Page 19 of Jump-Start
“How many hours, Starling?” the English man insists, and I drop down on the floor so Benz can cuddle up in my lap. It’s dark outside, causing panic to flood through me.
“How long was I asleep?” I ask, and his back tenses in response.
“Almost seventeen hours.”Seventeen hours?
“Leonard! You should have woken me! I had shifts at the gallery and at the bookstore today,” I say before covering my mouth and rubbing my hands over my face.
“I called your jobs and told them you’re taking the day off,” he says so nonchalantly, my earlier desire to kill him returns.
“That wasn’t your decision to make. I need the money. How many times do I have to repeat myself until you get that through your head? I cannot afford to miss a day’s work,” I bark so harshly, Benz looks up at me, her blue eyes full of surprise at my tone.
“No, you know what? You bloody fainted, Starling. You have not been sleeping or resting, and your body cannot keep up with you, alright? You will kill yourself if you keep going like that. Your body needed to sleep off the exhaustion you’ve put it through for God knows how long, and I wasn’t about to wake you so you could go out and destroy yourself further.”
Speechless. I’m speechless because of how unsettlingly heartwarming it is to have him care about me to this extent. No one else gives a shit. Graham loves me, but he’s so busy with his own life—and used to be all for it that I worked so much to finance my life and our dream—he doesn’t pay too much attention to how tired I always am. Mamma doesn’t see me often enough to be truly concerned and neither does Lulu. But, here he is, the last person who should give a shit about me, caring that I don’t break myself. Tears shoot into my eyes in response, but I shove them down, far down, before my gaze meets Leonard’s soft one.
“I promise, I will find you something where you are paid better so you don’t have to work as many hours,” he says, and I shake my head, scratching Benz’s head.
“How did you keep fighting for your dream when it seemed like things were standing still instead of moving forward?” I ask quietly, but he stops moving around in the kitchen to offer me all of his attention.
“You want that gallery?” he says, his hip pushing against the kitchen island.
“Of course I do, Sherlock.” He rolls his eyes at my name-calling but refocuses soon, his brown eyes fixating on my face.
“Then we will make it happen,” he adds, and I let out a snort that raises his eyebrows.
“What the fuck do you mean ‘we’? You and I are not a ‘we’. You and I will never be a ‘we’. I hate you. We don’t get along,” I blurt out, seeing him tense briefly at the word ‘hate’.
“Fine,” is all he replies and turns back to his stove. “I will give you the money I cost you by not waking you. It’s my fault, so I owe you.”
“No, I don’t want your money,” I reply, remembering the hundred pounds I took from him at the club yesterday. When I reach for it in my bra, it’s still there. I take it out, staring at it and feeling wrong about keeping it now, so I place it on his kitchen island.
“Put that hundred back between your breasts or I’m going to lose it,” he says, but that sentence is so fucking weird, we both burst into laughter at the same time.
It lasts for ten seconds until both of us realize what’s happening. I’ve never heard Leonard laugh before. He’s never heard me either. The first time we decide to do it in front of one another, it’s at the same time and causes our voices to collide and intertwine. The sound is surprisingly beautiful too, which only adds to my panic and shuts down the sound as it tries to leave my throat again. My lips pull into a thin line, and so do Leonard’s full ones. Well, that was incredibly weird.
“I’m going to go take a shower,” I blurt out because I need to get away from him as soon as possible.
“I’ll put some clothes for you on the bed,” he replies, earning himself a quiet and muffled ‘thanks’ from me.
He’s not kicking me out. I’m not leaving. Instead, I’m going to take a shower at his place and after, slip on the boxers, sweatpants, and shirt I wore the last time I was here only days ago. None of this is right. I should have jumped at the opportunity to go home. He should have driven me home as soon as I woke up. Then again, he shouldn’t have brought me back to his flat either.
“Where is my car?” I ask once I’m back in the kitchen, and Leonard gives me a side glance in response.
“At the mechanic,” he replies, stirring the light sauce he made. My stomach grunts at the sight. “Dinner is almost ready,” he adds, but there is no way I will be able to eat this.
“I’m lactose-intolerant,” I say, and Leonard nods, seeming to be aware of that fact even though I never told him.
“And I’m vegan,” Leonard replies and adds some salt to the sauce. “Everything is made from dairy-free products, Starling, you will be able to eat this without setting a new record for most farts in a minute,” he says, biting down on his bottom lip to hide how amusing he finds his joke.
“Ha, ha,” I say and decide to lay the table, just like I did a few days ago. “Then, what the hell did you feed me when you madechickenpiccata?” I ask, and his eyes sparkle with amusement.
“Plant-based meat. You couldn’t even tell the difference the way I seasoned it, could you?” I could not, but he doesn’t have to hear me say how wonderful of a cook I think he is. His ego is inflated enough.
“How much do I owe you for the mechanic?” I ask instead, dreading the answer.
“She’s a friend of mine and owed me a favor, so, nothing.” I can hear the way his voice dropped an octave, which is a clear sign that he’s lying and not even trying to cover it up.
“You’re a shit liar,” I reply, and Leonard turns to me, the challenge written across his face.
