Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

LAINEY

I sleep horribly, full of an awful pulsing awareness that Jake's there, down the hall. He's there, and I'm…here.

I could go to his room. He did tell me that the next move is mine, but I feel incapable of going to him. He's right. I don't trust him. I definitely don't trust the urge I have to give him a break—how I've been telling myself that he had his reasons for becoming a thief, and anyway, he didn't take the watch when the old man offered it to him.

In the morning, I call Mrs. Rosings, who probably hasn't sent or received a text message in her life. She doesn't give me any grief about calling off from work. She just informs me that she hasn't secured a time for me to check out Anthony and Nina's house but is working on it.

I get ready for the day quickly and head downstairs, where I'm greeted by the delicious scent of life-giving coffee. I smile when I see that Jake has already set out a mug for me.

Don't speak to me until the cup is this empt y, it reads, with a line drawn nearly at the bottom.

I pour myself some coffee and head to the office, gasping as I stop in front of the door. Taped to it is a hand-drawn picture of Jake, me, and Professor X. I have on a scarlet cape and a matching face mask, Jake's mask and clothes are black, and Professor X is her usual petulant self, although there's a charm on her collar that looks suspiciously similar to the Heart of the Mountain.

The Love Fixer, The Love Bandit & Professor X.

Tears fill my eyes. I take a second to swallow them back, then breeze into the room, laughing when I see Jake has seated himself in his "sidekick" chair. He's wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans, his hair damp from the shower. My mind, the dirty traitor, immediately conjures images of him standing beneath the spray, his hair sopping wet, rivulets of water running down his abs.

"You could have gone for the other chair," I say. "I wasn't here to stop you."

He smiles at me. "I know my place, Prison Guard. Besides, I want you to trust me. Stealing your chair wouldn't be a good look."

The warm feeling from last night is back, pressing at me.

"Jake…I love the picture. It's…" Words fail me, and I feel heat pressing at my cheeks, so I finish with, "I love it. Thank you."

He gives me a slow, pleased smile, and I feel it in my chest, the pulse point at my neck, and the slight curl of my feet in my shoes. I want to bottle up that smile and keep it. "Good. I think I made Professor X look too regal."

"Never." Then, glancing at his screen, I add, "Any new messages?" I ask, my hand lifting to my neck.

His mouth lifts at one side. "Herpes guy definitely has herpes, and Motherfuckergate is on. She wants to do the banner. Any chance you know how to cross-stitch? I feel like that would add a little something extra."

I shake my head, fondness twining through me. "Sorry. You did good, Love Bandit." I feel the urge to touch him, to run my fingers through his hair and kiss his neck. But instead I sip some of the coffee and lower into my chair.

"You need a new website," he tells me, his brain obviously moving faster than mine. "And an advertising campaign that isn't Craigslist. I think we should use Facebook. There are a lot of pissed-off people on Facebook."

"I tried running an ad, but I mucked it up."

"We'll do it together. Tomorrow, maybe."

"You're going to help me?" I ask, wonder leaking into my voice. Because I can tell he's probably already thought of slogans. It's there in his energy—the way he's found a pen from God knows where since I can never find any and is tapping it against the desk.

He lets it fall onto the desktop. "Of course. Peter-Peter is just the beginning, Lainey."

I grin at him…and then steal his pen. "I'm going to take that as a promise."

His eyes holding mine, he grabs the pen. His lips lift—a little higher on one side, and I want to press my lips to that corner. I want to absorb it, so I can have this crooked smile—this moment—always.

He's going to leave.

He's going to leave, and that sign he drew will still be here. And I'll be remembering what it was like to be a part of a team instead of some lone, kicked-out-of-the-club X-Man. I'll still have Nicole obviously, but it won't be the same.

Staring into my eyes, he says, "I want you to take it as one."

Several hours later, after we make a satin banner for Motherfuckergate—Jake revealing an admirable skill for cursive—we're standing in downtown Asheville with a cookie basket. Claire really outdid herself with this one. There's an assortment of Fuck You Very Much cookies shaped like oversized lips, along with an equal number of Peter, Peter, Pussy Eater cookies designed to look like cats. In the center is the pièce de résistance—a cracked heart cookie reading "I want a divorce." The whole thing is encased in black, translucent plastic, but we'll unveil it once we're inside the conference room.

