A. Jackson - When We Met

It sounded like he wanted to get a million miles away from me, and I still didn’t understand what I’d done wrong.

I remembered that day he’d just brought up vividly. I’d been walking home from Happy Hour at Gruby’s, where my roommate Courtney worked. I hadn’t been out in a long time. Fact is, I rarely went out. But my other roommates, Indy and Misha, convinced me to meet them there and I had a really good time. When their boyfriends showed up, I took off to walk home, feeling pretty lighthearted.

When I turned the corner and passed this construction site, I began hearing catcalls. I scowled and ignored those hard-hatted idiots until they began shouting stuff that really struck home. Things that reminded me of rumors my only boyfriend in high school spread about me—after he took my virginity and dumped me.

“She’s got a stick up that fine ass.”

“Bet she’s never been laid properly.”

“I could show her a thing or two.”

And then a voice rang out. “Guys, knock it off.”

I turned toward the sound. It was Blake Davis and I was stunned into silence. He was sporting stubble, dirty fingernails, and clunky work boots. He looked so different from his casual clean T-shirt and jeans attire from his days at the university.

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do that girl in five seconds flat,” the guy sitting next to him had blurted out.

Blake’s gaze met mine, his eyes hard and unyielding. “Never in a million years. Not my type.”

My breath had caught. His words made me feel lower than the mud on his shoe. I forced my chin up high and continued walking home. My hands shook the entire way.

Since then, I’d always wondered why his words had affected me so much.

Add that to his confrontation tonight, and I wasn’t sure we’d ever be able to come to enough of a mutual understanding to work together on this project.

* * *

We spent the next hour in silence as we moved boxes to the back room. Well, technically, I slid them toward the back and he lifted and carried them. He was surprisingly strong, and as he raised each box, I couldn’t help appreciating his taut and muscular forearms. Working construction obviously had its benefits.

I decided we needed a bucket and supplies to give the place a thorough scrub-down. I wrote down a list of items and headed out the door to the small market down the street that stayed open past nine. Blake followed, mumbling about getting some bottles of water.

As Blake and I moved through the aisle that displayed detergents, he pointed to the floor cleaner in my hand that had a bright pink label and said, “Did you plan to match your cleaner to your outfit?”

I gaped at the pink Converse sneakers I’d completely forgotten I was wearing. With a skirt. Like some used-up fashionista on someone’s worst-dressed list.

“Stop thinking so hard,” he mumbled close to my ear. “I was only joking. Lighten up.”

I spun on him. “Pretty sure you could use some lightening up of your own.”

Just then I heard someone call my name. I looked up and saw my mother’s committee friend heading down the aisle toward me. Her heels were high, her lips bright red, and her outfit immaculately put together. I glanced at Blake as my skin broke out in a panicked sweat. Sure enough, she’d tell my mother she’d seen me out late with some guy, looking disheveled, and then I’d be subjected to the Spanish Inquisition.

Blake seemed to pick up on my rising alarm and in a huff he said, “Don’t worry, princess, you can pretend not to know me and I’ll do the same. Meet you at the cash register.”

Before I could even react, he was gone, and my mother’s friend was in my face asking me questions. I could barely concentrate because I’d been too busy thinking about Blake’s words. Was I really that uptight? Why did I care so much about how I looked or what people thought about me? At what point had my life become so orchestrated?

As soon as my mother’s friend was gone, I snatched a different floor cleaner from the shelf and met Blake at the front of the store, where he stood with a bucket and mop. I placed the sponges and soap on the counter and turned to look at him.

He stepped in front of me, before I could say anything else. “I’ve got it. You can hand my receipt in to Jaclyn so I can expense it.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but his eyes tore into mine and I clamped my lips shut. “Don’t even say it, princess. I make way more money than you do. Unless you’re living off your daddy’s trust fund or something.”

I drew my hands into fists as he greeted the cashier. I stood behind him, breathing heavily and staring at the back of his head. His hair was perfectly wavy and for the first time I noticed a piercing on the top of his ear. It was a silver hoop and I had the urge to yank on it and tell him he was wrong. So very wrong about me.

We walked back in silence, me fuming beside him and refusing eye contact. As soon as I stepped back into the shop, I got busy cleaning the floors. An hour later we were both on our hands and knees scrubbing the baseboards and I was silently cursing the fact that I was getting my Prada outfit dirty. I probably did look like a princess, constantly rolling up and adjusting my skirt. It was my own dang fault for refusing to change into different clothes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Blake scowling. All at once his arms shot to the back of his neck, and he began tugging his shirt over his head. His flat and tight stomach was on full display before the second shirt that was hidden beneath fell back over his abs.

I pretended not to look too long and instead took a deep breath, focusing on my task. Suddenly that same shirt was in front of my face. “Here, put it under your knees.”

“What? No, I don’t need—”

“Yeah, you do,” he said. “I can tell you really care about your clothes. They probably cost a lot more than my damned T-shirt.”

Was this his way of apologizing or making fun of me?

“It doesn’t matter,” I whispered.

He thrust it closer to me. “Please, take it.”

I stared at his shirt a few moments more before grasping it, smoothing it out on the floor, and then placing my knees on top of it.

