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The second I get to my room, I throw myself over the threshold and hastily close the door behind me. I lean back against it as though the solid wood can offer me some form of protection from the curious stare of Izaac Banks.
What the fuck was that? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Izaac lost for words.
I give myself a second, waiting for my racing heart to finally calm before finding the courage to peel myself off the door. I listen out in the hallway and hear the distinct sound of the shower running, and I let out a heavy sigh of relief before finally stepping out into the hallway again.
I make my way to the kitchen, tiptoeing past the bathroom as though he’d somehow be able to hear me passing. Only as I turn the corner and walk into the kitchen, I come to a halt, finding Izaac standing by the island counter, an apple clutched in his hand, hovering in the air in front of his mouth.
Shit. It must have been Austin in the shower.
Izaac’s gaze comes straight to mine, pausing just as I do, and just like that, every fiber of my body is buzzing with an intense awkwardness.
Fucking hell.
Why did he have to choose last night to text me, knowing that we were going to see each other the very next morning? Any other night would have been fine.
I try to recover, quickly clearing my throat and raising my chin as though I barely even notice he’s in the room. Only zoning him out has always been an impossible task, especially now that he seems to be just as hyper-aware of me as I am of him.
How am I supposed to pretend it never happened?
Izaac tracks every step I take, and when I lift my gaze to swiftly catch his eye, his gaze darkens, and there’s no doubt in my mind what he’s thinking about. I start to sweat. Heat pulses through my veins. Surely he can see the hunger firing through my body, the desperation eating at me.
Trying to hold on to that tiny sliver of control, I stride through the kitchen, taking the long way around the island counter, and settling myself in front of the coffee machine. Reaching up into the cupboard, I grab a mug before placing it beneath the nozzle.
After making all my selections and putting a new pod in, I hit start and wait as the mug slowly begins to fill with steaming coffee, silently willing it to hurry up. A body moves in behind me, and I hold my breath, my hands shaking against the counter.
Why does he keep doing this? Doesn’t he know how hard he’s making it?
“Aspen,” he says, his tone lowering, but not the good kind. This is filled with regret and hesitation, and before he’s even said a word, I know exactly what’s about to come out of his mouth.
I’ve dealt with his silent rejection for years, and every time it comes around, it guts me, but to have him openly tell me how this was only a little bit of fun and something that will never go any further . . . Well, shit. I know damn well I won’t be able to handle the agony that comes along with it.
So instead of waiting for the agonizing torment, I beat him to the punch.
Turning around, I hold my hand up, stopping him before he gets a chance to speak. “Don’t,” I say, hoping he can’t hear the hurt in my voice. “I know exactly what’s about to fly out of your mouth, and I agree. It was just a little drunken fun. Meant nothing. So instead of having all of these awkward encounters in the hallway and kitchen every time we pass each other, we can just pretend like it never happened. You’re still the unattainable Izaac Banks, and I’m still your best friend’s little sister. Nothing less. Nothing more.”
He cringes as those last words fly out of my mouth and nods. “That’s not exactly what I was coming over here to talk to you about, but I—”
My face twists with confusion. “It’s not?”
“No. I was more curious about just how long you’ve been hearing me through the walls, but there’s no denying that everything you just said is true. Texting you like that . . . I shouldn’t have. You were drunk and . . . I don’t know. Like you said, you’re Austin’s little sister, and that’s not a line I’m willing to cross.”
Something flashes in his stare, but I’m not willing to delve into it right now. “Yep,” I say, hastily turning so that he doesn’t see the way his words tear me to shreds.
Finding my mug filled almost to the brim, I scoop it up and lift it to my lips, taking a desperate sip and hoping the deliciousness can somehow make this conversation easier. Then, taking my mug with me, I make my way back around to the other side of the island counter, pulling out a stool and taking a seat, doing everything in my power to avoid his stare. “So, this whole shared bedroom wall thing,” I state. “I thought we covered that earlier in the hallway.”
“We did,” he says, clearing his throat as though the topic alone has the walls of his throat closing in on him. “But after you took off thinking you achieved something, it occurred to me that I’ve had my own place for years, so you could have only been referring to the times I stayed here in college.”
I avert my gaze, feeling the awkwardness beginning to creep up, threatening to swallow me whole. “Uh-huh.”
“I finished college at twenty-two, Aspen.”
I lift my mug, half hiding my face with it, still unable to meet his eye. “Yep.”
“You were barely sixteen.”
I scoff, arching a brow and finally glancing up. “And to think, you were a high school junior when I first started hearing things through the wall.”
His expression changes, and the color quickly drains from his face. “Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, gripping the edge of the counter and hanging his head. “You were a fucking kid.”
