Page 20 of Jesse's Girl

He laughs. “You always this bossy?”

“Hey, you wanna dress like a dork? Go right ahead.”

He scoffs and undoes the button.

“Now push up your sleeves.”

Studying me in the mirror, he follows my orders. His muscular forearms flicker with movement as he slips his hands into the pockets of his pants.

Lord, help me. Is it warm in here?

“Okay, it’s decent,” I concede, darting a glance up at his face. “Still look like Teen Wolf, though.”

I’m leaning heavy on the sass pedal today.

He runs a hand over his beard, shaking his head again. “That was a cheap shot.”

The corner of my mouth quirks up. Fuck. Why is he looking at me like that? Cheeks heating, I turn back to the bench of abandoned clothes. Then my mouth is moving before I can think better of it. “You know, I can cut your hair for you, if you want.”

What the fuck, Ada? No. No touching.

I fight off a cringe and pull my features into an impassive mask before I turn around to face him again—like this is something a totally normal friend you haven’t seen in eight years would offer to do.

“Wait, you cut hair?” He gives me a wary look.

“Not, like, as a job, obviously. But yeah, I cut my own and sometimes my friends’. It saves money, and I’m good at it.” I shrug. “Whatever. Just saying: I could take care of that mess for you.” I gesture at his blond waves.

“That mess? Wow. Well, excuse me for not racing to accept your generous offer.” He pulls a hair tie from his wrist, placing it between his teeth as he sweeps his hair up. The hem of his shirt lifts, revealing a small glimpse of skin above his waistband—and the trail of soft hair that disappears into his pants. I avert my eyes, hoping he didn’t catch me staring.

Shit. Stop ogling him. Jesse is a no-fly zone.

I finally notice his hair. “A man bun? Really?”

“What, were you hoping for a French braid?” He frowns, turning to me. “Why are you so fucking salty today?” Standing at least a head taller than me, he peers down, searching my expression. He’s close enough to touch.

I shrug, backing away half a step. “Shopping’s just… not my thing.”

“Then why’d you agree to come with me?” he asks, clearly baffled. He moves to grab the pile of clothes from the bench, shoving them inside the fitting room. Then he turns back to me, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “I could have handled this by myself.”

God, what is it about that pose?

I force myself to tear my gaze away from his thick biceps.

“Oh, please. You’ve been in the bush for eight years. You need my help. You’d be hopeless without me.”

A rueful smile tugs at his lips before something softens in his face, as if he’s deciding not to fight this fight. “Okay,” he finally says, pushing away from the doorframe and stepping toward me. “Not gonna lie. I hate this too. So let’s get the fuck outta here.” He tilts his head toward the exit.

“What about the rest of those clothes?”

“Fuck ’em,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll buy a few of these things.” He motions to what he’s wearing. “Good enough. Let me get changed, and we can go get lunch or something. I’m fucking starving.” He pauses. “Have you eaten?”

“Uh… no,” I say.

“Well, maybe if you eat something, you’ll be less of a brat.”

My expression flattens. “Thanks.”

“Come on, Ada. My treat.” He must sense my hesitation, because he adds, “For all your… help,” doing air quotes around the last word.

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