Page 28 of Don't Say You're Sorry

Walking into my room, I notice my books on the shelves—notorganized by author—and my iPad and chargers set down next to it. If he tied all the wires together, I’m going to murder him. Just as I’m about to check, I notice the pictures on the nightstand. I didn’t see them when I first woke up. I was toodistracted by the throw blanket draped over me and the sight of my bags missing from the bedroom floor.

Picking up one of the photo frames, I look at the picture of me, Easton, Axel, and our parents at mine and Easton’s high school graduation. The picture of me and Axel, where I’m giving my idiot big brother a piggyback on holiday a few years ago, has been turned face down. Snorting, I pick up the picture Easton placed at the front. It’s one of me and him. We’re at the drive-in on my eighteenth birthday. His arm is around my shoulder, there’s a lollipop in his mouth, and we’re both grinning at the camera. We look happy. Really happy.

Carefully setting the photo down exactly where he put it, I open the nightstand drawer. The bottle of lube I brought with me is in here, but the condoms are missing. Guess he doesn’t think I’ll be needing those.

I smile from ear to fucking ear as I go into the bathroom to investigate what he’s done to my toiletries.

“Why do you look so happy?” Easton asks, rounding the kitchen island toward the pot of coffee I made.

Fuck, I can’t stop smiling.

Setting my phone down on the counter, I look at him over my shoulder. “You think you’re funny?”

He smirks. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry yet.”

He gives me a look. “That’s not what I asked you.”

I playfully narrow my eyes. “Do you have Lucky Charms?”

He laughs knowingly. Sitting next to me with his coffee and a box of Lucky Charms, he pours me a bowl and slides it toward me.

“You’re up early,” he says around a mouthful of my favorite cereal.

“You have classes today, right?” I shrug, then quietly add, “I didn’t want to miss you.”

He turns his head toward me, studying my face as he chews slowly. After a few beats, his gaze travels down, lingering on my neck, the black stud in my ear, then my arms, the black bracelets on my wrist, and the black T-shirt stretched across my chest.

“You look good,” he tells me. “Older. Hotter if that’s possible.”

My face and body heat at the compliment, my skin tingling where his arm touches mine.

“So do you,” I whisper, not taking my eyes off his.

He raises a brow, lifting his spoon up to his mouth and taking another bite. I drop my eyes, watching the way he wraps his lips around the spoon, slowly dragging it out as he continues to stare at me. I swallow and shift in my seat. Just as I’m about to tell him he’s playing with fucking fire, he changes the subject. “What are you doing today?”

Huffing out a breath, I pick up my phone and show him my open search of jobs in Hawthorne.

“You want a job?” he asks. “How come?”

“I don’t think I want to commission my art anymore,” I explain. “Or at least I don’t want that to be my sole income anymore. It was fun at first, but it’s starting to feel more like a job than a passion, and I don’t want to lose my love for it, you know?”

He nods, continuing to eat his cereal. “What do you want to do then?”

“Honestly, I’ll take anything I can get.” I toss my phone down. “Not many people in this town want to hire a college dropout with no legitimate work experience.”

“How do you know? You only just started looking.”

I chew on my lip.

“Adam,” he says, waiting for me to look at him. There’s an accusation in his eyes, but he doesn’t look angry. He looks more surprised than anything. “How long have you been looking for a job here?”

A long fucking time.

His brows perk. I don’t admit it out loud, but the answer must be written all over my face, and he can still read me like a book, it seems.

“You’re looking for a job?” Frankie asks as she walks in, heading straight for the coffee to pour herself a cup. “The Hideaway is hiring.”