Dead Pretty - Samantha Towle Page 0,58

out the stool from next to me and sits on it.

Then, he cups the back of my neck and pulls me in for a kiss.

He softly brushes his lips over mine. There is none of the roughness from last night. Just the tender sweep of his lips over mine and the gentle sweep of his tongue in my mouth.

“Needed that,” he tells me, pulling back to look in my eyes.

“What?”

“To kiss you.”

“You kissed me a few minutes ago.” I smile.

“Pretty girl, I could kiss you every second of the day, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

Warmth collects in my chest. I’m pretty sure I’ve got a goofy smile on my face and cartoon hearts in my eyes right now.

Trying to regain some control of myself, I pull back and clear my throat. “I poured you a coffee,” I tell him.

“Thank you.” He picks it up, and without adding anything to it, he takes a sip.

“Thank you for the food,” I tell him. “It smells amazing.”

“Let’s hope it tastes as good as it smells.” He grins.

We eat together, chatting about small stuff.

Jack tells me that his deadline for submission to his publisher is looming close, so he needs to really get moving with his book. He’s a little behind.

I ask him about the book, and he tells me about the storyline.

It’s about a man who returns home after his father is found murdered. He and his father didn’t get along. His father was physically abusive to him throughout his whole childhood. He left there as soon as he could. While the main character is back in his childhood town, arranging details for his father’s funeral, the fingers of accusation start to point his way even though he wasn’t even in the state at the time. But evidence starts cropping up, making it seem as though he were there, to the point that he starts to doubt his own sanity and wonders if he was actually there and if he did murder his father.

Even though I have zero interest in fictional crime stories, I do have to admit that the plot sounds brilliant.

I like seeing how animated he becomes when talking about his work. How his eyes seem to brighten even more when he shares his ideas for the story.

I ask how he comes up with the concepts for his books. The mind of a writer has always fascinated me. How they come up with a story. How it forms in their minds.

They build these whole worlds that readers can get lost in. It’s incredible.

Jack shrugs and tells me that it just comes naturally to him. Something that he has always been able to do.

An idea will appear, and then it will just grow quickly until it becomes the whole story.

“Do the characters talk to you? Like, you actually hear them in your head?” I ask, dying to know the answer.

He smiles, his lips lifting at one corner. “If I said yes, would you think I was crazy?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve heard before that many writers hear their characters, almost as if they were real people to them.”

He chuckles. “My friend …” His eyes move away, looking down at the counter. “The one I mentioned last night.”

Something uncomfortable lodges in my chest, and my stomach tightens into a thousand knots. “The one who lives in Australia?”

The same friend who I’m fairly sure is an ex-girlfriend. The person who sent his manuscript off to a publisher. The reason he got his first book deal.

The ex-girlfriend that I think he still has feelings for.

“Yeah. Well, he used to say that there was a fine line between being a writer and having schizophrenia.”

“Should I be worried?” I laugh, lifting my brows.

Jack widens his eyes, giving me a crazy look. “Maybe …” He grins.

Sniggering, I get up from my stool and start helping him clean up.

“Leave the plates in the sink,” I tell Jack, glancing at the clock. “I really should set off for work. I’ll wash them when I get home tonight.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Just let me get my things together, and then we can go.”

Five minutes later, Jack and I exit my apartment. I’ve got the helmet he bought me in my hand. He stops by his apartment to put Eleven back in there. He puts down fresh food and water for her and grabs his laptop. Then, we head out.

And Jack holds my hand the whole time.

I can’t even explain the way it makes me feel. But it is definitely something