Page 65 of What About Us

“Did I just walk right past you?”

“No. I was in the living room and saw you walk by. You okay?”

I shrug and lean my hips back against the counter, then take a sip of the cool water and watch him. He’s shirtless, and he’s resting his elbows on the island.

Xander has tattoos on his upper right shoulder and biceps. And I swallow hard because he’s sculpted so beautifully, it’s enough to make me sweat.

“That’s not an answer,” he says with a low voice.

“I just couldn’t sleep. My mind doesn’t want to shut up.”

“What are you thinking about?” He drags his thumb over his lower lip, and my thighs clench. If I’d known he was down here, I would have thrown on his hoodie because right now, I’m just in a tank top and sleep shorts, and that doesn’t feel like enough.

Not that he hasn’t seen everything the universe gave me anyway.

I push that thought out of my head and nibble my lip.

“I don’t think my mom is going to leave peacefully in three days,” I finally admit. “Or at all, let alone nicely. I shudder to think what she’s doing to my house right now.”

“Do you honestly think that she’ll damage your things?”

I take another sip and sigh. “I don’t want to think that, but she’s so vindictive. Jealous, I guess. Not that I have everything in the world, but I do have nice things because I’ve worked my ass off for them.”

“Most parents would want their kids to do better than them.”

I nod slowly. “Except for our moms,” I remind him. “And that really pisses me off for us, Xander.”

“Yeah, we didn’t win any prizes in the mom department, that’s for sure.” He pushes his hand through his hair.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” I ask him.

“I don’t sleep well,” he admits. “And I like the dark.”

“Okay, vampire.”

He smirks, but then some pieces start to shift and move together.

His memory is bad.

Sometimes he can’t find the word he wants.

Doesn’t sleep well.

He didn’t forget about me because he didn’t care or because he’s a jerk. And he didn’t forget about that one night a couple of years ago on purpose.

For a millisecond, I’m relieved. And then that shifts to worry.

“So, I have a question,” I say.

“I’m an open book, Red.”

I move to the island, just across from him, and lean on the counter. His gaze dips to my cleavage for a heartbeat but then comes back up to my eyes.

“Why isn’t the concussion in your medical records?”

His face doesn’t change at all. There’s no reaction.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”