Practice Makes Perfect
Page 41
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Wow.
And just when he thought he couldn’t feel more like a jackass, Tyler called and filled him in on everything.
And thus, J.D. found himself here, on Payton’s doorstep.
Standing aimlessly on her front stoop with nothing else to do, he looked around, checking out the neighborhood. There were several row houses on the block, including the one that presumably belonged to her. The tree-lined street had a quaint yet urban feel to it.
He liked it. Not as much as his downtown high-rise condo with a view of the lake, of course, but he found it an acceptable place to leave the Bentley parked on the street. And for J.D., that was saying a lot.
He pushed the button on the intercom again. Third time’s the charm, they always say, which was good, because given the circumstances, charm was something he definitely need—
“Hello?”
The voice—Payton’s—came crackling loudly through the intercom, momentarily surprising him. She sounded annoyed. And he hadn’t even spoken yet.
J.D. cleared his throat and pushed the button on the intercom.
“Uh, Payton, hi. It’s J.D.”
Dead silence.
Then another crackle.
“Sorry. Not interested.”
Cute. But J.D. persisted. Again with the button.
“I want to talk to you.”
Crackle.
“Ever hear of a telephone, ass**le?”
Okay, he probably deserved that.
Button.
“Listen, I’ve been standing out here for fifteen minutes. What took you so long to answer?”
Crackle.
(Annoyed sigh.) “I was about to get in the shower.”
J.D. raised an eyebrow. The shower? Hmm . . . he liked the sound of that. Wait a second—no, he didn’t.
Bad J.D.
Button.
“I read the deposition transcript.”
Crackle.
“Good for you.”
She certainly wasn’t making this easy. But he had expected that.
Buzzer.
“Payton,” J.D. said in an earnest tone, “I would like to say this in person. Please.”
Silence. He could practically hear her debating.
Then the buzzer rang, unlocking the front door. J.D. dove to beat the buzzer before she changed her mind, and let himself in.
PAYTON’S EYES QUICKLY scanned her front room and kitchen, making sure they were presentable. Not that it mattered, because (a) it was The Shithead and (b) he wasn’t staying. Her apartment was her sanctuary, which meant 100 percent J.D.-free.
She opened her front door, thinking she’d catch him on the stairs and cut him off at the pass. But instead, she found him already standing there. The quick way she threw open the door caught him off guard.
With one hand on the door frame and the other on her hip, Payton glared at him. “Whatever you have to say, say it quickly. I’ve had a long day.”
Recovering from his momentary surprise, J.D. looked her over. “That’s a little abrupt. Can I come in?”
“No.”
“Great. Thanks.”
He brushed by Payton and stepped into her apartment.
Payton huffed. Oh. Well. Apparently she had no choice in the matter. She shut the door behind him and watched as he looked around curiously.
“So this is where you live,” he said as if fascinated, a man who’d snuck into the enemy’s camp. “Nice space. Looks like you get a lot of light.” He glanced over. “Just you?”
Payton nodded. “Yes. Look, whatever you—”
“Can I have something to drink?” he interrupted her. “A glass of water would be fine. I came here straight from work.”
At first, Payton said nothing. She simply stared at him, wondering what the hell he was up to.
“I’m a bit parched,” he added.
She thought she saw the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. Was he trying to be cute? Or perhaps he was just stalling.
“Fine.” She sighed. Reluctantly, she turned to head into the kitchen.
“Perrier, if you have it.”
Payton threw an evil eye over her shoulder.
J.D. grinned. “Just kidding.”
Definitely trying to be cute.
Whatever.
Ignoring him, Payton went and got his glass of water. It was weird, him being there in her apartment. It felt . . . personal. She felt oddly jumpy. Skittish.
After unenthusiastically filling a glass with tepidly warm tap water, she went back out into the front room. The room was divided by a wall of built-in bookshelves—one of the few things from the original design she hadn’t changed after buying the place—and she found J.D. there, looking at her collection of books.
As he leaned over to check out the lower shelf, Payton noticed for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a suit jacket. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up around his forearms, his tie loosened, and his hair had a casual, raked-through look.
This is what he looks like when he comes home from work, Payton thought. She caught herself wondering if there was someone he came home to.
Brushing that aside, Payton walked over and unceremoniously shoved the glass of water at him. “Here.”
J.D.’s hand brushed against hers as he took it. “Thank you.”
There was something about the way he looked at her, Payton noticed. For years, his expressions had fluctuated somewhere along the smug/haughty you-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about-silly-Clintonite to the more frustrated I-would-strangle-you-dead-except-I-don’t-have-time-to-pick-up-your-workload spectrum. But lately it was different, and she found it very hard to read him.
