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JACK

“What movie are we seeing?” Anderson asks as we head up the driveway to Rumi and Ava’s door.

When I told him about the double date Ava suggested during one of our shifts this week, he eagerly accepted, not asking any details aside from what time.

“The first Twilight movie,” I answer, knocking on Rumi and Ava’s door, not able to help myself from eyeing it up and down, making sure it still looks secure and stable like how I left it a month ago when I replaced the one I kicked in.

“I remember dropping my younger brothers off at the theaters when those movies came out. They always took their dates to see them,” he explains, going into more detail about how he’s never seen them but has heard all about them, but I tune him out as I wait for one of the girls to answer the door.

I’ve been counting down the minutes until I get to see Rumi again—even if I did just see her on FaceTime last night and talked to her on the phone this morning.

While I’m still not the biggest texter, I got into the habit of checking in with her after our picnic date last Saturday, and the few texts quickly turned to phone calls by Sunday afternoon and FaceTimes by Monday night.

Ever since she opened up to me about her ex, the temptation to be near her is a million times worse than it was, so I’ve started taking any chance I have to see her this week, whether it’s stopping by Hey Honey’s during her shifts to give her a quick kiss over the counter, or bring her lunch during her break; I make the time whether I’m on a shift or not.

I wasn’t kidding when I told her that I think there isn’t anything she can’t handle, but I also made a promise to myself that I would never let anything happen to her or Evee.

Since our picnic date, Rumi has kept me updated on her journey with obtaining child support from that piece of shit she and Ava call Evee’s “sperm donor”—a term I prefer much more than Evee’s father, a man like that not deserving of the title—and I’m proud of her for taking the step.

With the help of the local child support enforcement agency, a court-ordered paternity test was sent to the address of the home Rumi shared with Trevor, so now we just wait. Once the court establishes Trevor as Evee’s biological father, the process of filing for child support can start.

The door finally opens, Evee’s babysitter, Sadie, letting us in, telling us that Rumi and Ava are just finishing getting ready. I remind Anderson to take off his shoes, knowing the house rules even after the few times I’ve been here.

“Hey, Evee girl,” I say when I find Evee in her high chair, spaghetti sauce all over her face. I lean down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Sitting down at the chair next to her, Sadie cleans up around the kitchen as Anderson makes conversation with her, never one to sit in silence.

Through my half-listening as I watch Evee play with the noodles on her high chair tray, I learn that Sadie is a sophomore at a nearby college, is majoring in marine biology, and has a pet cat named Meowth like the Pokemon.

“Jack, Anderson,” I hear from one of the bedrooms, turning to find Ava.

“Do you guys want a drink or something? Rumi is almost ready to go.” She walks into the kitchen, her red hair slicked back in a bun at the nape of her neck, her freckles on full display.

She’s wearing a yellow sundress that compliments her hazel eyes—the one’s locked on Anderson as she walks into the kitchen.

“Nice to see you, again,” Anderson drawls, giving Ava a quick once-over, his eyes sparkling as he takes her in, and I instantly feel like I’m interrupting something.

“I’m going to go check on Rumi,” I announce, stretching out the words as I stand up from my chair, turning to give Sadie a raise of my brow, noticing that she’s trying to hide a smile of her own as she makes herself busy helping clean Evee up as Anderson and Ava make heart eyes at each other—I don’t even think they register that I said anything by the way Ava laughs at something Anderson says, lightly touching his arm as he subtly flexes in his T-shirt.

I knock on Rumi’s door, and she opens it quickly, like she was standing on the other side of it.

“Hi.” Her blue eyes wide with surprise, obviously not expecting me to be the one who knocked.

“I need you to save me.” I don’t want to enter her space unless she wants me to, so I reach my arms up on the top of the door frame, leaning in just enough to press a kiss to her cheek.

“From what?” she giggles, leaning into me as my lips meet her skin.

“Ava looks like she’s two seconds away from mounting Anderson on the kitchen counter.” The smell of vanilla washes over me, and it takes all my willpower to pull away from Rumi, wishing I could kiss every inch of her skin, feel her body on top of mine, hear the noises she makes when I?—

And I’m no different than Ava.

Rumi laughs, taking a step back, so I can walk into her bedroom.

The space is exactly what I would expect, neat but not overtly so, with a bed for Rumi and a crib for Evee.

The walls are painted a pastel green with a pink and sage green comforter to match.

There’s a big dresser against the wall with her TV softly playing a playlist I see called “guilty pleasures: boy band edition”, and piles of clothes on her bed with a book flipped over with a loose sock sticking out as a bookmark.

“Sorry, it’s a little messy,” she apologizes.

“Um, what was that?” I ask, my way of reminding her she has absolutely no reason to apologize.

I pick up the book on her bed, my eyes roaming over the cover.

