He leans over the counter, balancing his dinner plate on his open palm as he browses the pie selection. “Did you make all these?” he wonders, sounding impressed. He helps himself to a slice of pumpkin pie as I return my attention to the pecan pie I was salivating over—I mean cutting.
“No. Grandma did most of the work. I just put them in the oven.” After a moment of loaded silence, I bite. “And what is that supposed to mean, anyway?” I ask, referring to his weird little comment about running from him.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Looking totally at ease in a way that is enviably admirable, Brandon leans his hip against the counter and crosses his ankle as he cuts into his pie. He slips thefork into his mouth, and his brows almost take flight at the first taste. His eyes roll into the back of his head, flickering there as he makes a suggestive noise in the back of his throat. When he notices my slack-jawed stare, he winks.
Flushing, I avert my eyes.Pervert.
Adam walks into the kitchen then. His eyes widen when they register the scene before him; me and Brandon, standing a little too close for comfort. Brandon offers an easy smile, always so self-assured. I want to slap him for it.
Adam gestures to the desserts as he moves closer. “Sorry. Was I interrupting something?”
“No.” I step aside, realizing I’m in the way. Ignoring Brandon’s lingering gaze, I head straight for the coffee pot. I’m going to need all the caffeine I can get if I want to clean up after everyone’s gone. I can already feel my body wilting under the weight of my exhaustion.
This always happens when I take a day off work. Almost as soon as my body gets a decent amount of time to rest, it feels like my muscles are beginning to calcify. If I go too long without moving, I become as stiff and unmovable as a rock. Sometimes, it’s hard to get out of bed the next morning.
By the time I’ve finished making my coffee, Adam is gone. Brandon hasn’t moved from his spot against the counter. He’s still watching me like a hawk, and I’ve had enough. Marching forward, I swipe the empty plate from his hand and stride toward the sink.
“I’ll do that,” he says, plucking the dish out of my hand as I turn the faucet on.
I grab it back and point at the dining room. “Would you go?”
He frowns as he steals the plate back. “Let me help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Don’t be stubborn,” he says, gently bumping me out of the way to access the sink. “You need to learn to accept help, Evie. No man is an island.”
“I’ll accept help, just not from you.” I grab for the plate, but he pulls it back. I wait a second, attempting to psych him out before lurching for it again. We do this several times, but he manages to anticipate my every advance, retracting the plate from my grabbing hand just before I make contact with it every time. Meanwhile, he’s grinning like a maniac.
I think he’s enjoying this a littletoomuch.
He always did like to play games.
Without warning, I punch him square in the gut. He grunts and folds, clutching his stomach as I swipe for the plate again. But he retracts it once more, and the tip of my finger slices against the chipped edge of the Chinaware.
A drop of blood drips onto the linoleum floor.
“Now look at what you’ve done,” I snap, clutching my throbbing finger.
He sets the plate aside and turns the faucet off as I stalk out of the room. I feel him following me as I flee down the hall and into the bathroom. I’m about to shut the door when Brandon’s palm comes down against the grain. My heart races as I push against it, but he pushes back, winning this battle of wills by creating a gap just wide enough to slip inside the room with me.
Sighing in resignation, I sink to my knees and rummage beneath the sink. Brandon closes the door and leans against it as I pull out a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and some cotton balls. Ignoring him now, I soak one of the cotton balls. I’m about to press it into my cut when it disappears from my hand.
He nods at the toilet. “Sit down. I’ll do it.”
There’s an air of authority in his voice that I’ve never heard before. It doesn’t intimidate me, but it does suck the petulant energy right out of my body.
Giving up my fight, I lower the toilet lid and sit down.
Brandon washes and dries his hands at the sink, then crouches down before me. Cautiously, he takes my hand—acting as if I might suddenly decide to strike. But I’ve been completely immobilized. His skin is cool to the touch, firm and pleasant against mine. I try to tamp the surge of memories that bob to the surface as he carefully sterilizes my wound, but that’s like trying to drown a boogie board.
While watching him work, his gaze soft, his expression thoughtful, guilt throngs me like a swarm of angry wasps.
I’ve acted like a total brat.
“You’re still angry with me,” he notes, undoing a Band-Aid.
