Scandalous by H.M. Ward

want.”
    “Sure. Sounds good.”
    He turned to leave. I followed him to the door, admiring his sculpted shoulders. Each muscle had a defined curve like he worked out, but I never saw him doing anything. Picturing Jack covered in sweat pushed my pulse higher. I pressed the thoughts back. They needed to be crushed before they messed things up. While I was tripping over my awkward thoughts, Jack turned back and gave me a peck on the cheek.
    Grinning he said, “See you later, Tyndale,” and tugged my ponytail. He bounded down the steps as I stood there shocked, wondering what the hell just happened.
     
     
    CHAPTER FIFTEEN
     
     
     
     
    Good God, he made me nuts. I peeled myself off the back of the door after he left and took a cold shower. The rest of the day passed painfully slow. I should have gone back to sleep. Last night sucked so bad that I was lucky if I had a few hours, but I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. Jack wanted to spend time with me. Just me. He sent everyone else away for an entire week. The giddy girl inside of me wanted to squeal and jump on every bed in the apartment, but I knew I needed to hit her in the head with a brick before she rode off with my brains. I couldn’t kiss Jack. It didn’t matter that I wanted him. It didn’t matter what he did or how I responded. Part of my profession was self-denial. Jack was off limits. I had to stop thinking about him like that.
    By nightfall, I convinced myself that I could do it. That we could just be friends. Those feelings would vanish if I commanded them correctly, but I knew nothing about lust or love or like. And that giddy twit inside of me took control the moment I saw Jack. She squealed within me with as much gusto as if I’d given her a unicorn. Why couldn’t I control her?
    Jack spoke, melting my brain, after dinner, “So, what do you feel like?” He was standing at the counter. The lights in the gallery were switched off, and it felt like we were surrounded by black walls.
    Jack asked dangerous questions. I shrugged, like I didn’t care—like I was apathetic—trying to hide whatever was causing my mind to malfunction. “I haven’t seen the Galleria yet.” He looked at me in surprise. “Let’s walk through there. Then maybe we can go outside. Play mini golf or something down by the water.” That sounded platonic, right? Show me your erotic art and then let’s play golf. Sure. Jack smiled at me, grabbing a bottle of wine from the fridge. “Sounds great. But you have to take the tour like a patron. It’s the best way to see it.” His blue gaze flashed in my direction. I nodded, until I realized what he meant. Jack produced two crystal glasses and poured the wine into each. Handing me one, he said, “Come on.”
    Refusing to take the glass I said, “Jack, I can’t drink that.”
    “Why not?” He seemed surprised.
    “I’m not supposed to drink. You already know that.”
    “Abby, this is a special occasion. It’s part of the experience.” He placed the glasses on the counter, before causally leaning his tone body back against it. He tilted his head a little, his hair shifting in the light, “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to, but it changes things a little bit.”
    I didn’t understand. Eyeing the glass, I asked, “How is slightly intoxicated good? Don’t you want people to see what you painted, and not leave with some drunken ambiguous impression in their minds?”
    Jack smiled at me like I was cute, cute and maybe a little bit stupid. He turned his head, clearing his throat, saying, “No one gets smashed on half a glass of wine,” he laughed. “And it doesn’t do what you think. God, haven’t you ever had a drink?” I shook my head. I didn’t drink, the church used grape juice, and with my dad the way he was, I swore liquor off. All of it. Jack didn’t know about my dad. I never told him. Without another word, he seemed to sense he was missing a piece of my story, a piece I wasn’t sharing.
    He