Page 59 of Work with Me

Laying a hand on Jackson’s chest, I said, “Maybe we should get him to your bathroom.”

One corner of Jackson’s mouth lifted in not quite a smile, and he shrugged one shoulder. “Guess I’d rather not have to clean up puke tonight.”

He said something to the college guys, and they shambled to their feet, propping up the collapsed one, and shuffled toward the door. The apartment had started to empty, and the music seemed louder now that there weren’t as many bodies to absorb it.

He crouched next to Tyler, draped one of his arms over his shoulder, and levered him up. I hurried to support Tyler’s other arm, and we lurched down the hall. Jackson passed the open bathroom door and opened the door at the end of the hall.

I could tell it was his bedroom from the gray Converse and satchel piled on the floor. Jackson steered us toward an open door on the left, which led to a spacious bathroom that was almost as big as my bedroom at home. When we reached the toilet, I lifted Tyler’s arm from my shoulders. “You’ve got him from here?”

Jackson nodded. “Wait for me in the bedroom?”

“Okay.”

I had only a few seconds to check out his bed with its generic white duvet tossed across it and the pile of laundry that overflowed from the closet before Jackson joined me, closing the bathroom door. “He says he’s good.”

No sounds came from the bathroom.

“You won’t let him drive home, will you?”

“No, he can sleep it off in the guest room.”

“Good. Then I think it’s best if I—”

“Stay. We’ll…talk.” Taking two steps, he closed the space between us. His lips twisted into a sinful smirk. I imagined the many, many things he could do to me with those lips. Not one of them involved talking.

“Maybe just for a few minutes.”

He took my hand like we did this every day and led me out to the living room.

June, his upstairs neighbor, waved from the front door. “Everyone’s going to the bar across the street for karaoke. You coming?”

“Maybe later,” he said.

When she closed the door, leaving us alone in the apartment, he turned down the music. “Huh. My parties usually last longer than this.”

Orange cups and bottles littered every flat surface. An item of clothing lay discarded on the kitchen floor next to a sticky-looking spill of red punch. A bag of chips in the corner of the carpet had exploded, and crumbs coated a four-square-foot area.

“Let me help you clean up.”

“I’ll take care of it in the morning. Tonight, I’d rather relax. With you.”

“Relax?” I brushed crumbs from the sofa cushion before I sank down onto it. “I’m not sure I know that word.”

He chuckled. “Here. Give me your hand.”

“My…hand?” Was he going to kiss it again, like the hero in some old black-and-white film?

“I give a great hand massage. It eases stress and helps counteract all that time we spend typing.” He held out his hand, palm up. “May I?”

“But—your hand.” He’d put another one of those Lightning McQueen bandages across the split knuckle.

“Doesn’t hurt anymore. Not when I’m with you.”

I snorted at the line, then I touched my palm to his. What harm was there in a little hand massage? “Okay.”

He turned over my hand and pressed his other thumb firmly into the center of my palm, making tiny circles. Slowly, he increased the pressure until my hand felt warm and loose.

I leaned against the sofa cushions. “You do this with all your coworkers?”

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