Page 51 of Even After Sunset

Man, she is refreshing. Also kind of hot when she’s embarrassed.

“Oh, sure. Back-peddle now,” I tease, just because I want to see if her cheeks can possibly get any more flushed. Then I recall the other afternoon when she walked in on me in my briefs and remember that yes, actually they can.

“That’s not what I— you know what I meant,” she says, in a quieter voice this time. And because she looks so uncomfortable, I let her off the hook.

“I know. Relax, I’m just kidding.” I push her toward the table. “Go work on your book covers. I’ve got this.”

I watch her carefully this time, to gauge her reaction. To figure out why she put a halt on me working the window a second ago. Because Iwanther to let me cover for her. I shouldn’t give a shit, but I do. Hell knows why. I guess maybe because she seemed so excited about the orders for those book covers, and I want to see more of that look on her face.

She hasn’t made a move to sit back down, though.

“I’m not going to make you work the window, Silas. This is my thing. I can’t just bail because of some stupid book cover order.”

“A second ago you were flipping your lid, you were so excited.” I tell her. “How come now suddenly it’s stupid?”

“It isn’t stupid… It’s just— I mean, it’s just a hobby.” She pauses. “It’s not like it’s importantor anything.”

Okay, now I’m pissed. She has legitimate authors wanting to pay her good money to design book covers, and she’s acting like it’s just some dumb pastime?

“It’s a huge fucking deal, Jax. And it’s important… Just look at the way you reacted when you got that email.” I glance out the order window at a family approaching and lower my voice. “I’m offering to help you out, so why can’t you just let me do that?”

I can tell that last line hit her right where it counts: it’s been her mission since she found me passed out in this camper to re-establish some sort of connection between us. And the way I’m presenting this offer right now, there’s no way for her not to see it as a golden opportunity on a silver fucking platter.

She takes the bait.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“But don’t you have to work at—”

“I don’t work ‘till midnight. For tear-down.” I turn to the customers, who are waiting now at the order window. “Hey there. How can I help you?”

I hear Jackie settling back into the bench behind me, dragging her laptop toward her across the table. I try to ignore the way her approval makes my stomach flip on itself, like I just won a silent victory. And like I get some sort of thrill out of her letting me do something forherfor a change.

I don’t want to care, and I hate that my thoughts are betraying the fact that clearly I do. So I’m grateful for the steady stream of customers that prevent my mind from analyzing the matter too closely after that.

I can tell from her body language that it’s killing Jackie to let me take over. She gets up every time there’s a larger order and tries to help bag the cookies or take the payment. But I force her back onto the bench every time. It’s not that hard: I’m six-foot-two. She’s five-foot-nothing. And it’s a small space; I just have to nudge her aside with my hip when I make my way to the racks, and she’s forced back onto the bench. It’s kind of like herding sheep, only there’s just the one sheep.

When there’s a brief lull in customers, I take a few minutes to scavenge through the cupboards. The steady flow of orders has got me in the mood tochange things up. I sure as hell wasn’t allowed to get creative in the kitchen at Trenton, so I’m feeling pretty good when I find a jar of Nutella, a jar of peanut butter, and some marshmallow Fluff (okay, so the jar of Fluff is almost empty. Still, it’s enough to add a little variety at least).

The next customers are a family with three kids. When I get their order, I ask if they want anything on their cookies, and list my three new options. The kids are thrilled. The mom tells me she’s never thought of putting Nutella on chocolate chip cookies, and she thinks it’s genius. They devour them and buy another six to eat later, only this time I put Nutella on one cookie and Fluff on another, and smush them together to make mini cookie sandwiches.

As soon as they walk away, I smear some Nutella on a cookie and try one for myself.

Itisgenius. It’s fucking fantastic.

“What are you doing?”

Jackie has obviously been watching the entire exchange from the table. Girl’s got a really hard time relinquishing control.

“Nothing,” I answer through a mouthful of cookie. “Just getting creative. Go back to your cover design.”

“You can’t do that—spread stuff on the cookies like you just did,” she says, like I’m breaking some unwritten cookie code.

“What? Why not?”

And there it is: that little crease above her nose that used to be so familiar.

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