Page 9 of Kiss Me if You Can
“Sure, but I don’t think I’m much of a Percival. And I’ve never been distinguished.”
“Okay, then what do you want to be called?”
He shakes his head. “I like when you call me Jake. No one ever uses my real name.”
“Really?”
He nods. Swallows. Looks at our hands beneath my chin. “I’ve spent a long time trying to get away from my name and become someone different from the kid who really was a cyber terrorist.”
My heart kicks up a notch, but I ignore it. “So that news article was true?”
“More or less. I never hurt anyone, but I had warped ideas of what the world should be like. Got involved with the wrong people. I thought I was making a difference, but it turns out I was one of the bad guys. I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since.”
He says it all so easily, like being a federally known criminal is no big deal. Yeah, all of his crimes were digital—I’m assuming—but he was probably pretty dangerous if they’re using terms like ‘cyber terrorism’ in relation to him.
“What exactly did you do?” I ask.
He wrinkles his nose, pulling his hands free and returning to my leg. “Would it change your opinion of me if you knew?”
“Probably not.”
“Then I’d like to keep the sordid details to myself. I was bad, now I’m good, and that’s all you really need to know.”
It isn’t. I want to know everything about this man, even though I shouldn’t.
“Hey, Jake?”
“Hmm?”
“Thanks. For trusting me back.”
That catches him off guard, and his mouth hangs open a little as he gapes at me. It’s like he didn’t think that there was just as much trust on his side as on mine.
I don’t know what to say to the look on his face, so I start rambling. “I mean, because I could have totally turned you in to the police or called the FBI even though I don’t actually know how to call the FBI. But you let me drive you to wherever I picked and trusted me when I said we should come here even though there are a ton of people around us.”
As if on cue, the crowd cheers as one team—the Scorpions, according to the shouts—gets a home run and three players make it back to home plate. They’re adorable, and I watch the attractive, blond-haired coach give each boy a high five as they return to their bench. The way he interacts with the kids makes him more attractive, though he’s nothing compared to Jake.
“I just think it’s cool that we’ve kind of helped each other so far, you know?” I add with a shrug, and then I turn to look at him.
And while his expression, which falls somewhere between admiration and amusement, is enough to spark something in my chest, it’s the way he’s touching me that suddenly catches my breath. Not only are his hands as gentle as they’ve been since the beginning, but his fingers are practically caressing the end of my amputated leg. No one but doctors and my mother have ever touched that part of me. Having someone—more especially an attractive man—touch me without any sign of disgust or discomfort is doing something funny to my insides. It’s like there’s a hive of bees trapped in there. Nice bees. Bumblebees. The kind you can’t help but try to pet because they’re so fuzzy and soft-looking.
Jake seems to sense the shift coming over me. His eyebrows pull low as his hold on my leg tightens, and he looks down at the place he touches. “Sorry,” he says, pulling away.
I grab his hands and tug them back to where they were. “Don’t stop,” I beg in a whisper. I’ve wanted a lot of things in my life, but based on the way I’m currently feeling like a shaken-up soda can about to blow, I’ve never wanted anything more than a man to accept this part of me.
Color splotches his face as his left hand moves to my other leg, fingers tucking beneath my knee and sending a shiver through me. He swallows, probably realizing that caressing my thighs in any other circumstance would be seen as rather intimate.
Okay, in this circumstance too. The bees inside me are thoroughly enjoying his touch and telling me I should scoot forward until I’m in his lap and close enough that a kiss wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility. I don’t know him, he doesn’t know me, but there is definitely something humming between us, electric and tangible.
“Isla,” he says, and it almost sounds like a warning. Like he knows exactly what’s going through my head. But his eyes drop to my mouth anyway, and I know he’s considering the idea like I am. I know because his fingers are tightening on my leg as he leans closer.
My phone buzzes between us, alarmingly loud in the dirt.
I groan at the same time Jake sighs, but when I look down to see the message, my heart rate kicks up a notch. It’s from Emily Matisse, the woman I’m meeting for lunch. I can only see the first part of the message before my screen goes dark, but the “Hey, something came up” feels ominous.
Jake picks up my phone and holds it toward me when I don’t move. “This feels important,” he explains when I send him a questioning look.
Though I take my phone—he’s right—I tilt my head at him, trying to make sense of this man. “Did you just read my thoughts? Are you psychic?”
