Page 115 of In Somnis

“I gave him an opening,” he corrects with a shrug. “There’s a difference. He could’ve said no.”

“Fine. Because…” I gesture helplessly toward the door. “Because he’s only being nice because he feels guilty!”

Nevan actually laughs at that. “Yeah, no. That man does not look at you like that because he feels guilty. He looks at you like he’s two seconds away from throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you off somewhere. Possibly to a cave. Very primal.”

Heat floods my face. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being oblivious. That’s not guilt. That’s interest.”

“Or a savior complex.”

“Or he likes you,” Nevan says simply. “Which, for the record, is not hard to believe. You’re likable.”

My throat goes stupid tight at that.

“That’s…” Alarmingly nice, actually.

“True?” He tilts his head. “I know, shocking. But someone had to tell you.”

I stare at him for a long moment, processing this, then scrunch up my nose at him. “You’re kind of annoying, you know that?”

“Yeah.” He reaches out, his thumb sliding over the bridge of my nose to smooth it out. “That’s what friends are for.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ridge

The takeout bag sitting on my lap smells of lemon and garlic, which is the only reason I agreed to any of this.

“I still don’t understand why you need me to physically come with you to pick up food from this place every week,” I say for what is probably the third time tonight, slouched in the passenger seat. “You could just bring me my stuff.”

Derek doesn’t look away from the road. “Because if I don’t air you out regularly, your apartment starts growing things.”

“That’s not how apartments work.”

“It’s how your apartment works.” He signals at the junction with maddening calm, the picture of a man who has fully stopped being affected by my moods. “You sit in there like a mushroom, Ridge.”

“Mushrooms don’t require sunlight.”

“And yet, somehow, that’s your defense.”

I glance over my shoulder at Melanie in the back seat.

She’s sitting primly in her booster, holding a small white stone up in the light from the streetlamp as if she’s inspecting a diamond. She found it in the restaurant parking lot, studied it for a full twenty seconds, and then handed me one too—gray-green, smooth on one side, rough on the other.

I have more than fifty of them from the same parking lot lined up on my desk at home, one for every time Derek has dragged me out here.

I’ve been turning this one between my fingers ever since she pressed it into my palm.

She notices me watching her and beams. “You look scruffy, Uncle Ridge.”

“I’m distinguished.”

“Daddy says you need a haircut.” She tilts the stone left. Then right. “And that your beard is too long.”

I look at Derek, finding him pressing his lips together with visible effort.

“Daddy says a lot of things,” I say.