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“Mm-mm. Find some real food, I guess.” I cast my eyes back toward the pantry.
“Not going to have much luck in there.”
I raise one eyebrow.
“Tripp told me to eat whatever I found. I didn’t find much.”
I feel myself deflate. I’m so hungry everything sounds good, and cravings for all my favorite foods are rushing across my palette. Unfortunately, satisfying said cravings requires a hairbrush and a drive into town, and I’m barely functional at this moment. The juice is helping the shakes, but I still have brain fog. I’ve had this low blood sugar issue since I was a kid. I know how to manage it, but doing so requires planning, routine, stability. These last few days, weeks really, have hardly been conducive to those things. Besides, anxiety can steal my appetite to the point of nausea when I do eat, and it’s been especially bad the last few days. Now, I’m for-real hungry, having slept off my anxiety for the time being.
Tapping my nails on the granite, I vent my frustration with a deflating sigh.
“Grab your shoes and I’ll drive you somewhere.”
I look at him sideways. Why is he being so nice? Why is he…here at all? Any other guy I’d think was still angling for a raincheck on the hookup, but this is Marco.Gonzo. My brother’s longtime partner. I believe he sincerely no longer has an interest in goingthere.
And neither do I, no matter how intriguing his green-eyed gaze or his square jaw or any other of his assets. I’m not overly moved by his fun smile or his bad-boy mystique, either.
Ugh. How can I even, for one tiny moment, find the slightest appeal in the whole bad boy thing?
“So?” He pulls keys from his pocket and bounces them in his palm.
I wheel around and scramble to find my shoes.
Marco
What am I doing?
Do I have a death wish?
There are tough questions to answer in this life, but that is not one of them. No, no I do not long for premature death, even if it might be simpler than what awaits me in Dallas. Time will tell.
So…why am I courting more trouble than I already have? Tripp’s little sister and I need a clean break because there is no doubt in my mind that any degree of involvement with Annalise Walker will be small enough to pass muster with my old buddy.
In my defense, last night Annalise was shaking with hunger when she came into Jake’s, and look where that night ended? Who knows what trouble she’ll find this time if she doesn’t get real food in her fast? I can’t have that on my conscience.
Right?
She reemerges roughly three minutes later. This time, her hair is brushed into a sleek ponytail and her face looks freshly washed. Personally, I kind of miss the sleepy-eyed, bedhead look.
Dang if she’s not a looker no matter what she does.
“I can drive,” she offers as we step under the breezeway to the garage and driveway.
“Uh, no thanks.” Isn’t me driving kind of the point of this whole thing?
She tosses me a look.
“Sorry, but I saw what you did to that bag of chips.”
She sputters, yet I smile because it’s so darned cute coming from her.
“We’ll take my truck,” I declare firmly.
“You mean Tripp’s truck.”
I pause at this, processing a sliver of irritation. She thinks I’m a charity case? “Mytruck. I bought it from him in May.”
“Oh.” She’s quiet for a moment.