And just when he thought he couldn’t feel more like a jackass, Tyler called and filled him in on everything.
And thus, J.D. found himself here, on Payton’s doorstep.
Standing aimlessly on her front stoop with nothing else to do, he looked around, checking out the neighborhood. There were several row houses on the block, including the one that presumably belonged to her. The tree-lined street had a quaint yet urban feel to it.
He liked it. Not as much as his downtown high-rise condo with a view of the lake, of course, but he found it an acceptable place to leave the Bentley parked on the street. And for J.D., that was saying a lot.
He pushed the button on the intercom again. Third time’s the charm, they always say, which was good, because given the circumstances, charm was something he definitely need—
“Hello?”
The voice—Payton’s—came crackling loudly through the intercom, momentarily surprising him. She sounded annoyed. And he hadn’t even spoken yet.
J.D. cleared his throat and pushed the button on the intercom.
“Uh, Payton, hi. It’s J.D.”
Dead silence.
Then another crackle.
“Sorry. Not interested.”
Cute. But J.D. persisted. Again with the button.
“I want to talk to you.”
Crackle.
“Ever hear of a telephone, ass**le?”
Okay, he probably deserved that.
Button.
“Listen, I’ve been standing out here for fifteen minutes. What took you so long to answer?”
Crackle.
(Annoyed sigh.) “I was about to get in the shower.”
J.D. raised an eyebrow. The shower? Hmm . . . he liked the sound of that. Wait a second—no, he didn’t.
Bad J.D.
Button.
“I read the deposition transcript.”
Crackle.
“Good for you.”
She certainly wasn’t making this easy. But he had expected that.
Buzzer.
“Payton,” J.D. said in an earnest tone, “I would like to say this in person. Please.”
Silence. He could practically hear her debating.
Then the buzzer rang, unlocking the front door. J.D. dove to beat the buzzer before she changed her mind, and let himself in.
PAYTON’S EYES QUICKLY scanned her front room and kitchen, making sure they were presentable. Not that it mattered, because (a) it was The Shithead and (b) he wasn’t staying. Her apartment was her sanctuary, which meant 100 percent J.D.-free.
She opened her front door, thinking she’d catch him on the stairs and cut him off at the pass. But instead, she found him already standing there. The quick way she threw open the door caught him off guard.
With one hand on the door frame and the other on her hip, Payton glared at him. “Whatever you have to say, say it quickly. I’ve had a long day.”
Recovering from his momentary surprise, J.D. looked her over. “That’s a little abrupt. Can I come in?”
“No.”
“Great. Thanks.”
He brushed by Payton and stepped into her apartment.
Payton huffed. Oh. Well. Apparently she had no choice in the matter. She shut the door behind him and watched as he looked around curiously.
“So this is where you live,” he said as if fascinated, a man who’d snuck into the enemy’s camp. “Nice space. Looks like you get a lot of light.” He glanced over. “Just you?”
Payton nodded. “Yes. Look, whatever you—”
“Can I have something to drink?” he interrupted her. “A glass of water would be fine. I came here straight from work.”
At first, Payton said nothing. She simply stared at him, wondering what the hell he was up to.
“I’m a bit parched,” he added.
She thought she saw the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. Was he trying to be cute? Or perhaps he was just stalling.
“Fine.” She sighed. Reluctantly, she turned to head into the kitchen.
“Perrier, if you have it.”
Payton threw an evil eye over her shoulder.
J.D. grinned. “Just kidding.”
Definitely trying to be cute.
Whatever.
Ignoring him, Payton went and got his glass of water. It was weird, him being there in her apartment. It felt . . . personal. She felt oddly jumpy. Skittish.
After unenthusiastically filling a glass with tepidly warm tap water, she went back out into the front room. The room was divided by a wall of built-in bookshelves—one of the few things from the original design she hadn’t changed after buying the place—and she found J.D. there, looking at her collection of books.
As he leaned over to check out the lower shelf, Payton noticed for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a suit jacket. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up around his forearms, his tie loosened, and his hair had a casual, raked-through look.
This is what he looks like when he comes home from work, Payton thought. She caught herself wondering if there was someone he came home to.
Brushing that aside, Payton walked over and unceremoniously shoved the glass of water at him. “Here.”
J.D.’s hand brushed against hers as he took it. “Thank you.”
There was something about the way he looked at her, Payton noticed. For years, his expressions had fluctuated somewhere along the smug/haughty you-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about-silly-Clintonite to the more frustrated I-would-strangle-you-dead-except-I-don’t-have-time-to-pick-up-your-workload spectrum. But lately it was different, and she found it very hard to read him.
