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Leaning against the doorframe, I cross my arms. "Can't skip work again. Got some surf lessons, and I'm pretty sure Sam's going to interrogate me at some point."
"Mind if I tag along?" His question catches me off guard.
"Really?"
"Yeah, I used to watch you give lessons all the time, remember? Plus, I've got nothing else planned." His casual demeanor makes it seem like spending the day with me is the usual thing in the world.
I scrutinize his face, searching for any sign of reluctance, but find none. The thought that he might want to spend more time with me—possibly even another night—sends a flutter through my heart.
Careful, Tilly. I remind myself silently. That's why he ran before. You wanted more and he didn’t. He’s just being a friend. Yet, the signals he was sending last night hardly seemed like he was looking for a way out. We cuddled all night on the couch for Christ’s sake.
I keep my tone casual. "Yeah, come along. But we'll have to explain your mangled face to Sam.”
"Mangled? Ouch, that hurts more than the stitches. Thought chicks dug scars?"
As he searches my face for a reaction, I turn away before the blush can reach my cheeks, but I catch his grin out of the corner of my eye. "Oh, shit, you’re blushing.” A smile lifts the corners of my mouth, but I still don’t look at him. “You totally think I'm sexy!" He nudges my shoulder playfully.
I get to my feet, brushing off his words and touch. "Anything's an improvement, I suppose."
He wiggles a finger at me, a flirtatious smirk playing on his lips. "Tease all you want. I know the truth now. Tilly Jacobs likes how I look." His smugness sends a fresh wave of heat across my face.
He's flirting with me, and I'm. Fucking. Here. For. It. But before I can reply, he stands and stretches, his muscles flexing in a way that draws my eyes down his body. The sight of his abs leading to that enticing trail of hair sends a shiver through me.
Clearing my throat, I announce, "I'm gonna get dressed, then we'll head out." I gesture towards my bedroom and hastily retreat down the hall.
Finding a swimsuit that hasn't been ruined takes longer than expected. I change quickly and rush back towards the living room, only to bump into Tommy as he exits the bathroom.
"Oh sorry—" I say at the same time he says, "Totally my fault.” Yet neither of us steps back. His hands rest on my shoulders, his breathing shallow. Attempting to create some distance, I step back, only to find the wall behind me. Tommy follows, his large hands sliding slightly to my biceps, his grip tightening as if he's anchoring himself to me. But he doesn’t stop there. Leaning forward, his body is now pressed against me in the most delicious way.
Both of us are taking shallow breaths and if I’m not mistaken, his body is trembling slightly. I know he’s looking at my face, but I can’t seem to meet his eyes. Instead, my head remains slightly turned, focused on the small brush of his thumb on my arm. We stay just like that for what feels like hours, but probably lasts only a few short seconds before he finally takes a breath. "Tilly, what are we doing?" His whispered words ignite a wildfire inside me. I'm adrift in a sea of sensations, my mind unable to grasp anything beyond the proximity of his lips, just a mere tilt of my head away.
"I-I don’t know."
His chest rises slowly as if he’s centering himself. "I’ve had a lot of fun with you… We always do," he continues, his hands sliding down my arms so gently it threatens to unravel me completely. I remain silent, my chin dipped, terrified that meeting his gaze might compel me to act recklessly.
"Did you miss me?" he asks, his voice carrying a weight that pulls my gaze to his. His eyes, filled with a sad longing, search mine for an answer. When I hesitate, he presses on. “I fucking missed you, Tilly. Tell me you did too. Please.” His voice is breathless by the time he adds that final word. That one single stupid word that melts any stubborn resolve left.
With a slight nod, I give him my silent answer. I want to scream out, ‘I thought about you every goddamn day’ but my voice is lost. It seems that my nod is enough though because his entire face brightens. “Good,” he says, that smirk nearly making me lose my mind. The urge to lean in, to feel his lips against mine and thread my fingers through his hair, is burning through me. But before I can give in, a knock at the door pulls us back to reality.
Ignoring it, I yell, “Go away, Charles," hoping my neighbor will get the hint. But the voice that responds isn’t what I’m expecting.
"It’s not Charles," a woman replies, sending a shock through me. I recognize that voice instantly, and my eyes widen as far as they can go. A chill sweeps through me. It's her. I haven’t heard from her in years, and knowing she's here now makes me feel all sorts of conflicting things: fear, pain, and maybe a bit of hope. Hope that she’s here for something other than manipulation. But there is one thing I can’t let her see. If she comes in and Tommy is here, she’ll have all the ammunition she needs to get whatever she is here for.
Panicked, I turn to Tommy. "Hide."
He starts to protest, but I quickly cover his mouth with my hand. "Please, Tommy, no questions. Just hide in my closet, okay?" The desperation in my voice convinces him, and he nods.
Still in my bathing suit, I rush to the door. Miranda, my twin sister, stands there, looking every bit the part of someone who belongs in a world far removed from my duct-taped couch reality.
"Hello, Matilda," she says. We are identical in our physical appearance. But the similarities end there. The tight skirt and blouse combo make her look as stuffed up as she probably is. It’s gray like a stormy sky but fits her well. Probably cost a fortune to have it hemmed so it makes her ass pop like it does. Gold bracelets dangle from her wrist as she tucks some of her short, cropped hair behind her ear. There’s no awkwardness in the movement. No, Miranda doesn't do discomfort. She's too high and mighty for that. She only does judgment. That’s the hair tuck of someone resisting the urge to rub hand sanitizer over every surface of their skin.
"Hello, Miranda, please, come in," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm that she chooses to ignore. As Miranda takes in the state of my apartment, her disdain is clear. With her nose scrunched up, she steps inside, her shoulder-length black hair bouncing as she does.
"They certainly did a number this time.” Her gaze lingers on the damaged furniture.
I cross my arms, feeling a mix of relief and trepidation. If our father has sent Miranda, it could mean he's extending an olive branch. At the thought, my hope rises slightly. He's never done this before.
"Why didn’t you call?" Miranda's question hits me like a cold wave. That used to be the pattern: after every break-in orchestrated by our father's goons, I'd call him, erupting in anger, demanding he back off. He'd promise to stop if I returned home. I'd refuse, move somewhere new, and the cycle would restart months later when he found me again. But that was the old me. "I don’t do that anymore. I’m not running this time," I say with all the confidence I can muster.