There’s two men, one looking sharp with fangs and the other rough and wild—almost like a half-turned wolf.

They’re standing close in a dark, moody setting, staring at each other like there’s some serious tension between them—and definitely the sexual kind.

Before I can flip the book over to read the back, it’s torn from my hands.

“Now is not the time for reading,” Rumi says, throwing the book back on the bed, and I can’t help but notice how she’s not meeting my eyes as she makes herself busy moving clothes from one pile on her bed to the other, as if she doesn’t know what to do with her hands.

I raise a brow, now even more intrigued. “Is this what Ava meant when she mentioned vampire smut?”

“How did you—” she starts, no doubt remembering how Ava was about to mention it after Evee’s party when we made these plans. “You know what,” she says instead, “I don’t comment on your reading choices, Mr. Cozy Mysteries.”

I put my hands up in mock surrender. “Of course you don’t,” I tease. “You’re too busy admiring my reading glasses.”

If I knew the way to Rumi’s heart was a man in reading glasses—in addition to the five inch inseam shorts and thigh tats—I would’ve suggested late-night reading dates over FaceTime much sooner than two nights ago.

“That,” she starts, pointing a finger at me before lowering it, accepting defeat. “I cannot argue with.”

“See? This is why dating is so fun. Learning new things about each other, like how you don’t like Twilight because Edward and Jacob don’t end up together.”

Her eyes widen as if I just flashed her, and her cheeks turn the richest shade of red.

“That is not?—”

“Do your cheeks get numb from blushing at me, Rumi baby?” I can’t help but tease, wishing I could spend the rest of the night finding all the different ways I could turn those cheeks pink.

“No need to be embarrassed, but I promise your secret is safe with me.” I close the distance between us but stop with just enough room to admire the outfit she’s wearing, one I didn’t notice until this moment while taking in her space—and her reading choices.

When she opened the door to her bedroom, I, of course, noticed how breathtaking she looked, her long lashes framing her pretty blue eyes, the dusting of freckles on her pink cheeks, her devastatingly full lips begging for me to taste them, but I didn’t notice her full look.

Half of her hair is pulled back in two little ponytails with ribbons wrapped around them, the color of them perfectly matching the pink in her floral dress. The fit of it perfectly compliments her insane curves, accentuating her mouthwatering chest and toned, tan legs.

Beneath the hair falling down her shoulders, I can see the scar on her collarbone—the one that reminds me of how much she has changed since that night of her accident, the night I found her.

She rolls her eyes, sick of my antics. “If I knew dating you meant another person commenting on my reading choices, I would’ve just dated Ava,” she says exasperated, but I hear the attitude too. Her spark, that defiance, is intoxicating.

Gone is my shy, timid Rumi who sat in the corner of the bar, holding her daughter close to her chest, in need of a friend yet wishing she could fade into the background of everyone else.

Here, and here to stay, is my strong, confident Rumi, who doesn’t have to take shit from anyone—even me.

And I’ll never get sick of hearing her say how she’s dating me .

“But I can’t wait to hear all about the vampire/werewolf epic love story on our next late-night reading date.” I reach for her hips, pulling her into me. She wraps her arms around my neck as I press my forehead to hers. “You almost ready to go, pretty girl?”

“Almost,” she answers, going up on her tiptoes to press a quick kiss to my lips, as if she’s been doing it her whole life, as if it doesn’t make my heart feel like it’ll beat right out of my chest.

As if it doesn’t leave me wanting so much more.

She pulls away from me to grab her purse on her bed, and I take the moment to admire the dress from the back. The dress has a playful mix of greens, purples, and pinks—the pale colors contrasting perfectly with her dark hair, making her look effortlessly beautiful.

She turns to look at me, catching me staring, and I feel blood rush up to my neck as I bring my eyes up to meet hers.

“Is it okay?” she asks, her face falling, and it’s not at all what I expect. I thought she’d tease me again with one of her flirty remarks, but the confidence I saw in her a moment ago is replaced by worry—worry I’ve learned she gets when she thinks she’s done something wrong.

“It’s perfect,” I reassure. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. Do you think it’s okay?”

She looks down, wiping her hands down the front to smooth the fabric. “It’s a little short,” she admits, and it’s like she’s looking for something from me.

Permission?

“If you feel like it’s too short, then you should wear something you feel more comfortable in,” I tell her, wanting her to know that what she wants to wear is up to her and only her.

I don’t tell her that the only problem I see with it is that she might get cold when the sun goes down, not when that has such an easy solution—either my clothes on her or my body wrapped around hers.

Or both.

“N-no. I like it,” she stammers, her rosy cheeks matching the pink in the dress. “I just want to make sure that—” she stops, shaking her head. She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “You know what? Nevermind. I’m ready.”

That’s my girl .