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Chapter 33

Jace's house is so similar to mine, there leaves no doubt it was built by the same people, at the same time. I walk up the porch steps for the first time ever and knock.

No answer.

Jace's van's in the driveway, so he should be home.

It's possible he's in his room, playing video games, and since I now have Jace's number thanks to Jonah creating a group chat titled "Passenger Princess," I could call him, but… I left my phone at home.

I knock again.

This time, it takes a few seconds to hear movement from the other side. A moment later, the door opens and I come face to face with an almost stranger. I say almost because I'd seen the man before, usually face down on the bar top in the general store.

I had no idea he was Jace's grandfather.

He stands in front of me in boxer shorts and a stained white tank top, a shaky hand gripping a can of beer, and it's hard to make out his age. His posture is drooped, sinewy, tanned skin hanging off his bones, but beneath that, I can see a hint of muscle. I picture him as a young man, as Jace, and I attempt a smile.

"Hi, Mister—Sir," I correct myself, not knowing which side of Jace's parents he's from. "Is Jace home?"

The man lifts the beer to his lips, his hand trembling the entire way, and he glares at me beneath gray, bushy eyebrows as he drinks, drinks… drinks some more. When he's finally done, he throws the empty beer can over his shoulder, then belches. Right in my face.

I can smell him—a horrid stench of beer and body odor, and still, I remain in my spot, not letting him get to me, and make sure my smile doesn't falter for even a second.

Another burp later, and he asks, his voice gruff, "Who the fuck are you?"

I stand taller, refusing to let him intimidate me. "My name's Harlow." I point toward my house. "My family moved in over the summer. We're right next door."

His response is a grunt. Nothing more.

I ring my hands in front of me and attempt to look over his shoulder. It's too dark to make out much of anything in his house besides the television blaring loudly. I focus my attention on the man in front of me, eying me with open disgust. "Is Jace home?"

He takes a step back, I assume to call out to his grandson, but no.

He slams the door in my face.

I release the breath I'd been holding and spin on my heels. "No wonder Jace is so grumpy," I mumble. Head low, shoulders slumped, I start making my way back home, kicking at the loose gravel with the toes of my sandals.

"Harlow?"

I look up to see Jace jogging toward me, removing his over-ear headphones as he nears. He's in running shorts and a loose tank with the sleeves cut low, his tanned sides on full display. His inky dark hair is soaked, every inch of flesh glistening with sweat. It's clear he's just been for a run, but he's barely out of breath when he stops in front of me. "What are you doing?"

"My dad's home," I tell him, one eye squinted from the sun hovering behind him. "He wanted me to invite you over for dinner, so I knocked on your door, but…"

Slowly, his focus shifts from me, to his house, then back again, his eyebrows pinched. "Did anyone answer?"

I know what he's asking without him actually saying the words. "Yeah, your grandpa said you weren't home, so…"

He nods, refusing to meet my eyes. "So dinner?"

"Yeah." I smile. "Dad got some deal on steaks, so he's grilling."

Jace's eyebrows shoot up. "Steaks, huh?"

I nod, bite down on my lip to stop my grin from widening.

Flicking his hair away from his eyes, he asks, "Is your mom there?"

"No." I haven't seen or spoken to her since the night she admitted she'd rather me dead. The night before Jace told me I was beautiful. Sometimes she picks up extra shifts and opts to sleep in the hospital. Other times, who knows? All I know is that she's barely home, and I prefer it that way.

"Just give me fifteen to shower, and I'll be right over."

As promised, Jace shows up fifteen minutes later, parking his van in the rear of the property instead of the driveway. He's switched his running clothes to dark jeans and a gray shirt beneath a navy-blue, unbuttoned short-sleeve button up, and it's clear he's dressed up for the occasion. Not at all necessary, but I'm definitely not complaining.

He greets my dad first, a firm handshake followed by, "Thanks for having me, sir."

