Page 132 of Primal

“Hey,” she says, slightly breathless. Nods at Max. “Wanna help me move a dresser? I’ll pay in cookies. Or pizza. Or eternal karmic reward.”

She smiles like that last one is legally binding.

Max’s hand shoots up. “Sure. I’m in.”

She glances at me. “You his dad?”

The question shouldn’t sting. Dad’s been dead fifteen years. As for the useless sack of shit Mom married next, well, he’s been gone 731 days. Good riddance.

“Stepbrother,” Max corrects, before I can say ‘unfortunate babysitter.’ “Kade’s grumpy.”

“Not grumpy,” I mutter. “Tired.”

“Of life,” Max stage-whispers.

The woman grins. “I’m Payton.”

“I’m Max. I’m ten. I like dinosaurs and NASA and I can do a backflip on the trampoline.”

“Impressive,” Payton says, dead serious. “I like people who can do backflips and lift heavy things. So … Kade, you in too?”

Max grabs my arm. “We’re in.”

Hell no. I should drag Max inside, fix him a half-decent dinner, make sure Mom’s still alive and hasn’t mistaken bleach for vodka. But the redhead’s already turning toward the house, and the little shit is practically vibrating.

“Come on,” he begs. “I’m hungry.”

Payton glances back. “I’ve got Oreos.”

Max gasps. “Double Stuf?”

“Obviously.”

He bolts after her like she offered him a pet T-rex.

The redhead trips on the curb, catches herself with a muttered fuck—and for half a second, I’m not scowling.

***

The door swings open.

Payton grins. “Welcome to my baking accident-slash-printer exorcism.”

Denim shorts hitched high on long legs. Tank top clinging in all the worst places—for me, anyway. Bleach stain be damned. Her hair’s twisted up, neck bare, flour dusted on one cheek like someone dragged their thumb there mid-kiss.

I don’t stare.

Not at the legs.

Not at the curve of her waist.

Definitely not at the freckle on her collarbone I shouldn’t remember from last time.

She lifts a plate. “Cookies are only mildly carcinogenic today. Also, my printer’s screaming in error codes. Think you can fix it, or do I need to perform a ritual sacrifice?”

When she texted ‘emergency,’ I assumed blood. Or fire. Not a bitchy printer. I eye the cookies. “Trying to poison me first?”

“Only if you fuck up the printer.” She steps back, waving me in. “Come on. I’ll upgrade you to whiskey.”