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“I’ll take you to… your room,” he says cautiously.
My room.
His room.
I swallow but maintain my glower, albeit blinking a bit weirdly because of the torrential downpour. “Okay.”
His eyes stray to my outfit – a severe hoodie, oversized-men’s-jeans, ball cap situation – and a pained look creases his brow before he turns to the house and unlocks the door.
Wow, I look so bad that it caused him physical pain.
When he unlocks the door he pushes it open and then steps aside so that I can enter first. A little flicker licks at the dry campfire in my stomach. I stomp it out immediately.
We both leave our shoes under the porch roof outside before heading in. Once we’re inside he says, “If you leave your hoodie in the kitchen I’ll put it in the dryer for you.”
I refuse to remove any items of clothing in front of him. “I’ll chance the pneumonia,” I respond dryly.
He stares down at me, a tense flex in his jaw. He turns to disappear into the kitchen for a moment and when he comes back out I hear the hum of the heating system. He doesn’t look at me again as he ascends to the bedroom.
Mybedroom.
I know why he’s being so amenable and he damn well ought to be. I hope that he is ridden with guilt over what he put me through.
When Tate opens the bedroom door, he looks at me over his shoulder, like he’s thinking of letting me through first again. The stairwell to the attic is so narrow that pressing past him would undoubtedly result in me getting totally rolling-pinned, so he thinks better of it, chest heaving, and heads into the room.
There’s a tiny flutter in my chest when I drink in the room. It would be cramped for most people but, at my height, it’s cosy. Dark curtains, pillow cases, and quilt covers. A lamp on each side, framing the bed. The downpour outside creates a calming, repetitive thumping sound against the roof above us, and there’s beautiful bespoke wood panelling everywhere.
It’s rustic, and my little loner heart loves it.
I press my hand into the black comforter and the bed gives a little squeal.
“I’ll leave you to unpack,” Tate says in a deep, strained voice. I look over to him and he’s standing rigidly in the doorway, his hulking body stiff with discomfort. “Should I close the door?”
I turn fully around so that I’m facing him head on and I give myself three seconds to appreciate why I feel so uncomfortable around him. Tan skin flushed with the sting of the rainstorm. Chocolate brown hair now a tousled, dripping mess. His hard-earned manual-labour muscles twitching with the need to break some logs with his bare hands. Did I mention that he’s more than a foot taller than me? Because he is.
He’s standing in my damn bedroom. I’m going to be sleeping in his damn bed. He’s my mom’s boyfriend’s son.
And he was the worst thing to ever happen to me.
I flip back towards the bed so that I’m no longer facing him and I pull my sodden hoodie up over my head.
“You should definitely close the door.”
Chapter 6
Three Years Ago
We were never pre-assigned seats for Biology so it’s one of the only classes wherein I get to sit next to my best friend Kit. Her name is actually Kitty but she insists on the shortened version because it sounds more curt.Take-no-shit Kit. Very appropriate.
She’s sweeping her long black hair into a ponytail whilst Mr Miller draws a DNA ladder on the whiteboard when she gives me a nudge with her elbow.
I look over at her and her fierce cat eyes are locked onto mine like a target. How is she not the most popular girl in school? She’s definitely the hottest. For some reason people always avoid the nerds.
She hisses over to me, “Did you submit your poster to the Homecoming committee?” just as her overly-stretched hair bobble snaps and flies across the room, Pablo Picasso at the whiteboard evidently none the wiser.
I nod at her. Kit is on every committee available. It’s her attempt at forced social interaction, which she says is for the maintenance of her natural animal requirements, otherwise she would undoubtedly avoid our classmates like the plague.
“You better have,” she continues, pinning her hair back with a red clippy-grip instead. “No way am I letting Madden’s get picked.”