“It’s my mistake for not bringing a change of clothes,” I mumbled.

He turned away and continued working on the far wall in silence.

I wanted to redeem myself, or at least say something to break the ice. I looked back at him. “I noticed your piercing . . . um, earlier. I like it.”

I held back a cringe. I was usually more of a fan of clean-cut guys.

He barked out a bitter laugh. “Really?”

“Where, um . . .” I struggled to come up with a question to keep the conversation going. “When did you have it done?”

He heaved a deep sigh. “A couple years ago . . . on a dare.”

My eyebrows shot up. “A dare?”

“Yes, a dare. Bet you’ve never even done anything on a dare, princess,” he muttered. “Bet it’s too spontaneous for you.”

“What the hell, Blake? Of course I have,” I spat out. Now I was seething.

He squinted at me. “Yeah?”

I shrugged and met his eyes in a challenge. “And stop calling me princess.”

“Fair enough.” Then a devious glint registered in his eyes. “So . . . truth or dare?”

Blake

I didn’t know why I was being so obnoxious to Chloe; she just seemed to bring it out of me. I knew I had her now, though. No way would she play this game with me. She was too damned uptight.

“What?” she sputtered. “Here . . . now?”

“Yes, now.” I laughed. She was slightly endearing when she was so flustered—when she let her prim and proper mask slip. “You’ve got somewhere else to be?”

“I . . . barely even know you.”

I could see her pulse pounding at her neck. She was getting even more nervous. Was it because she was trapped here with someone like me or because I was calling her out of her comfort zone? I let the minutes tick. We were about to find out.

“Fine.” She took a fortifying breath and then said, “Truth.”

I turned away, trying to hide the pulse in my jaw. I knew it. She’d chosen the safer response.

“Here’s hoping for honesty,” I said, meeting her eyes.

She nodded and twirled a lock of her hair, looking unsure of herself again.

Something about her made me want to dig deep, to find out what she was really made of. There had to be a different person—a decent, compassionate person—under all of that restraint. I’d already seen glimpses of her. But maybe I was only headed for disappointment. “Since you didn’t think I made a fair assessment earlier, tell me what you were really thinking the day you walked past the construction site.”

Her eyebrows rose to her hairline. “Like I said, I . . . I was pissed and disgusted. When you came to my defense out of nowhere, it stumped me.”

She thought she was done, but I planned on getting more out of her if I could. I just had this natural curiosity, despite being completely frustrated by her. Because when she was caught off guard—like she’d just been by my question—she became more real and I wanted more of that.

“And?”

“A . . . and . . . well, first, I wondered what you were doing there.”

I looked down, avoiding her gaze. No way could I talk about dropping out with this girl. Unless she gave me more—showed me more.

“And second, what you said about me—the ‘not in a million years, not my type’ part . . . well, it . . . it sucked to hear you say that.”

I met her eyes while her chest heaved. I had affected her back then? Because truth be told, I was completely captivated by her vulnerability right now.

“Okay,” I said softly. I needed to make sure that I played this situation carefully, because I didn’t want to scare her away. I cleared my throat. “I get it. Makes sense.”

I got busy on the other wall, effectively dropping the subject, and letting her off the hook. Letting us both off the hook. For now.

We were silent for a few more minutes before I heard her tentative voice. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

She probably expected me to say dare because she figured we were so different. I studied her eyes and then moved down to her lips. They were red and shiny like her tongue had just skimmed across them. She was a pretty girl. And right now, all soft and uncertain, she was even more gorgeous.

I shook that foreign thought from my head. “Truth.”

Chloe’s lips parted and she stared at me for a long moment until she finally recovered. I immediately regretted my decision. Especially if she was going to ask me why I dropped out of school. If she did, I probably wouldn’t answer.

“Why did you . . . say that about me . . . that day?”

She looked past me to the wall, wringing her hands. It made me want to soothe her, put my fingers over hers to still them. Never in a hundred years would I have guessed that my reaction that day would still be bothering her, months later.

“I hear catcalls all day long. So when it happened again, I looked up to see who their next target was.”

“Target,” she said, scrunching her face into a grimace.

“And then I saw you. And I got it—you’re a great-looking girl, Chloe. Plus that outfit you had on that day really . . .” I needed to stop talking before I dug myself a grave. She’d probably think I was having dirty thoughts about her. And I wasn’t. At least not more than a couple of times.

“What?” Her face was relaxed and open like she truly wanted—or maybe needed—to know what I thought of her. For reasons I might never begin to understand.

“It just . . . it showed off your curves, okay? The guys were going nuts. Like big fucking apes or something.” I laughed and shook my head thinking about what a bunch of dumb-asses they could be. And most of them were older than me. “Even still, they were being idiots, and girls shouldn’t have to put up with shit, which is why I came to your defense.”

She stared at her sneakers, a rose hue stretching across her neck and up to her ears. Then she reached out her hand and patted mine, just once. “Well . . . I guess I owe you a thanks for that.”

Something in my chest gave way, like a release of my pent-up frustration over this girl.

“And . . . I wasn’t really being honest when I said that about you . . . ,” I said. “I was just pissed at the way you responded, like you had lumped all of us together.”