"He's just helping me move."
"Yeah, into his house."
I roll my eyes. "Because I work there."
"Uh huh," she says sarcastically.
"Al…" I pause briefly, just long enough to get her attention. "Nothing's gonna happen."
Nothing can happen.
Not again, at least.
Alex inhales deeply. "Yeah…" she says as we fall back into step. "That's exactly whatIsaid."
28
Liam
Seven minutes.
That's how long I've been sitting at the edge of the chair in my living room, staring at the sweatshirt I threw at Tessa now draped over the arm of the couch.
When I walked in, the sink was running upstairs, but the soft sound of the water bouncing off porcelain didn't sound faint to me. It sounded loud—taunting. Like it was screaming a reminder of exactly where she was and why I shouldn't be thinking about her.
I knew better than to go upstairs—or even look in that direction, but I didn't know what else to do. I'm all ready to go get Tess's stuff. I cooled off—from the game and the fact that she had Holloway's name on her shirt. I showered. I forced myself to get my head on straight. So… I sat. And I'm still here sitting, waiting for her to come back down.
The floor creaks upstairs—once, twice—and then there's a soft scuff of her feet at the top of the steps. I glue myself to the chair, resisting every urge to bounce to my feet and meet her at the landing. Instead, I empty my lungs and drag a hand down my face, sit up straighter and attempt to look completely at ease.
She continues down the stairs, the smell of her—stronger than ever—drifting into the room before her. My pulse quickens, which is ridiculous. It's just Tessa. And we're going to load my truck up with a bunch of heavy boxes.So, why am I so on edge?
Footsteps hit the last few stairs—softy, cautiously—as if she's testing them.
Does she know I'm here?
Is she nervous too?
I pull my phone from my pocket and lock my eyes on the screen to look busy—to do literally anything but stare at the doorway waiting for her to walk through it. But there's no point. The second I hear her round the corner, my gaze darts to her.
"Oh, hey," she says normally—unbothered.
She's in leggings, and she's swapped my sweatshirt for another. This one doesn't swallow her shape like mine did, but it also doesn't make my mouth run dry.
"Hey, you ready?" I ask, impressing myself with how steady my voice is.
Her eyes flick to the hoodie on the couch like she's not sure if we should talk about the way I forced her into it earlier, then nods. "Ready if you are."
Her words sound like a test—or maybe a challenge. Like the fate of the whole sweatshirt debacle is in my hands. I consider owning up to it now—confessing that I insisted she put it on because I couldn't stand to look at my replacement's name across her back. But this is the first instance we'll have spent any real time alone. And I don't want to add to the potential tension by admitting I crossed another boundary I swore I wouldn't.
That I knew I shouldn't.
So I don't.
Instead, I stand, walk to the kitchen and grab my keys off the island. "Let's do it," I say cheerfully, shoving my hands into pockets and hoping to God she doesn't noticethey're shaking.
"This is where your stuff is?"
Tessa peers over at me, her cheeks pink. "All I said was that it was in storage."
