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CHAPTER FIVE
Clarke
“Well…” I watch Treyton slurp up a mouthful of noodles, studying his expression as he slowly chews then swallows.
“Not bad, Hamilton.” He nods, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Not bad at all.”
“Thank you.” I nudge him with my elbow, the two of us sitting side by side at my breakfast bar.
It still doesn’t feel real. Him being here. Eating together like two completely normal people when he is anything but normal. And while yes, he’s just a person like the rest of us, I’d be lying if I said that there wasn’t something special about being with him like this.
I’m softening. I can feel it. The walls coming down. My defenses lowering. No matter how hard I try to fight it, no matter how many times I tell myself to keep them up, they just keep slipping.
It’s Treyton.
He’s exactly what I expected yet, nothing like I expected all at the same time. If that makes even a damn bit of sense.
“Though to be fair, I did have a hand in this.”
“Literally,” I quip. “You had your hands all over it.” The sight of him in my kitchen, flour on his forehead, face pinched in concentration, will probably go down as one of the most surreal things I’ve ever experienced.
“Who knew kneading dough was such a workout?” He shovels another bite into his mouth. “Longest ten minutes of my life.”
“Worth it though, right?”
He nods as he chews.
While watching him in the kitchen did offer me something to focus on, it did nothing to wipe away the memory of how he had kissed me moments before. The evidence was everywhere, raging through me like an inferno that I couldn’t seem to control. And while the fire still lingers, I’ve done my best not to let it show. Though, if I’m being honest, my lips still burn like he just touched them.
I didn’t want him to kiss me. Or maybe I did but I don’t want to admit it. But now that he has, I can’t stop staring at his mouth. I can’t stop envisioning his lips on mine again.
I’ve never been kissed like that before. Like I was the breath his lungs burned for…
Like I was the very air he breathed.
I try to shake off the thought for what feels like the hundredth time, but it keeps creeping in, like a little devil on my shoulder daring me to see what else he can do with that mouth of his.
“Do I have something on my face?” I hear him say, but it takes longer than it should for my eyes to find his.
“Huh?” I blink.
“You’re staring at me. Do I have something on my face or something?” he repeats his question.
“Oh.” I try to laugh it off, but the sound comes out a little too high. “You have sauce on your chin,” I lie, swallowing hard.
“Do I?” He chuckles, lifting the napkin to his mouth before wiping the nonexistent food away. His eyes drift back to mine, and they stay there for a long moment before I finally break the contact, looking down at my own food.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened earlier today that landed you in a bar in the middle of the afternoon?” I ask.
“It’s nothing.” He grunts, swirling his fork.
“So you said earlier. Now why don’t you try telling me the truth?”
“It really was nothing.” He drops the utensil, causing it to clang against his plate. Leaning back in his stool, he lets out a slow sigh. “Or, at least, it should have been nothing.”
“Okay, then what was this something that should have been nothing?”
“Brandy Hill.”
