Page 28 of Most Likely to Deny Love (Yearbook #2)

MIA

I stood on Jack’s doorstep, clutching a grocery bag full of movie night essentials while my heart threatened to pound straight out of my chest. My finger hovered over the doorbell, frozen in midair as panic surged through me.

What the fuck was I doing here? Dressed in my favorite fleece pajama pants and an oversized hoodie, with my hair piled into a messy top knot, about to enter the private sanctuary of my broody, hot boss.

Before I could talk myself into fleeing, I jabbed the doorbell. The chime echoed inside, making my stomach flip. I shuffled from one ballet-flat-clad foot to the other, mentally rehearsing how normal and casual I was going to be. Totally cool. Just two friends hanging out. Nothing to see here.

The door swung open, and every carefully prepared thought evaporated from my brain.

Jack stood before me in dark gray sweatpants and a fitted long-sleeved henley that clung to his chest in ways that should be illegal in all fifty states.

His feet were bare, his hair slightly rumpled, and the day’s stubble had darkened into something that made my fingers itch to touch it.

He looked so different from the polished executive I was used to, so much more approachable and yet somehow even more devastating.

“Hi,” I croaked, my voice embarrassingly breathy.

“Hi.” His eyes swept over me, taking in my pajamas and grocery bag. “You came.”

“Of course I came. I said I would, didn’t I?

Operation UYD is serious business. Can’t leave a friend hanging when they need a pick-me-up.

” I was talking too fast, my words tumbling over each other in a nervous rush.

“I brought supplies. Popcorn, chocolate, those little sour gummy worms you mentioned liking that one time, and Red Vines because what even is a movie without them, am I right?”

Jack’s lips curved into the hint of a smile. “You remembered I like sour gummy worms?”

“I remember lots of things.” Like how his handwriting looked on all those little yellow notes that had been giving me life for months now. Not that I was going to mention that. Nope. Keeping it casual.

“Come in.” He stepped back, gesturing me inside, and I crossed the threshold into Jack Sullivan’s world.

His home was exactly what I’d expected and nothing like I’d imagined all at once. Sleek and modern, with clean lines and a minimalist aesthetic, yet warmer than I’d anticipated.

“Your place is amazing,” I said, sliding my flats off by the door. “Very you. Clean lines. Elegant. Nothing unnecessary.”

“Thanks.” Jack reached for my coat, his fingers brushing against my shoulders as he helped me out of it. The casual touch sent a jolt of electricity through me that I desperately tried to ignore.

“I brought slippers.” I pulled a pair of fuzzy pink monstrosities from my bag, wiggling them. “My feet get cold.”

As I bent to put them on, a sudden flurry of clicking claws against hardwood made me look up. A massive creature came bounding around the corner, all sleek muscle and alert ears.

“Oh my god, Jack, why do you have a horse in your house?” The words burst out, my voice high and brittle with surprise.

Jack’s laugh was deep and unexpected, a genuine sound that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “This is Pickles. Don’t worry, he’s friendly.”

“Pickles?” I repeated, staring at the massive dog who had stopped a respectful distance away, his intelligent dark eyes assessing me. “You named this majestic beast Pickles?”

“When he was a puppy, I hadn’t settled on a name for him. I was really struggling to come up with one that would suit him. Then he stole a jar of pickles from the kitchen counter and the name stuck.”

“Well, hello there, Pickles.” I held out my hand, and the Doberman approached cautiously, sniffing my fingers before giving them a gentle lick. “Oh my god, he’s the sweetest thing ever.”

“He likes you.” Jack sounded pleased, as if his dog’s approval meant something important.

“Of course he likes me. I’m very likable. Everyone says so. Well, everyone except Rebecca from HR, but she doesn’t like anyone, so she doesn’t count.” I was babbling again, unable to stop the flow of words.

“The kitchen’s through here.”

Clearly Jack had had enough of me being a weirdo. I kept my hand on Pickle’s head as Jack led me down a hallway that opened into a stunning gourmet kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances that looked barely used.

“Wow, this kitchen is incredible. Do you actually cook in here or is it just for show? Not that I’m judging.

My most- used kitchen appliance is the microwave, closely followed by the drawer where I keep all the takeout menus.

Emily does most of the cooking in our house because the one time I tried to make pasta I somehow set off the smoke alarm, which is pretty impressive when you think about it, since pasta is mostly water and how do you burn water, right? But somehow I managed it.”

Jack set my grocery bag on the counter and began unpacking it. “I cook sometimes. Nothing fancy.”

“I bet you’re amazing at it. You’re good at everything.” The words slipped out before I could catch them, and I felt heat rise to my cheeks. Why was I such a fucking psycho? I turned away, ostensibly to pet Pickles, who had settled beside me, pressing his warm body against my leg.

As Jack finished unpacking the snacks, I noticed Pickles hadn’t moved from my side. His dark eyes gazed up at me with an almost human-like concern that was both sweet and unnerving.

“Is he always this attentive with guests?” I asked, scratching behind his ears.

