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“You’re moving out?”
“If they get married? I think I’d have to.”
She jolted. “They’re getting married?”
“He hasn’t said anything to me yet, but I think it’s coming.”
Once again, her knife slowed. “Oh, wow.”
Was she thinking about what this meant? How my ex-girlfriend would become my stepmother? It was kind of fucked up.
She peered at me with eyes full of empathy and her voice was hushed. “How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know. Okay-ish? Which is weird. I feel like I definitely shouldn’t be okay with it, but they’re both happy. Very much in love, and he treats her the way she deserves, so . . . I’m okay with it.”
She tilted her head, and it looked like she was reevaluating me for a second time. “That’s really mature of you.”
Her compliment did something to me. Warmth spread through my center and a soft smile edged my lips. “Thanks.”
She smiled back, and as her knife began to move, she held my gaze for an extra moment. It was like she didn’t want to break the spell between us and—
“Motherfucker,” she hissed, jerking her hand back from the cutting board.
It was stunning to hear that word come out of her mouth.
And I didn’t understand what had happened until she lifted her hand to inspect it, and a line of bright red blood gushed down her finger.
SEVENTEEN
Preston
Sydney was calm, but panic poured into my stomach, making me leap up out of my seat. My feet couldn’t move fast enough as I sprinted around the counter to get to her.
Blood ran in rivulets down her hand, and just as I reached her, she went on the move, hurrying to the sink. She slapped the lever up on the faucet to get the water going, and then shoved her hand under the stream, grimacing.
“Are you okay?” I asked, even when I knew the answer was no. There was so much blood, the cut had to be bad.
“Yeah,” she gritted. Her finger came out from under the water, only to turn red again and steadily drip blood into the sink. “I just nicked it. I don’t think I sliced anything off.”
“You don’t think you—” I repeated in shock.
Finally, my brain started to work.
“Where are you going?” she demanded as I tore out of the kitchen.
“Dad!” I crossed the living room and rushed toward his bedroom, yelling with that urgent pitch that could only mean something was wrong.
He’d heard it because by the time I had his door open, he was right on the other side.
“What’s wrong?” His gaze swept over me, searching for signs of trauma.
“She cut herself,” I blurted, and started back for the kitchen, knowing he’d follow me.
He had no idea who ‘she’ would be, since I hadn’t mentioned anyone was coming over, and I didn’t know if he recognized her when he spotted her at the sink. Maybe that part of his mind turned off when he went into doctor mode. He hurried to join her at the sink and grasped her wrist.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Let me see.”
She let him pull her hand out from under the water, and embarrassment coated her words. “I wasn’t paying attention and the knife slipped.”
