Page 152 of Double or Nothing

“Smart cheese leakage detection, BT. You really know how to make a man feel treasured.”

“It was a thank you.”

“For the paintings? What can I say? I guess I deserved a cheesy thanks in return for the interior decor.”

I push him away, just enough to meet his eyes.

“It’s not just for the paintings, Jack, it’s for everything. EVERYTHING.”

The words escape before I can stop them. I’m wide eyed myself as I fathom what I’ve just said.

No banter, no humour. Just an explosion of a sentence as my heart hammers.

Jack stills, but only briefly.

There’s one of his tells. One of the very few he has. The tiniest pause when something cuts too close to sincerity.

His gorgeous blue eyes change first, amusement thinning as something warmer moves beneath. Then his thumb sweeps across his lower lip, wiping away the response he doesn’t want me to see. Whatever the hell response that really is.

“You’re welcome,” he says, with a cheeky laugh, but his voice has lost some of its swagger.

I don’t crack a silly smile in return and he narrows his eyes.

“Hey, you. Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve discovered I’ve got an ocean full of emotional depth stashed away somewhere. I don’t. I’m purely an exceptionally polished surface. Nothing more.”

“Of course. Sure you are.”

“I mean it.”

“Naturally.”

“Fuck off, BT, stop being a soppy bitch.” His gaze drops to the shopping bag I dropped at my feet. “Is that cheese?”

“Yes.”

Jack looks genuinely delighted as he grabs the bag and sifts through the contents.

“Fucking hell, you spoil me. Butter and onions and mushrooms? What a treat.”

It should be ridiculous that his expression affects me as much as it does. But this is Jack without the casino floor or the pretence. Barefoot, sleeves pushed up, blond hair slightly disordered, pleased because I’ve brought him cheese for an appliance that only landed this afternoon.

Something inside me aches.

“I knew you were trainable,” he says. “Good boy for the shopping trip.”

“Trainable?” I say. “Be careful, Jack. I can take the toastie maker back, you know? It has a thirty-day return policy.”

“You wouldn’t dare. We’ll be munching out of that thing for at least sixty days solid.”

Sixty days, I wish.

Nine days, I think.

I should tell him.