Page 17 of What Happens In Vegas: Jessa & Jaxon
I look up to find him watching me, the intensity back in his eyes. “I won’t kick you out during a blizzard, Jaxon.”
“Good to know there are limits to your dislike of me.”
“I don’t dislike you.” The words surprise us both. “I mean,” I backpedal, “I don’t like you either. You’re... tolerable. Sometimes.”
“High praise from Jessa Smith. I’ll take it.”
“Thank heavens for gas stoves,” I say, desperate to fill the silence with something safe.
“And for pancake mix,” he adds, joining me with his own plate. “And for someone who keeps her kitchen well-stocked.”
“Thank you,” I respond. “For... all this.” I point at the breakfast servings.
“Least I could do. You’re letting me crash here, after all.” He takes a bite of his pancake. “Besides, I was hungry, and you were busy doing... whatever you were doing in the bathroom for forty-five minutes.”
“My morning routine is extensive.”
“Of course.”
His lips quirk up at the corner, but he doesn’t push it. We eat in relatively comfortable silence, the awkwardness gradually dissipating with each bite. Outside, the world is white and still.
“About this morning,” I finally say, unable to leave it unaddressed. “When we woke up. I didn’t mean to...”
“Use me as your personal space heater?” he supplies.
“Yes. That.” I focus intently on cutting my pancake into unnecessarily small pieces. “I must have gotten cold in the night.”
“The temperature dropped pretty low,” he agrees. “And body heat is the most efficient way to stay warm.”
“Exactly.” I nod, relieved he’s being rational about this. “It was purely a survival instinct.”
“Of course.” He takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim. “Although...”
I look up, instantly wary. “Although what?”
“You did say my name while you were asleep.”
“Doubt it.”
“Twice, actually.”
“Then you were hallucinating.” I take a sip of coffee. “Might want to get your mental checked.”
“Denial this strong?” His voice drops lower. “Must’ve been a hell of a dream, JJ.”
I shoot him a glare. “I wasn’t—”
“It’s okay,” he interrupts smoothly. “You don’t have to tell me what it was about. I already know.”
“Eat your food.”
He obeys, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. We finish eating in silence, though it’s charged with awareness.
As I gather our empty plates, I’m grateful for the mundane task that gives my hands something to do. We settle into washing dishes together, me washing while Jaxon dries.
“You seriously think Reba tops Dolly?” I ask, wiping a spot off a mug before passing it to him.
“Dolly’s a legend, but Reba’s got grit,” Jaxon says, reaching for the mug. “And that red hair? Iconic.”
