Page 58 of The Love Playbook

His brows pinch together again and his gaze slides past me, and I realize he’s looking at my collection of glass bottles. Right. Probably he doesn’t know anyone else with their own collection of herb infused and essential oils. Though I’ll be the first to admit that having them sitting out in the open isn’t ideal storage, even though they should be protected by the amber and cobalt bottles anyway. Which is why I make sure to get those and not use clear bottles since I store them on my bookshelf and desk and nightstand and basically anywhere I can find a little spot for one to go.

Of course, it does make it trickier to find what I’m looking for since they’re sort of here, there, and everywhere. But on the flip side, with them all literally at my fingertips, I just have to scan everything until I find what I need. And the ones that get used most are all clustered together on the right hand corner of my three-shelf bookshelf that doubles as a workspace for mixing oils and assembling ingredients for anything else I need.

“Those are oils,” I tell him, gesturing at the bottles. “Not toiletries. Though I do sometimes use them for personal care purposes. These are ingredients, though, not finished products.”

“Gotcha.” The pinch stays on his forehead as he stares at them for a minute longer. Then he pushes the plastic bin in my direction again.

“Right. Daily use things that need to stay out.” I take the box and stare at my room, already starting to feel overwhelmed. I use everything kind of a lot. All of it would be inconvenient to have put away, because then I couldn’t just see it all and know what I have.

Jackson chuckles softly and turns to my nightstand. “Here. I’ll help you get started.” He unplugs my phone charger and sets it in the small bin in my hand. “Walk me through a normal morning for you. What else do you use all the time?”

“Well …” I’m not sure I really want to do this. People have a tendency to look at me weird when I discuss my routines and rituals. Normally I don’t care that much. I’ve been the weird kid for as long as I can remember. For the most part, people’s opinions of me are their problem, not mine.

But sometimes … sometimes I start to care about what someone else thinks of me. When I want that person to like me, but I’m not entirely sure how they’ll take to my particular quirks.

Piper and Dani are the last people I’ve had this feeling with, because while we all got along fine living separately, sharing a house together introduced a different level of intimacy into our relationship. There are some things, like wandering nude through the house, that I don’t do when everyone’s home out of respect for their sensibilities. That’s just being a good roommate. But I worried what they’d think of the crystals and oils and candles and tarot …

Fortunately they’ve taken it in stride. And while Jackson didn’t make a big deal about the crystals and oils when he’s been here before, I’ve also been able to easily distract him with boobs. And pussy. And most recently, ass.

Now, though …

Now I can’t distract him with sex. Not without breaking my own rules. Is it worth possibly blurring the lines to get out of exposing more of myself to him?

Or maybe it’s for the best that he gets a front row seat to all of my oddities. Maybe it’ll scare him enough that while he’s happy for the sexual tutoring, he won’t think he wants a relationship with me anymore.

That thought makes me unbearably sad in a deep, dark corner that I won’t take out and examine. BecauseI’mthe one who said no feelings.I’mthe one who’s not built for a relationship.

And this … all of this right here is exactly why.

No one likes the weirdo.

Not really. She might be interesting and fascinating and so you want to get closer so you can examine her the same way you do an animal at the zoo. But you don’t want to take the wild animal home with you. That would be disastrous.

It’s for the best if Jackson realizes that truth sooner than later. It’ll save us all from heartache in the long run.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Jackson

Something is wrong.

Autumn stands with the bin dangling from her hands, only her phone charger and a hair scrunchie I found on her nightstand sitting inside it. I’m the only one who’s placed anything in there. She’s just been staring at her room looking lost.

But then something in her expression shifts. Her eyes narrow as she looks around, though it still doesn’t look like she’s really focusing on the room. No, she has that more abstract look I know means her focus is internal, not external.

Only I’m used to seeing that as she’s approaching ecstasy. This looks more like an internal debate.

But about what?

I glance around. I can kinda get why organizing this room would be overwhelming. She has alotof stuff. Lots of little trinkets and bottles and … things. Everywhere. On every surface. I don’t want to make her a minimalist or make her throw away half her things like on those organizing TV shows—though it’s entirely possible there are things that need to be chucked. Do those little bottles of oils go bad? Most things have some kind of shelf life. If that’s passed, it should be trashed.

Clearing my throat, I gently touch her arm. “Hey.” I step closer, wanting to reassure her. She’s done it for me enough times. I can return the favor when she’s overwhelmed.

But when she turns to face me, the abstract look is gone, and one I recognize as determination has taken over. “Okay.” She takes in a deep breath. “Let’s get started.”

On the surface that seems positive, but some internal alarm is buzzing, telling me that things aren’t quite as they seem.

No surprise. Nothing with Autumn really is, now is it?

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