Mum flutters around the kitchen when I finally emerge, squinting against the bright morning sun.
Neriah’s footsteps sound on the stairs in the hallway. She sidles past me, her head bobbing to an imaginary beat in her head.
Mum looks up. “Good morning, kids. What do you think?”
Brows pinching, I take in the food on the kitchen table. Mum has gone all out. There’s a selection of fresh fruits, pancakes, bacon, eggs—boiledandscrambled—and cereal.
I’m about to say something when the door opens, and Dad walks in. A tall, dark-haired guy around my age enters behind him, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks up, and his blue eyes grow wide like a deer caught in headlights.
I stare at him. The guy is huge and packed with lean muscle. Strands of windswept black hair curl at his brow, his jaw covered in dark stubble.
He could pass for a cover model.
“Zachary,” Dad says, “meet Arkin.” He smiles at the quiet guy with the intense stare. “Arkin, meet my son Zachary.”
I do some weird half-moon wave.
My sister hovers behind us, so Dad turns and guides her forward. “This is my daughter, Neriah.”
Arkin stays silent, watching us. Dad clears his throat. “Why don’t you hang up your coat.”
My heart beats harder as he puts his bag down and removes his black jacket.
His broad shoulders stretch the material before he manages to get it off, his jaw twitching briefly. A black T-shirt that’s slightly too big hints at the muscles beneath and shredded jeans hang low on his hips.
After he hangs his jacket up, he grabs his bag and stares at us warily. When no one speaks, he swallows visibly, and his dark eyes clash with mine.
Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you show him your bedroom.”
My bedroom?Oh…
“Sure, okay.” I walk away, expecting him to follow.
The steps creak beneath his heavy weight behind me, but I don’t turn around. There’s no need because his presence is palpable, and my body responds.
I take a left at the top and open the first door to our right. Arkin stares at me, his bag clutched in his hands, over his chest like a shield. He peeks inside but makes no move to enter.
“This is my room,” I say. “It’s where you’ll stay.”
Icy blue eyes watch me. I shift aside, gesturing for him to enter. When he finally moves, his masculine scent fills the air with hints of peppermint shampoo and laundry powder.
Standing in the middle of my room, he looks at me. I open my mouth to speak but slam it shut again. How do you talk to someone who won’t respond?
“This is my bed,” I say, acutely aware of the crumpled navy bedsheets as I cross to it. One of the pillows is by the foot of the bed. “You’re sleeping in that one.” I jerk my chin to the single bed Mom pushed up against the window across the room last night. Arkin glances at it while I pick up the stray pillow to place by the headboard. I’m fidgety, and I don’t know why.
He’s just so damn big.
Big and silent.
He meanders over to the bed, his steps slow, cautious. I rub my neck, noting how low his jeans sit on his hips. My mouth dries, and I have to clear my throat or risk croaking like a frog.
Arkin gazes at me over his shoulder as if asking for permission. I motion to the bed. “It’s okay. Yeah, uh—” I clear my throat again. “It’s yours.”
He puts his bag on the bed and then stands there, almost looking at me over his shoulder, but not quite. I don’t know what the hell he’s staring at, but the room feels small, and the oxygen is gone.
I slap my hand against my thigh as if to say,Well, that’s that.
“Do you have any questions?”
