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I gape at him. His expression gives nothing away, but I can tell by the subtle, sweet change in his scent that he’s not being malicious.
He’s joking, which somehow makes it far worse.
“You’re impossible,” I sigh.
“You’re not the first person who has said that,” he confirms as I walk away from him and head into my kitchen. It’s connected to the front room, so with only a few steps I’m at my tile counters, doing my best to organize everything so it’s at least a little presentable.
Not that I care what he thinks.
But still, I don’t want to pass out and wake up to a messy kitchen.
Especially if I’m going to work in the morning.
Not that he needs to know that.
River follows me and leans against the counter, watching me as I open a plastic container to start putting all the extra macarons away.
I pretend that he’s not staring. I try not to imagine him analyzing my kitchen, judging me based on how messy, unkempt, and dusted with flour everything is.
I use a paper towel to mop up some empty coffee grounds, and when I turn around, he’s only feet behind me, picking up the container of macarons.
“Can I help you?” I ask, uncomfortable at the invasion of my space.
He was so quiet about it too, which makes it worse.
It’s hot, my inner Omega says. He’s like a shadow. He can sneak up on you whenever.
I silently tell her to shut up.
River drums his fingers on the top of the container, frowning. “Those cookies you made earlier were really fucking delicious,” he grumbles, as if admitting defeat.
My heart thumps wildly in my chest. “Oh, you mean the bribes?” I sneer, walking away from him. I turn my attention to the espresso machine in the corner, my face flaming and tears threatening to fill my eyes. I close each bag of coffee grounds and line them neatly up against the backsplash of the counter.
I’ve always been proud of my kitchen. Even though the house I live in is small, I made sure the kitchen was the star of the show.
It’s where I do my best work, and when organized, it looks like it could be in a magazine.
Obsessive organization is one of my newest coping mechanisms for dealing with April’s disappearance, and having River invade my safe space with his presence does strange things to me.
“Hey, Skylar. Look at me.”
I don’t want to look at him. I want to stay where I am, with my back to him and the image of my beloved espresso machine turning blurry.
“Skylar.”
Resigned, I turn to face him. I pray the tears aren’t visible, but they fall from my face before I can hide them.
River is nothing but a blur of leather jacket and dark hair.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“You’re sorry?” he says and takes a step towards me. “I—fuck, I’m fucked up, okay? I’m not good at this stuff. I don’t do this stuff.”
Before I can ask what “stuff” he means, he’s in my space and wrapping his arms around me.
I immediately bury my face in his chest and relax in his hold.
His grip is tight around me and I can barely breathe with his chest pressed into my face, but I sob out my sorrow in his arms.