Jack paused, studying me and Pickles with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “Are you okay, Mia?”

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” My voice came out high and squeaky, that fake brightness betraying me again.

“Because Pickles is an emotional support dog,” Jack said quietly. “He’s trained to recognize anxiety and distress. And he’s behaving very much like you’re anxious and distressed.”

I stared at Jack, then down at Pickles, who chose that moment to gently rest his chin on my knee. The gesture was so sweet, so understanding, that I felt something crack inside me.

“Oh.” The word sounded small and vulnerable.

Jack leaned against the counter, his posture deliberately casual, giving me space. “It’s okay if you’re not okay, you know.”

The kindness in his voice undid me. I exhaled slowly, my shoulders slumping as I finally dropped the act.

“I’m a little overwhelmed,” I admitted, focusing on petting Pickles rather than meeting Jack’s eyes. “Today has been... a lot.”

“Because of the notes.” It wasn’t a question.

I nodded, finally looking up at him. “Why did you leave them?”

Jack’s expression softened, vulnerability flashing across his features before he could mask it. “I told you the truth earlier. I don’t have a clever explanation. I just... needed to.”

“But why?” I pressed, needing to understand.

He was quiet for a long moment, choosing his words carefully. “I noticed you that first week. How bright you were. How hard you worked. But sometimes, when you thought no one was looking, there was this... shadow that would cross your face.”

My breath caught.

“Just brief moments where you looked hurt.” His voice dropped lower. “And I just... I couldn’t stand it.”

My eyes burned with unexpected tears. Pickles nudged my hand, sensing the emotion, and I gratefully buried my fingers in his fur.

“They meant a lot to me,” I whispered. “More than you know.”

Jack’s eyes held mine, intense and sincere. “I’m glad.”

We stood there in the quiet kitchen, the air between us charged with unspoken feelings. There was so much more to say, questions I wasn’t sure I was ready to ask, answers I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear.

“This is complicated, isn’t it?” I finally said.

“Yes.” No denials, no evasions.

I fidgeted with Pickles’ ear, suddenly unsure. “What do we do about it?”

Jack considered me for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “For now, maybe we just leave it on the table. We’ve acknowledged it. That’s enough for tonight.”

Relief washed through me. “So we can just... watch the movies? Just be normal?”

“As normal as we can manage,” he agreed, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“But we should probably talk about it. Eventually.” I wasn’t ready to let it go completely.

“We will,” he promised. “When we’re both ready.”

As we gathered the snacks to move to the living room, I felt lighter.

The confusion and uncertainty hadn’t disappeared, but somehow, sharing it with Jack had made it easier to bear.

And having Pickles pressed against my leg, a warm, solid reminder that my feelings were valid, helped more than I could have expected.

“What happens now?”

“Okay, so here’s how Operation UYD works,” I explained, setting our snacks on the coffee table. “We take turns choosing movies. The person whose day needs unfucking gets to go first.” I gestured toward Jack with a flourish. “That would be you, sir. What’ll it be?”

Jack considered for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “How do you feel about Hitchcock?”

“Hitchcock?” I perked up. “Are you asking if I like suspense, murder, and psychological thrills? Because the answer is yes, yes, and hell yes.”

A genuine smile spread across his face. “Rear Window?”

Be still my galloping heart, because holy cow, the man had a gorgeous smile.

“Oh my god, I love Rear Window!”

“Great.” Jack gestured to the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable.”

I did as I was told, tucking my fuzzy-slippered feet under me while trying not to stare at the way Jack’s sweatpants hung low on his hips as he bent to access the entertainment system. Pickles hopped up onto the couch beside me, stretching out along my side like we’d been buddies for years.

“Hope you don’t mind. Pickles seems to have claimed me.”

Jack glanced over his shoulder, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Smart dog.”

The casual compliment sent a flutter through my stomach. I reached for the throw blanket folded neatly over the arm of the couch, spreading it across my legs and Pickles.

When Jack finished setting up the movie, he hesitated for a second before sitting down.

Not right next to me, but not at the opposite end either.

Just close enough that I could feel the subtle heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of his cologne.

The distance between us felt both vast and microscopic.

“Popcorn?” I offered, already reaching for the bowl to give my hands something to do.

Our fingers brushed as he took a handful, and I ignored the little jolt of electricity that shot up my arm.

This was getting ridiculous. We’d held hands for hours at my aunt’s barbecue.

He’d kissed me in front of my family. We’d stood pressed against each other in the server room during my panic attack.

A casual touch shouldn’t feel this significant.

But it did.

As the opening credits began to roll, I forced myself to relax, sinking deeper into the cushions. This was fine. We were just two adults watching a classic film together. With a dog. On a couch. In pajamas.

Totally normal.

Pickles shifted beside me, sprawling further across my lap and nudging me closer to Jack in the process. Our shoulders touched now, the length of our arms pressed lightly together. Neither of us moved away.

Finally, halfway through the movie, Jack’s hand gently closed over mine, his fingers warm and secure as they intertwined with my own. I didn’t pull away.