Page 7 of My Girl to Ruin

Somewhere below me, the coin laundry kicks on and rattles through the pipes. I picked this building because the man who runs it read my record, handed me a key, and didn’t ask a single question. Everybody here is carrying something. Nobody makes it anybody else’s business. That was the whole point.

My head tilts back slightly as I stare at the ceiling. Four years without seeing her, without letting myself think about anything tied to that life. And she walks in like nothing changed. Like I didn’t make damn sure she stayed as far away from me as possible.

A rough breath leaves me as I drag both hands down my face.

I’m not pissed that she came. That’s the problem.

I close my eyes briefly, and she’s there again.

Honey-blond hair falling around her face, softer than I remember. Those wide brown eyes that always gave her away no matter how quiet she tried to be. Full lips parted like she had something to say but wasn’t sure how to say it.

My body tenses. Because I noticed. Immediately. The way her body moved when she stepped inside. The way her clothes fit differently now, curves where there weren’t any before. The way she looked at me, like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted.

Heat flashes low in my gut, hard and immediate, and my cock jerks. I swear under my breath and turn away, running a hand through my hair.

No.

Absolutely not.

That’s not happening. Not ever. The guilt hits just as fast as the thought did, crushing it instantly. Tyler. Something heavy settles behind my ribs. Her brother. My best friend. Dead. Because of me.

The memory comes back in fragments. Not the crash. That part’s gone, and I’ve stopped digging for it. Just the feeling before it. The shift in the car when something didn’t sit right. I swallow hard, pushing the thought down where it belongs.

I pleaded guilty. Didn’t fight the charge. Didn’t argue. Didn’t question it. Because what was the point? He was still dead. And I was the one behind the wheel.

The knock comes out of nowhere. I freeze for half a second, my body already reacting before my mind catches up. No one comes here. No one knows where I live except Greg…and now Tatum.

My jaw tightens as I cross the apartment in a few long strides and yank the door open.

“Tatum…” Her name catches in my throat.

She’s standing there, half-hidden behind an oversized grocery bag that looks like it weighs more than she does. One arm is hooked through the handle of a large purse slipping down her shoulder. I can barely see her face around the edge of the bag. Just a glimpse of those wide brown eyes and flushed cheeks as she shifts her weight.

Before I can say anything or even process what I’m looking at, she steps forward. Instinct takes over, and I get out of the way. She walks right past me like she belongs here. As if showing up unannounced after four years and pushing her way into my apartment is something people just do.

I shut the door slowly, raking a hand through my hair before turning back to her. She’s already halfway to the kitchen, struggling slightly under the weight of the bag.

“What are you doing?” I demand, my voice rougher than I intended as I quickly take the huge bag off her hands and set it on the counter.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she sets her purse beside the grocery bag with a small huff, pushing a strand of hair out of her face before turning to look at me, smiling. Soft, yet determined.

“I wanted to see you,” she says simply.

“Why?” I snap. “You don’t just show up here. I told you to stay away.”

She ignores that completely. Instead, she starts unpacking the bag. Groceries. Vegetables. Meat. Spices. Things that don’t belong in this apartment.

“I noticed your place was kind of…empty,” she says, pulling items out one after the other like she’s done this a hundred times before. “And there were takeout bags everywhere, so I figured you’re not eating properly.”

I stare at her. She keeps going.

“So I decided I’m going to cook for you,” she finishes, glancing up at me like she’s expecting an argument.

I don’t give her one. I don’t know why.

Four years of making sure this girl was fed and housed and her college paid for, and I did every bit of it through a lawyer so she’d never have to look at me. Now she’s standing in my kitchen putting food away in my cabinets like she’s been doing it her whole life. Something in me wants to take the bag out of her hands and tell her to sit down. To be the one who does this. The wanting is so immediate and so total that it makes my back teeth ache.

I don’t move.