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Oh, hell no, Mikaela Wilcox. Do not even go there. You hate him. Hate.
“Erm. Sure.” I close the refrigerator and look back to my bedroom. “But no to the breakfast. Thanks.”
“As you wish.”
I practically sprint to my bedroom just as Jamie steps out of the bathroom.
Inthesafetyofmy room I close my eyes and lean against the door, my mind spinning and my stomach knotting. I am almost entirely sure I imagined the way his eyes trailed over me, drinking in every single inch of my body, undressing me without so much as taking a single step towards me. I’m convinced, wholeheartedly convinced, that in my half-sleeping state my mind has conjured up something that does not exist, that is not there. Something that hasneverexisted. That, despite the fact I now feel flustered and confused, I did not feel the delicious tightening of desire when he looked at me like that. I can’t feel desire when he looks at me like that. Not now, not ever.
Pushing forwards I make my way to the closet and dig for a gym set in the mountains of clothes I haven’t bothered to put away since laundry day.
He is trouble, Mikaela.
I shake my head clear of the image of him standing there with that stupid spatula and that look that burned right through me.
You’ve had enough trouble with men to last a life time.
I pull a pair of cobalt blue shorts and a matching sports bra from the pile and throw them on before grabbing one of Jamie’s black hoodies I stole weeks ago from the chair in the corner of the room.
You want someone calm. Someone good.
Bending over to slip on my shoes, I feel the phantom tightness in my gut - a constant reminder that I have to take it easier than I used to - and I huff out a disappointed sigh before moving to the mirror.
When I look at myself I want to put on a t-shirt; I want to hide. Instead, I run my fingers along the line across my stomach and take a breath. I grab the comb from my dresser and pull it through the knotted mess of my hair, forcing it into some semblance of control and trying to tie it back. Flyaway’s stick in twenty different directions despite my attempts to flatten them and I grunt in frustration. It will do. It’s not like I want to impress Haston of all people.
Ben
Jamie frowns as Mikaela slips out of her room, her headphones tangled in her fingers while her phone hangs from her lips.
“You have pockets, Mik.” He grunts over to her as he spots the hoodie she has slung over one arm and she rolls her eyes. “And by the looks of it they’re mine.”
Bringing my glass to my lips I try to suppress a smile. It seems Mikaela still steals her brother’s clothes and that small detail makes me happy. At least that hasn’t changed. Her phone is precariously balanced between her teeth when she smiles and she drops the black sweatshirt over the back of the couch, before twisting towards her brother.
Beneath the dark blue outfit that might as well be a second skin is a pink line, starting somewhere beneath her bra and running down her stomach. It puckers out, a visible ridge against her skin that screams for attention, and I can’t tear my eyes from it. It’s fresh - not brand new, but new enough that it hasn’t transformed into that silver string of something old - and neat. Surgical.
I watch as she grins and moves to Jamie’s side, nudging him with her hip, before drawing my eyes back to my plate.My mind swims in questions I have no right to ask.
Growing up I had very little to do with Mikaela. She made sure of it. I’m pretty sure she thought I was an irritant that her brother refused to put down and, on the odd occasion she hadn’t wanted distance, Jamie made sure she got it anyway. He made sure that our paths only crossed in wider circles for a long time. Mikaela had been quiet and focused and determined to make better for herself than the life she had been living in the tiny apartment her mom could barely afford and I had been the opposite. I was chaos and trouble all rolled into a charmingly good looking face with a wide smile and gleaming eyes. I knew it too, which only made trouble more fun. My parents had money, so there was little I couldn’t get away with – not to mention my grandfather’s connections – and truthfully, I revelled in the facade of freedom it brought me.
Jamie followed in my ways; drinking too much as teenagers and spending nights at parties, cozied up to new girls every time. Mikaela had loathed me for that – the trouble Jamie got into. In her eyes it was reckless and destructive. It wasn’t how their mother was raising them. In mine, it was living life while you could. Before responsibilities took over and made you stop playing. In hindsight, I wonder if it was an escape for Jamie.
I glance up to Mik again as she takes her phone from her mouth and wipes it on Jamie’s arm, grinning when he recoils from her and pushes her away from him. When she smiles there’s a mischief in her that I haven’t seen before and she throws her head back slightly as she laughs.
I can’t look away.
I trace the freckles that run down her neck and across her chest as she slips into the giant hoodie, pulling up the zip, and pull my lip between my teeth. This is definitely a dangerous game, but I know I’m not imagining what I see when her eyes meet mine. The peach blush that rises beneath her skin and the way her breath hitches slightly. Mikaela may hate me, but she isn’t immune to me and, for some stupid reason, I am greeted with a sense of pride in making her blush.
I want to do it again.
“Shall we?” I stand from my seat at the breakfast bar and move to put my plate in the sink.
“You’ve just eaten. Don’t you need to wait?” Mikaela cocks her head to the side and -fuck me sideways- it’s absolutely adorable.
“Don’t worry about me, Little Mik.”
She grimaces and Jamie rolls his eyes.
“Besides,” I continue, “you wait to swim after eating and I don’t intend on finding a pool.”
