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“Okay, bro,” I tease. “Then dad it is.”
“I’m not his dad.” He flips a pancake.
“Adoptive dad?” I want him to smil
e, but he just gives me a blank look.
“Things must not have gone very well last night on your... um, errand.”
I see the muscle of his jaw clench. He doesn’t even lift his gaze to me.
“Okayyy. Well cool beans.” I grab two pieces of bacon off the plate and get up to get myself a drink. If he’s going to be a moody butthead, maybe I’ll go have my breakfast somewhere else. I can sit on the balcony and continue reading news stories about Kellan Drake.
I grab a Mason jar out of a cabinet and a glass pitcher out of the refrigerator. I set it on the countertop.
“You should try some lemons in your water,” I advise. Just filling the silence, I guess. (Cleo Whatley: always awkward).
He doesn’t reply, and my feelings war with each other. Part of me feels sorry for him, part of me is irritated that he’s still so moody—especially after our night last night. Part of me feels pessimistic, like I’ll never really get to know him, and still another part wants to erect a wall around myself.
I pour some water into my glass and feel the warm weight of his hand around my wrist. I look down, then get the nerve to glance up at his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His blue eyes hold mine.
“What for?”
“For being a dick.” He lets me go and runs his hands through his hair. He lets a little breath out, like he’s been holding it. “Bad night.”
His voice sounds thick—emotional, even. His cuts his eyes away and then turns back around toward the skillet. The pancakes sizzle, but he doesn’t pick the spatula up. I can’t even see him breathing.
Shit.
I turn around and lean against the counter. “Anything you want to talk about? You have a roomie now, you know.”
I look at his broad shoulders, imagining them in a jersey. Bare and goosebumped while he stands on a surfboard. I imagine them tucked around me last night... the way he pressed his face into my hair.
I have the urge to wrap my arms around his waist again, but I think of his reaction last time at the grow house. And that’s how I know I should.
Is this what he does with other girls, too? Just fucks them, and if they make him laugh or wrap their arms around him, they get pushed away?
I put my hand on his back, then realize I want more and press my cheek against it.
He goes very still. So still I can hear his heartbeat.
I kiss him through his shirt, and then I wrap an arm around his waist.
“Don’t be pissed,” I whisper. “You seem sad. I like hugging you... I’m a hugger.”
I smell something burning, and I lean around him to find the pancake smoking.
I slide my arm from around his waist and kiss his bicep. “I didn’t mean to make you burn the food.”
“You didn’t,” he says gruffly.
I walk around the bar and take a seat on the stool right in front of him. I find myself waiting for his eyes to meet mine. He looks everywhere but at me as he finishes the pancakes, smears butter on them, and brings out a small cup of hot syrup from the microwave.
He puts three on a plate for me and sets it in front of me, still without looking in my eyes. Then he turns around to open the refrigerator. He takes out some fresh-looking strawberries and sets them in front of me as well.
“Thank you,” I say, as he finally looks me in the face. “Are you going to have some too?”
