Page 60 of First Chance

“Jo, look at me.”

“No.”

“You’re too concerned by what people think. They didn’t say a word about you coming outside in my T-shirt because they know better. Now, I can let them think you were wearing my clothes because you chose to spend the night here or I can tell them you got shit faced drunk and unzipped your dress before I could stop you, and snuggled onto my couch like a little cat.”

“Are those my only two options?”

“I told them you weren’t feeling good last night and fell asleep on my couch. No one in their right mind would assume you stayed here on purpose. Don’t worry.” He turns to leave.

“I’m worried about making you look bad.”

His body goes stiff. “Why would you make me look bad?”

“It’s unprofessional of me to be standing on your porch half-naked in front of all the guys. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”

“If you think for one second thatI’mworried about that, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

“What do you mean?”

“A gorgeous woman walks out of my house looking like that… Embarrassed is not what I’m feeling. Trust me.” He walks out of the house, letting the door slam behind him, leaving me slack-jawed.

Gorgeous?

* **

I spent all of yesterday hibernating in my bed, too nauseous to eat and too dizzy to do anything but doze in and out of sleep. Today hasn’t been much better, but I’ve managed to move to my little table to study.

Lochlan: How are you feeling?

Jo: Great

Lochlan: I don’t believe you

Jo: Like hot garbage

Lochlan: Get some fresh air

Jo: No

Lochlan: Open your door.

Jo: No

Lochlan: Yes

I shove away from my laptop and answer the door, reluctantly. “What?”

“Do you have plans tonight?”

I glance back at my sad pile of textbooks, and he follows my gaze. “No, I don’t.”

“I want to show you something,” he motions for me to follow him.

I shuffle after him in my oversized hoodie and pajama shorts, completely disregarding my physical appearance. I haven’t put anything on my face but lotion since removing my crusty makeup yesterday morning, and my hair hasn’t been washed. The messy bun on top of my head is authentic, not curated.

“Sit,” he instructs as soon as we walk through his front door.

My body moves just enough to get me to the couch, and I plop down, leaning heavily against the back of it. I’m staring into the abyss of a black screen before I process what I’m looking at.

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