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He reached out a hand and held the door closed—like it needed the help. “Michael’s okay. Look—” He hesitated, and she watched the water sluice down his forearm. “Tell me what happened to Chris.”
There. True concern. Enough to make her turn back around and swipe the rain out of her eyes. It made her think of Chris’s half-lucid statements from the parking lot. I need a frigging rainstorm.
She stared up at his brother. “I’m getting soaked.”
“So come in. Dry off.” His expression darkened, along with his voice. “Tell me whose ass we need to kick.”
Nick gave her a towel.
He flung it, really. She was dripping on his kitchen tiles, and he tossed it from the doorway.
“Let me change my shirt,” he said. “You want me to get you something?”
She stared at him for a second, wondering whether he meant food or something to wear. When she realized her mouth was working but nothing was coming out, she quickly shook her head.
Then she was alone, long enough that she finally dropped into a chair and shivered. No woman lived in this house; she could tell that just from the kitchen. The paper towel holder sat empty and a stack of dishes hid in the sink. A pot of coffee had been made at some point, left to cool in the carafe long ago. But the counters appeared mostly clean, simple granite that still had a shine and didn’t sport any spilled food. No curtains hung over the windows by the sink, no soft hand towels hung on the oven.
Becca’s mom rarely had a chance to cook, but her kitchen was a place of warmth, with fresh fruit always spilling out of a bowl on the counter, a snack drawer that never went empty, and a feeling of welcome that never went cold.
This kitchen should have been nice, with a set of French doors leading out to a back porch and enough space for a large table and a cooking island. But the lack of family touches left it feeling institutional.
She gave her hair a cursory squeeze with the towel. She’d never been one of those girls who looked sexy with wet hair. Her dark strands weighed heavy on her neck, clumped and tangled from the water. She finger combed them away from her face, knowing it would leave her cheeks stark and pale, making her gray eyes appear huge. She zipped her damp sweatshirt all the way up, though it seemed to seal the cold to her body. Sitting in a house full of boys in a wet tee shirt didn’t seem the best way to uphold her reputation.
Reputation. Ha.
The front door slammed, followed by heavy, clomping footsteps in the hallway. She sat up straighter, rolling the towel into a ball in her lap. Would this be a real adult, someone older and more authoritative than Michael? Nick wasn’t back yet, and she had no idea how to explain her presence.
Those footsteps came all the way to the kitchen. No adult. Just a flash of déjà vu: Nick’s twin.
Since they were identical, he was every inch the looker his brother was. But Gabriel was filthy, his hair wet and disheveled, a streak of dirt across one cheek. His wet hoodie had seen better days, and his shorts fared little better. Old Mill High’s colors of bright red and blue tried to peek through grass stains and mud, but it was a losing battle. He wore shin guards and cleats, and he’d tracked dirt and bits of grass into the kitchen.
Her mother would have had a fit.
Becca opened her mouth to explain herself, expecting him to be surprised, to introduce himself, to ask what she was doing there.
She’d have settled for his acknowledging her presence.
He barely glanced at her on his way to the refrigerator. She watched him pull a jug of red Gatorade off the shelf and drink half of it while he surveyed the rest of the refrigerator contents.
“Hi,” she said, just in case there was any way he’d missed the living, breathing female sitting in full view of the doorway.
He didn’t turn. “ ’Sup.” Then he swung the refrigerator door closed, slapping the Gatorade bottle on the counter while he riffled through cabinets. He must have been satisfied when he came up with a package of chocolate chip cookies, because he grabbed his drink and dropped into the chair across from her.
He smelled like grass and dirt and sweat, and he looked so much like Nick that she had to stop herself from staring.
He ripped open the package and pulled three out for himself, then shoved the cookies toward the middle of the table. “Want some?”
“I’m good. Thanks.” She had to clear her throat to state the obvious. “You’re ... ah ... probably wondering what I’m doing here.”
“Nah.” He took a swig of Gatorade, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Finding a girl in the kitchen isn’t exactly an oddity around here.”
“Charming.”
He glanced up at that, a glint of wicked humor in his eye. “I’m sure you’re special, though.”
It should have pissed her off, after Michael’s brusque attitude and Nick’s hey-baby-why-don’t-you-come-inside. But Gabriel’s teasing was straightforward, challenging, in a way. He expected her to girl it up, to huff and fold her arms. She could tell.
“Not special at all.” She changed her mind and leaned in to take a cookie. “I just heard my number called and thought I’d better show up.”