They have a brief conversation before he makes his way over to me sitting on the back steps. He's barely sat down beside me before I say, "You didn't have to dress up."

He shrugs. "You look so pretty, I thought it was a special occasion."

I look down at what I'm wearing—a simple white summer dress with tiny purple flowers. It's nothing special, but I don't wear dresses to school or work, and so Jace has never seen me in one before.

You look so pretty.

Such simple words, and yet, it's enough to make the butterflies swarm in my stomach.

You look so pretty.

I carry the words with me all throughout dinner, barely able to focus on the conversation occurring right in front of me.

Dad and Jace talk ball, of course, from college to pros. They talk about invitationals and combines, and Jace even brings up Glory Road. Dad suggests other movies and documentaries he should watch, and the only thing I can think about, the only thing I can clearly hear in my head, is:

You look so pretty.

After dinner, Dad asks Jace, "You have a ball with you?"

"Always," Jace replies.

Dad flicks his head toward the backyard. "One on one?"

Jace's face lights up. "Sure."

"Go easy," Dad tells him. "It's been a while."

It's clear after five minutes that whatever skills Dad gained playing ball, even in college, are nowhere even near Jace's level now.

"Harlow," Dad huffs, already out of breath. "Give your old man a hand."

Ball held at his side, Jace looks toward me sitting on the back step again and quirks an eyebrow. "You play?"

I stand and remove my sandals, then put my hands out in front of me, asking for the ball. He throws it to me, and I catch it, then take two steps forward.

I shoot.

Score.

Jace shifts his eyes from the hoop to me, his eyes wide. "No way…"

Dad passes me the ball again, and I dribble slowly. Stop at the free-throw line. Shoot. Score.

"Okay, Miss Buckets," Jace says, almost impressed.

"Two v one?" Dad questions, and Jace agrees.

I stand near or under the hoop mainly and catch whatever Dad throws my way. Dribble a little. Then stop to shoot. Most of the time, it goes in. But, after a few minutes of "game play," Jace chuckles, and Dad laughs with him.

"What?" I ask, standing still as I bounce the ball.

"She shoots well, huh?" Dad asks.

"Very well," Jace agrees.

"She can dribble just fine too."

"Yep," Jace replies.

"And run, I suppose," Dad adds, and Jace laughs. "She just can't do any at the same time."

My jaw drops, and I stop bouncing the ball, hold it at my side.

"Lay-ups?" Dad continues. "Forget about it."

"Thanks, Dad. Just point out all my flaws. Cool cool." I glare at him, start bouncing the ball again.

Jace murmurs, "That's a double dribble." And I throw the ball at his head. He catches it without even blinking. "Personally, I like the sound effects."

Dad laughs at that, and I…

I have no idea what they're talking about. "What sound effects?"

Dad stifles his laugh, but I still hear it.

"What sound effects?" I repeat, looking between them.

"Every time you shoot, you make this—" Jace looks to Dad, but Dad merely shakes his head, refusing to take part in this nonsense. Jace lifts the ball, his elbows bent, and as soon as the ball leaves his hand, he makes a high-pitched, feminine grunt.

"I do not!" I say, indignant.

"You do, Harlow," Dad chimes in, and Jace is laughing as he chases after the ball.

"No, I don't!"

Jace shoots again, makes the same sound.

"Shut up!" I laugh out, because it's only now I realize he's right.

Jace approaches and strokes my upper arm, bending his knees so we're eye level. "It's kind of adorable," he says.

And I almost tell him that he's kind of adorable, especially when he's up this close and I can see those freckles I've come to adore. Butterflies swarm in my stomach again, their tiny wings creating goosebumps all across my flesh, and I wish he would kiss me. I wish he would hold me in his arms and press his lips to mine and devour me.

Maybe not right here, right now, but soon, just so I know that I'm not crazy.

That I'm not the only one who feels this spark of need between us.

I wish he would kiss me, just to show me he feels it too—this visceral need to be near him.

To be wanted by him.

Held by him.

Touched by him.

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