Free I Wish You Were Mine (Oxford #2) by Lauren Layne Page B

“Jackson—”
    He backed away from her touch. “Don’t, Mollie. Just fucking don’t.”
    “But wait, I didn’t know—”
    “You should have.”
    He walked away then, retreating down the hall toward his bedroom, shutting the door with a quiet click.
    “Well,” she said to a silent room, “this is off to a
great
start.”

Chapter 8
    It was official. Jackson was avoiding her.
    They’d been roommates for nearly a week now, and ever since their sort-of fight in the kitchen, she’d barely seen the guy.
    He was gone before she got up. This morning she’d even been out of bed by five-thirty, hoping to coax him into coffee with her, but she’d opened the door to her bedroom just in time to see him disappear out the front door with both gym bag and laptop bag in hand.
    And since her workweek had turned unexpectedly crazy, she was lucky to make it home by eight, at which time he’d force a tight smile, give her a cursory “How was your day?” and then retreat to his bedroom to watch TV, only to have the same stifled routine repeat the next day.
    But by Friday Mollie had decided she’d had enough. Not only were they not acting like friends, they were barely acting like adults. It was long past time she fixed it. Fixed
them
.
    Thanks to an extra-early morning and skipping lunch, Mollie was able to get out of the lab by a reasonable hour, determined to beat Jackson back to their place. She’d
just
made it home and changed into the comfy sweatpants and T-shirt that were all part of the plan when he walked in the door a little after six.
    Jackson froze when he saw her pouring herself a glass of wine, clearly not having expected her to beat him home.
    “Hey,” she said as nonchalantly as possible, considering that she was standing barefoot in his kitchen.
    No,
their
kitchen.
    The thought of sharing
anything
with Jackson gave her a strange little thrill, one that she immediately pushed out of her mind. The last thing either of them needed was for her to start rekindling her long-ago crush.
    He dropped his keys on the table by the door, and she saw the way he glanced toward his bedroom as though wanting to retreat. But perhaps Jackson, like her, realized the ridiculousness of their situation, because he deposited both his gym bag and his work bag by the front door and joined her in the kitchen.
    She held up the wine bottle in question, but he shook his head, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer instead.
    “Got any plans for tonight?” she asked sweetly, knowing full well that he didn’t. Best as she could tell, the man had made zero effort to develop any kind of life in New York outside of work.
    He shook his head. “You?”
    Mollie glanced down at her staying-in ensemble. “I was going to do a movie night. Pizza. Popcorn. The works.”
    “It’s Friday. You’re not going out?”
    She didn’t miss the hopeful note in his voice. He
definitely
didn’t want her around, and it stung. But she pushed through with the plan anyway.
    “Nope,” she said, lifting her wine and taking a sip. “That a problem?”
    “Why would it be a problem?” he muttered. “You want to be a twentysomething hermit, that’s your deal.”
    Mollie rolled her eyes. “You’re not going to guilt me into going out tonight just because you don’t want to deal with me. And besides,
I’m
not the one whose social life is in mayday status.”
    “Yeah, but I’m thirty-five.”
    “I know. What I
don’t
know is why you think that’s an appropriate age to drape an afghan over your knees while sipping Ovaltine. You’re young and, frankly, hot. You should be grabbing drinks with coworkers right now. Or getting ready for a date. Or doing something other than being a big grumpy lump.”
    Jackson choked on his beer. “Grumpy lump? You know, Molls, if you’re trying to make amends for last weekend, you probably should have just stopped at the ‘hot’ part.”
    Mollie pounced. “Oh, so we
are
going to talk about last weekend? You’re not