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Becca realized she was staring and jerked her eyes away.
He’d jumped out of the front seat so quickly that she didn’t want to press for painful memories about his parents—but she couldn’t sit silent, doing nothing but inhaling the September night air that poured through his window. “So ... why is your brother mean to girls?”
“Because,” said Michael from the doorway, “I have three younger brothers who think it’s hilarious to parade jailbait through here on a daily basis.”
His tone was enough to make her glad she’d worn the pullover into the house. “No one told me there was a parade,” she said acidly. “And here I forgot my banner.”
Michael leaned against the doorjamb to study his brother. “What happened to your face?”
Chris busied himself with digging through the clothes again. “Nothing. Go back downstairs so she can change.”
Michael stepped into the room and stopped beside the dresser. He reached out a hand to lift Chris’s chin.
Chris smacked his hand away. “Jesus. Stop.”
“You want some ice?”
“No.” The dresser drawer slammed, and Chris turned to her with a gray tee shirt and a pair of cutoff sweatpants. “Here.”
She reached out to take them, feeling like an intruder. “Thanks.”
Michael watched this exchange. “I thought you’d still be at that party.”
Chris wasn’t looking at him. “We were. Nick and Gabriel might still be there.”
“Nick sent me a text. They wanted to make sure you got home before they came back with the car.”
Becca definitely wanted to be changed before the twins got here—and she didn’t want to sit through an argument between Chris and his big brother. She hugged the sweats to her chest and half rose from the bed. “I’ll just—ah, go in the bathroom—”
Michael swung his head around to look at her. “You involved with Tyler somehow?”
The expression on his face made her mouth go dry, and she remembered Chris’s comments from the car, that Michael had a temper. She shook her head quickly.
“She’s not,” said Chris.
“Because,” Michael continued without looking at him, “when Chris comes home from two fights in one week, and you’re with him both times, it starts to look—”
“Damn it, Michael.” Chris shoved him toward the door. The move was a little too aggressive to look brotherly. So was the glare. “Just—go downstairs.”
For an instant, she thought Michael would shove him back. That kind of tension hung between them, as if some pendulum would shift and they’d fight. But Michael drew back to hang by the door. He gave Becca another long look, and she fought not to squirm, but then he just turned and stepped into the hallway.
Chris was leaning against the dresser, his jaw set, his arms tight at his sides. He watched his brother leave.
Becca wet her lips. “Sorry,” she said softly.
“It’s not your fault.”
That wasn’t what she’d meant at all. “I just—I’m sorry.”
Chris glanced at her with eyes shadowed with anger and tension, making her wonder at his relationship with Michael.
But Chris gave her a dark smile and pushed the hair off his forehead. “Don’t sweat it. He likes being angry. Go change.”
The bathroom smelled like boys, from spicy sticks of uncapped deodorant and a large bottle of body wash that looked like it could climb a mountain on its own. Nothing floral here. At least the towels looked clean.
Becca locked herself in and peeled the filthy clothes away from her body. Thank god her mother had seen her leave the house in a pullover, because the silk cropped shirt was nearly ruined. She rinsed out her jeans in the bathtub, but kept her underwear. Damp or not, she wasn’t handing over a bra to Chris Merrick. She held her hair under the bathtub faucet, squeezing it into a towel before finger combing it away from her face. One of them had a bottle of some guy-brand face lotion sitting on the counter, and she used a dab under her eyes to wipe away the running mascara.
Another look in the mirror convinced her that she’d made the right decision in coming here—once her hair dried and she had her jeans back, her mom probably wouldn’t notice that her daughter had taken a swim. The borrowed clothes felt soft on her skin, worn and almost threadbare. She wondered if Chris wore them to sleep, and the thought felt too personal, so she blushed, even there in the privacy of the bathroom.