We're standing on Church Street, in front of an old clapboard Victorian. The only indication it's an office is some scrawled cursive branding on the window of the front door, but that only bears the man's name—Peter Jenkins.

"Do you think it's significant that his office is on Church Street?" I ask, giving Jake a sidelong look. Church Street is so named because of the multiple churches lining it. Jake is the one holding the cookie basket, because he insisted he'd "look like an asshole" if he was seen empty-handed with a woman half a foot shorter carrying a huge basket.

I told him he already looked like an asshole, and he thanked me.

He gives me one of his crooked Jake Not-Jeffries grins. "I guess we're about to find out."

We enter the building and find a rosy-cheeked woman with pin curls sitting behind the broad reception desk. She has a big smile on her face as she takes us in.

"We're here for Peter," Jake says with an answering smile. "We have a gift from his lovely wife for his big presentation."

"Oh, how delightful," she says, smiling, her gaze flitting to the enormous cookie basket wrapped up in dark plastic.

"From a local bakery," he continues.

A look of consternation furrows her brow. "Peter doesn't like to be interrupted. He can get a little tetchy about it." She pauses. "But he does have a sweet tooth, and I think he just got started. Let me take you back."

"Thank you," Jake says warmly. "I'm sure it'll make his day."

I hold back laughter, barely, as she leads us to a closed door, the wood floor creaking beneath our feet. She knocks once on the door, behind which a voice is droning on, and seconds later a man with a narrow face and dark brown eyes opens it. "What is it?"

"Are you Peter?" Jake asks, already pushing his way into the room with the cookie basket. I follow him in.

"What's this all about?" asks the man I presume to be Peter. Inside, there's a long, broad conference table, newer-looking and out of place in this lovely old house. There are twelve people sitting around the table, and it takes me half a beat to realize they're all sitting in pairs. Couples, judging from the way a few of them are turned toward each other, one pair holding hands. As we enter, their attention averts from the white board at the front of the room to the wrapped cookie basket.

I glance at the whiteboard long enough to see the message:

Save Your Marriage Bootcamp

Jake meets my gaze, and I can feel the electric glee zapping between and through us. This man is a hypocrite. A jerk. A fraud. A terrible husband and a worse teacher. And we're about to ruin him with nothing more than a basket of cookies and an inconvenient truth. I brush Jake's free hand with mine, needing to touch him, to share this moment in every way.

"I hope you're hungry," I say with a wide smile as Jake sets the cookie basket down at the head of the table. "Peter's wife wanted to send in a present for his special presentation. The cookie in the middle is for him, but I'm sure he'll be willing to share the rest."

Something passes over Peter's gaze, but he smiles broadly at the couples, who are murmuring softly to each other. "My wife and I had a little argument," he tells them. "But what you need to remember is that arguments are natural. They'll happen to everyone, no matter how solid the marriage. But you can never let an argument fester. This is Mary's way of saying she's sorry for our misunderstanding."

It's obvious the narcissistic prick means it. He actually believes his poor pregnant wife sent him a cookie basket as an apology for walking in on him giving head to another woman. The audacity is staggering.

There's something malicious in Jake's smile as he withdraws a pair of scissors from his pocket and snips the ribbon securing the black plastic covering. It springs open, revealing the basket in all of its glory. The I want a divorce cookie is the size of a dinner plate, the text large and written out in red capital letters.

Peter stares at it in disbelief, his mouth falling open, his hand lifting to his tie. It's only then I register that it's covered in tiny wedding rings.

Plucking out the central cookie, Jake slaps it on the table in front of Peter, who seems frozen. It cracks in half, which is delightfully appropriate. Then Jake pushes the basket to the first couple seated at the table. "Let's pass that around. Make sure everyone gets one. Sharing is caring, people."

"Does that say—" chokes out the first man as he pushes up his small, rectangular glasses. His eyes squint at one of the cat cookies.

The woman sitting next to him, who has a profusion of salt and pepper hair and a simple beige dress, scoffs, "If you can't say it, let alone touch it without two layers of clothing between us, I don't see this working, Theo. No amount of work will help us overcome that."

"Mary wouldn't send that," Peter snaps, finally waking up from his fugue. He pulls his tie. "Who are you?"

