Runaway Girl (Girl 2)

“Jason.” Slowly, he rubs the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “And it doesn’t have anything to do with being a gentleman.”

“Oh no?”

“No.” His smirk is patronizing—and close, so close—but I’m too flustered to admonish him. “You want to unload, I’m just letting you know I’m here to help you do it.”

If I was damp before, I’m growing dangerously close to soaked now, the area below my belly button in a permanent squeeze. He’s not supposed to make me feel this way, is he? It’s wild and indecent and…I’ve never experienced it before. “I-I thought we were friends.”

“We are.” A floorboard creaks as he takes a step closer, his eyes flickering to my mouth. “I’m talking about a shoulder to lean on, beauty queen. What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” I breathe, shooting past him to the soundtrack of his low chuckle. “Have the guests arrived yet?”

“No,” Birdie says, stomping into the room and plowing through the shopping bags. “What’s all this stuff? Tranquilizers? Please say it’s tranquilizers.”

I shoo her hands away. “You’ll have to wait and see. Is the living room clean?”

Jason reaches over my shoulder to search the bags. I slap his hand away, too.

“Well?” I ask, hands on hips.

“It’s decent,” Jason says, shrugging. “I was told my only job was to wear a shirt.”

I turn to face him and ram back into the counter when I find him a mere foot away. “It’s nice to know you own one.”

He flashes his teeth. “I own at least six.”

Lord, I wish he wouldn’t smile. It’s disconcerting. I’ve just gotten used to the permanent scowl. “Next we’ll work on an iron.”

“Don’t push it, baby.”

Birdie’s groan turns me back around. “BRB while I slam my head in a door to forget I ever heard my brother call someone baby.”

The conversation is making me anxious. Or maybe it’s the giant soldier radiating heat behind me while a T-shirt barely contains his muscle. I don’t know. “Birdie, cut these limes up into little wedges. Mr. Bristow, do you have cocktail glasses?

He leans a forearm on the island. “What do you think?”

“Regular glasses will suffice. How many friends are coming over?”

“Six.”

“Seven glasses if you please, Mr. Bristow.”

Jason pushes away with a sigh and I hear glasses hitting the counter with little clinks a second later. It takes some fast handiwork, but by the time the doorbell rings, I’ve managed to whip up seven blueberry Moscow mule mocktails with sugar on the rim, although I leave the sweet stuff off of Birdie’s drink in deference to her diabetes. And I add cute pink straws, just because I can. I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath as I worked. When I step back, though, I find Jason and Birdie watching me with their jaws in the vicinity of the ground.

Birdie shakes her head. “Holy shit. This is the first time I’ve had the urge to Instagram a food or drink item. You’ve turned me into a lemming.”

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.” I adjust a slipping lime. “Well. Go answer the door. I’ll bring these out on a tray after the appropriate greetings have been made and everyone is seated. They won’t have coats to take, being that it’s May in Florida. I’ll give you a three-minute lead time.”

“Three minutes. Okay, I can do that.” Birdie starts to leave but turns back around. “What is an appropriate greeting?”

“Comment on the weather. Ask them about school. People love gawking at the insides of other people’s houses, so they’ll only be half listening, anyway.”

“Right.”

Birdie jogs from the room and I can no longer ignore Jason’s stare. It’s been burning a hole in the side of my head since I started making the mocktails. “Yes?”

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I enjoyed doing it.”

Jason clears his throat. “They look great. I probably wouldn’t have thought to offer them something to drink.” He sends a look toward the kitchen door. “Damn, I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m the furthest thing from parent material there is.”

I’m beginning to wonder how many complicated layers exist underneath Jason’s invincible soldier façade. I’ve witnessed him twice in the midst of what seemed like a panic attack and I don’t need a degree to know he’s fighting a serious mental battle due to his time overseas. This man is not used to feeling inadequate, and being Birdie’s guardian makes him feel that way in spades. I think that’s what he’s trying to tell me in his own gruff way.

“You would have thought of something. I just beat you to it.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I liked your wine. That night you came to dinner.”

My finger flies on its own to jab him in the chest. “I knew it,” I gasp. “Wait. What made you tell me that now?”