Page 337 of Primal

“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.”

My feet don’t move. Neither does the part of me that knows exactly how this ends. Me, fixing shit I didn’t break. Her, getting under my skin with snacks, smiles, that damn freckle.

“What, scared I’ll chain you to a radiator and force you to explain how USB ports work?”

“I’ve had worse afternoons. But I’m more worried about your definition of ‘whiskey.’ Last time you called tap water ‘vodka.’”

She laughs, and something stupid twists in my chest. “It’s real whiskey. The kind that peels paint. And if that doesn’t work …” She leans in—enough to make my pulse kick. “I’ll tell Max you volunteered to help.”

Damn. The kid would never let me hear the end of it.