"The Love Bandit," Jake says, winking at me. "And you know what?" He pats Peter on the back, hard. "Sometimes sorry's not enough, buddy. Tough break. But at least she told you in a nice way. She could have asked us to dose you with laxatives and remove all the toilets. We would have done it, too. Gladly."

Glancing around at the murmuring couples seated around the table, Jake adds, "You might want to remember that if you decide you want to fuck around on your pregnant wife. And if he screws up anyway, ladies, here's how you reach us."

He throws a bunch of business cards down on the conference room table.

My first thought is: we have business cards?

My second thought is that I'm falling for Jake—or maybe I've already fallen, so dizzyingly fast I'm going to break myself. At this moment, I want him more than I think I've ever wanted anything, other than to be allowed to be myself. Goosebumps rise on my skin, and my whole being is sensitized to him. To watching him hold court and stand up for Mary, acting as her vindictive guardian angel. He's doing this for her…and for me…and it's glorious.

I trust him.

I want him, even if it can only be for another week and a half.

He's like the last cookie, tucked away in the back of the cabinet—so much sweeter for the knowledge that its quantity is limited.

The basket has continued its voyage around the table, and one man grabs a cookie, shrugs, and takes a bite right out of the center of the cat.

Jake's lips twitch. "Here's a marriage tip. Be like that guy." He points to the man with the full mouth. "He's not afraid to put his mouth where it counts. Peter isn't either, of course, but he should have shown his appreciation to his pregnant wife. That's the ticket."

Everything happens very quickly after that. Peter forms a fist and takes a clumsy swing at Jake, which he effortlessly avoids, and all of the couples get to their feet, everyone talking at once.

One man says, "Well, this is exciting," while a woman pulls out her phone, possibly to film it.

Face blazing, breath coming in puffs, Peter takes another go at Jake, who again sidesteps him—only this time, the bespectacled man standing behind Jake gets the fist in his face. His glasses release an audible crack, or maybe his nose, and he screams.

Jake gives me a wide-eyed look, a wicked smile stealing across his face, and reaches for my hand. I give it to him, and we run out into the hall, ripping past the poor, formerly cheerful receptionist. She looks completely flabbergasted, her hand lifted to her mouth.

"Thank you, sorry!" I call. "Keep up the good work."

A few steps and we're in the lobby, and then the squeaking wooden porch, the boards so old they make music. We're laughing, our hands still clutched together as we race down the uneven steps and across the cobbled street to our getaway car—my beaten-up Ford Fiesta.

I'm gasping with laughter as Jake opens the door and hastens me in. I climb over the gear stick and tumble into my seat, and he starts the car as a sweaty Peter bursts out from the building, nearly tripping over an uneven board on the ramshackle porch as he jets into the road. There's blood on his lip and he's shouting obscenities. Then a husband spills out onto the cobbled sidewalk behind him and tugs him back by the collar of his jacket. Greeting him with a fist.

Jake pulls away from the curb, laughing, his smile cracking something open inside of me. I'm ridiculous, but I do up my seatbelt and then lean in to secure his, the car beeping its protests until I manage it. My fingers feel like sparklers as they glance over his abdomen, feeling a sweaty spot on his shirt and the hot, hard flesh underneath.

"Thanks, Mom," he says with a teasing smile.

"You're welcome, asshole."

"Do you think we can find out who took that video and get it for Mary?" he asks. "She deserves to see it."

"I hope so," I say, but I'm struggling to pay attention to anything but him. The look he's giving me is fond and intimate and his eyes are warm and lively. Everything about him is always so animated. He's always moving and thinking and planning. He's clever and funny and kind to the people who deserve it, and yes, he's done bad things, but so have I . The world isn't black and white, right or wrong—there are shades of grey and he's the king of them, and I want him. I want him for myself, not because he can do something for me, or I can do something for him, but because I feel a tug whenever he enters the room. I want him because whenever he touches me, I feel a burst of fire.

I want him all the way, and suddenly I can't wait.

"Go to Jake Jeffries's apartment," I tell him, my voice hoarse.

"Why?" he asks. "You already got everything important for me."

"That's not why," I say, giving him a sidelong look. He's alert now, something inside of him recognizing what I want, and I see his hand flex around the wheel as he takes a turn toward the apartment before he even gets my answer. "I need you, now , and it's at least fifteen minutes closer."