bit uptight, and apparently bow ties were a thing for him. Still, on paper, he was perfect for her. He had an interesting career in a field related to her own, and he was certainly handsome. He looked nice in a bow tie. That wasn’t really a prerequisite for a relationship with her, but it was nice to know. He didn’t make her act like an idiot and blurt out stupid things like “muscles,” so that was good.
If she wanted a relationship—which she didn’t—Henry would be a good candidate. He was solid, smart, and decent. A girl could do worse, if she wanted to do anything at all.
But Henry Beckham hardly inspired her to break her no-relationship rule.
The problem was, quite simply, Jake. She hadn’t seen him since he’d pulled her from the roof, not even to apologize. But she couldn’t seem to muster up any real anger toward him. Her house was finicky; she knew that. Her front door stuck all the time. She would think she had the trick mastered, then it would stick again in another strange way. So even though Jake was obviously stronger than she ( muscles , she thought), it was possible that he was telling the truth, that he hadn’t played a trick on her to get her to climb off the roof even though it was terrifying and embarrassing.
She couldn’t get him out of her head. Right before she left for her first-ever class at Pembroke on Wednesday, her Jane Austen portrait fell in the foyer, shattering glass everywhere. The picture hook just fell right out of the wall—there was a hole in the plaster and everything. If random stuff like that hadn’t been happening all week, she’d think it was a sign. But the floorboard was still sticking up and now the window in her office wouldn’t close at all. Her kitchen curtains kept going wonky and she was pretty sure something was happening with the throw pillows on her couch, although that was probably Mr. Bingley.
And every time something fell or broke or detached, her first thought was of Jake. Jake would know how to fix this. She should call Jake, he’d come right over. And he might have, if she’d called him. But Jake was too much for her. He made her feel . . . uncertain. One minute he’d be friendly and kind, the next he’d be storming out the door because he thought she called him stupid. And even though he probably wasn’t screwing with her up on the roof, just the fact that he could have made her want to keep her distance. She was relying far too much on Jake. And what was she getting out of it? One hot kiss and a bruised ego.
She would not think of Jake any more.
It didn’t help that everyone seemed to think she and Jake were a thing now. She’d run into her neighbor, Mrs. Wallace, yesterday afternoon when she was walking her wiener beagle, Lucy.
“I hear you’re seeing that Jake Burdette,” Mrs. Wallace had said as Lucy sniffed the fence.
“Really?” Grace had been bemused—where would Mrs. Wallace have gotten that from?
“Gail Plimpton said she saw you two embracing in the yard.”
“Oh, well . . .”
“Now, I know how you young people are. It’s none of my business. But I will warn you . . .” She leaned over the fence to Grace. “I’ve known Jake for a long time and he’s nothing but trouble. Oh, you should have seen what he got into when he was in high school! Quite a rascal. And quite a heartbreaker. You seem like a nice young lady, and you’re smart, too. Take my advice and stay away from Jake Burdette.”
Then Lucy turned and peed on Mrs. Wallace’s shoes.
When Grace went out to lunch with Helen on Thursday (a work meeting, to discuss bibliographic instruction for Grace’s freshmen), Helen grilled Grace on Jake. But Grace couldn’t answer any of her questions, even if she wanted to. (Well, she could answer the question about his chest hair—yes, he had it and yes, it was perfect—but she didn’t. A lady doesn’t ogle and tell.) Unlike Mrs. Wallace, Helen encouraged Grace to go for it.
“Oh, I know he’s
If she wanted a relationship—which she didn’t—Henry would be a good candidate. He was solid, smart, and decent. A girl could do worse, if she wanted to do anything at all.
But Henry Beckham hardly inspired her to break her no-relationship rule.
The problem was, quite simply, Jake. She hadn’t seen him since he’d pulled her from the roof, not even to apologize. But she couldn’t seem to muster up any real anger toward him. Her house was finicky; she knew that. Her front door stuck all the time. She would think she had the trick mastered, then it would stick again in another strange way. So even though Jake was obviously stronger than she ( muscles , she thought), it was possible that he was telling the truth, that he hadn’t played a trick on her to get her to climb off the roof even though it was terrifying and embarrassing.
She couldn’t get him out of her head. Right before she left for her first-ever class at Pembroke on Wednesday, her Jane Austen portrait fell in the foyer, shattering glass everywhere. The picture hook just fell right out of the wall—there was a hole in the plaster and everything. If random stuff like that hadn’t been happening all week, she’d think it was a sign. But the floorboard was still sticking up and now the window in her office wouldn’t close at all. Her kitchen curtains kept going wonky and she was pretty sure something was happening with the throw pillows on her couch, although that was probably Mr. Bingley.
And every time something fell or broke or detached, her first thought was of Jake. Jake would know how to fix this. She should call Jake, he’d come right over. And he might have, if she’d called him. But Jake was too much for her. He made her feel . . . uncertain. One minute he’d be friendly and kind, the next he’d be storming out the door because he thought she called him stupid. And even though he probably wasn’t screwing with her up on the roof, just the fact that he could have made her want to keep her distance. She was relying far too much on Jake. And what was she getting out of it? One hot kiss and a bruised ego.
She would not think of Jake any more.
It didn’t help that everyone seemed to think she and Jake were a thing now. She’d run into her neighbor, Mrs. Wallace, yesterday afternoon when she was walking her wiener beagle, Lucy.
“I hear you’re seeing that Jake Burdette,” Mrs. Wallace had said as Lucy sniffed the fence.
“Really?” Grace had been bemused—where would Mrs. Wallace have gotten that from?
“Gail Plimpton said she saw you two embracing in the yard.”
“Oh, well . . .”
“Now, I know how you young people are. It’s none of my business. But I will warn you . . .” She leaned over the fence to Grace. “I’ve known Jake for a long time and he’s nothing but trouble. Oh, you should have seen what he got into when he was in high school! Quite a rascal. And quite a heartbreaker. You seem like a nice young lady, and you’re smart, too. Take my advice and stay away from Jake Burdette.”
Then Lucy turned and peed on Mrs. Wallace’s shoes.
When Grace went out to lunch with Helen on Thursday (a work meeting, to discuss bibliographic instruction for Grace’s freshmen), Helen grilled Grace on Jake. But Grace couldn’t answer any of her questions, even if she wanted to. (Well, she could answer the question about his chest hair—yes, he had it and yes, it was perfect—but she didn’t. A lady doesn’t ogle and tell.) Unlike Mrs. Wallace, Helen encouraged Grace to go for it.
“Oh, I know he’s
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