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She didn’t understand his tone. Some of it felt like concern—but some of it felt like crazy-serial-killer. Becca took another step back, putting the cooking island between her and him, before realizing this felt very much like cat and mouse. “Stop it.”
He stared back at her. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me the truth.”
Gabriel pulled a cookie from the package and sat back in his chair. “My money’s on the girl.”
My money’s not.
Michael took another step closer “How about it? You want to try another story?”
He stood in the gap between the island and the counter now, blocking her path to the doorway. He was close enough to touch, close enough to grab her. She kept hearing Paul’s words in her head, bits and pieces from the class. Eye contact. Target. Control. Balance.
Then she was doing it. She swung her fist into his midsection, trying to scrape past him into the hallway. He caught her arms.
“Hey,” he said. “Wait a second—”
She swung for his face with the keys, but missed and got his shoulder. She tried to kick him, to knee him in the groin, anything. She had no idea if her hits were successful. His fingers caught at her hoodie and she slid out of it. She felt her shirt ride up to her chest, but she didn’t care. The wet fabric pulled free, and then she was loose, bolting for the doorway.
She felt him right behind her.
Her feet slapped the slate floor of the foyer; then her hand caught the doorknob. The door swung wide and she exploded into the darkness, slipping on the wet steps, skidding in the grass on the way to her car.
Thunder growled in the sky, and the grass gave way to mud, clutching her sneakers. Her knees hit the ground. Her hands squished into the dirt. She slipped and slid, struggling for purchase, but couldn’t find her footing. Her fingers seemed to tangle in the grass, as if the roots grabbed her hands and held her down.
A hand seized her arm and hauled her to her feet. The landscape spun as her eyes tried to keep up. She saw the brightly lit front of the house, the twins on the porch, the frustration in Michael’s face as he tried to get hold of her.
ation. 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.
