”

Oh, great. Now he’s walking fully into my apartment and sitting down on the couch. I want to laugh—no, I do laugh—because he makes my loveseat look more like an armchair.

“Okaayyy. Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?”

He grins, his dimples come out to play, and now I’m way too aware that it’s after 8 PM. He’s not texting me. He’s in my living room, breathing my air, and adding at least ten degrees of heat to the room.

“Do I make you nervous being in here?”

“No.” I shift my weight to my other foot, shove my pink bra under the blankets of my bed, push my hair behind my e

ar—don’t like that—untuck my hair. “Okay, maybe a little. Is this payback for me snooping around your room?”

He chuckles and moves his big arms to spread out over the back of my loveseat. He looks mighty comfy there. Like a man that’s in no hurry to leave. What the heck is happening?!

“Actually, I came by to bring you an invitation.” He eyes me, and his brows pull together. “Are you going to stay over there all night?”

If this were a movie, this is the part where the camera would pan to me and I’d be gone. It would have to tilt up to find me plastered in the farthest upper corner of my apartment, like Spiderman.

Why am I being so weird? I’m twenty-six years old and acting like I’ve never been alone with a man before. So what if Jake is here at my apartment? No big deal. Friends visit other friends’ apartments all the time. I just wish this friend was wearing a bra.

“An invitation?” I ask, moving closer to Jake. He scoots toward one end of the “couch” and makes room for me.

Okay. I guess I’m sitting there. With Jake. That’s fine.

I sit down, and we are so close now that I feel like I might as well be sitting on his lap. I adjust so that my legs are up in the seat with me and I’m somewhat facing Jake. Because having my feet touch his leg is way better than the whole right side of my body. Well, not better. Just friendlier and less steamy.

He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to me. There is a very childish drawing of a girl jumping into a pool drawn on the front. “I had no idea you were such an artist,” I say with a grin.

“I could say the same about you.” He nods his head toward my fruit masterpiece leaning up against the wall. “Gotta say, I didn’t take you for a butt girl.”

My face flames and I laugh. “It was supposed to be an orange.”

“Mmhmm. Sure it was.”

“Oh, go home and finish Twilight,” I say while shoving his shoulder.

He laughs, and honestly, I love the sound. It echoes off the walls, and somehow my apartment suddenly feels safer and homier.

“So, what’s this?” I’m opening the invitation and reading the few scribbled lines stating a date and time. SATURDAY, 12:00.