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I’m planted in the doorway and I’m emitting serial killer vibes. Undeterred Tate steps in front of me, albeit cautiously, and he inhales deeply before swallowing hard. I watch as his thick Adam’s apple rolls up and down in his throat.
“River,” he says. His eyes sparkle as he outstretches his hand to me. Hisrighthand. Ha. As if I’m going to let him see the terrorised state ofmyright hand after the other night’s incident. I offer him my left one instead.
The corners of his lips twitch and I drop my hand completely.
“How’s the other one?” he asks.
“Amazing,” I lie. My hand is so swollen that I might actually lose it.
“Did you get it checked?”
“No,” I admit in a rare moment of honesty. This seems to irritate him, which makes me perk up a little. I spot the silver crucifix hanging over his shirt and say, “I have been praying though.”
My mom has gone into the kitchen so I turn my attention to Mitch, but my expression glitches when I realise that he hasbeen watching our entire exchange. Scrambling, I gesture to the dining area with my thumb and ask, “D’you want me to set it up for you?”
Mitch cocks an eyebrow at me, and I see the exact same squint in his eyes that was in Tate’s a moment ago. He too is holding back on some dark little joke.
“You’re our guest,” he scolds, taking the coat that I had half-shrugged off my shoulders before I had my step-brother-sized seizure. “Take a seat. I’ll pour you a drink.”
My head is spinning because I can’t believe that this is happening. We manoeuvre to the table and Mitch hands me one of the glasses before working on opening a bottle of soda. I stay standing as I take in the room. He has in fact already set up the table, a detail which I had not observed whilst my insides began unravelling like linguini. The furnishings are dark wood and the accents are wine red. No clutter and innately primitive. Sexy. I brush one finger across the polished tabletop and the oil from my print mars the surface.
When I look back up at Mitch he’s watching meverycautiously. I have a horrible feeling that he is somehow in my head, and not just in the conscious surface. He’s submerged in the dark and nasty stuff that I want to keep repressed. He’s looking at the thoughts that I’m not even allowingmyselfto look at.
“I’m glad that I’m finally meeting you,” he says, pulling the bottle away from the lip of my glass. “Obviously your mom has told me a lot about you, but I’m sure that you’ll be even better in person.”
He gives me a guarded smile but from the look in his eyes I think he means it. Only I don’t understand why heis the one putting his guard up. He’s acting like he’s hiding something and it’s putting me on edge.
I hear Tate leave the vicinity as he walks back inside the kitchen.
I put the drink down and stare at Mitch as I purposefully shove my glasses back up my nose. It’s a gesture that says,Look at how innocent I am. So small and inoffensive.Then I fold my arms across my chest because I mean business. “Thanks. I just want whatever is best for my mom. If that’s you, then good.”
Mitch rocks on the back of his heels and observes me with a slow nod. Suddenly I decide that I’m being too nice. I’ve hard-wired myself to never be nice to a guy again, so I elect to throw him off a bit.
“And if not,” I continue conspiratorially, thinking back to his garage, “I’ve already seen where you keep the murder tools.”
Mitch’s eyes widen and then he throws his head back in a dazzling laugh, one hand clutching his wide muscled stomach. I literally can’t believe that my mom has pulled this guy. When he drops his head forward again he sighs with a lazy smile, basking in my threat.
I know that smile.
“I knew you’d be even better in person,” he says and he gives me another winning grin as he leaves the dining area. I let out a shaky breath as he disappears. It’s amazing that now that he thinks I’m unhinged – even in jest – the air is suddenly clear. He’s real smiles and belly laughs.
Men.
In a desperate bid to recoup my brain cells I keep to myself at the back of the house, looking through the window into the back garden. It looks like the guys have almost finished building themselves a pool. I don’t let myself think about that for too long.
It takes three minutes for Mitch and – Jesus Christ –Tateto put the dishes on the table, and then Mitch is summoning me like the demon that I am back to the dining area.
I sit down and force a smile at Mitch. “Thank you,” I say to him, well aware that I should be saying this to Tate. My least favourite person in the world. My futurestep brother.
There’s a dangerous slosh in my stomach.
Mitch points to my right hand with the serving spoon. “So what happened to your hand?”
I shovel a forkful of mashed potatoes into my mouth. They’re really tasty, which is annoying.
I glance over the table and a shiver ripples up through my neck, prickling my cheeks. I don’t feel too guilty staring though, because Tate’s eyes aren’t on my face – they’re on my hand, too.
I turn to Mitch and give him a light-hearted, would-you-believe-it shrug. “I knocked it on something.”
