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He removes my hand, his scowl deepening. “How is that dramatic? I have needs, and you’re not tending to them. If I remember correctly, you said I was your boyfriend.”
I roll my eyes. “That was for the wedding.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at me. “Are you telling me we broke up and I didn’t even know it?”
I laugh, because how can you not? He’s adorable. “I told you. I’m scared.”
Dropping his arms, he glances over his shoulder at Roan a few feet away, talking on his phone and pulling ingredients out of the cupboards for pancakes. Leaning in, Tiller’s hands fall to the edge of the counter. “You’re not another nameless face to me,” he warns softly, but there’s a playful edge to his tone. “You never could be. Actually, you know damn well you never could be.”
I know what he’s referring to. Other than when Ava died, he’s always been there for me and that right there should prove his loyalty to me. “I said I was sorry,” I whisper, bringing the cup of coffee to my lips and taking my first sip.
With his eyes on my mouth, he scowls. “Are you purposely trying to ruin me?”
“Ruin you? What does that mean?” I ask, baffled by his question. Staring back at him, it all becomes achingly clear; he thinks I’m just using him.
He crowds me, dominating my personal space like he always does when he wants to be intimidating. “Are you using me to get off?” A smirk tilts his perfect lips before he toys with his lip ring. “Because that’s fine, but at some point, I’m going to make you bleed, love.”
“I’m not using you.” My finger jabs in his chest. “And stop being gross.”
“I’ll be gentle. I’ll even tell you I love you,” he says, the admission doing all sorts of things to my tortured heart, but I know he’s not serious. Hello. This is Tiller Sawyer. He doesn’t have a gentle bone in his body.
The silence that fills the air sends my heart sinking. His thumb strokes my cheek in an intimate gesture, soothing the ache in my chest. “Is that a yes?”
I swallow thickly. “It’s a maybe.”
“I swear I’ll be gentle,” he promises. “Trust me.”
When he’s sweet, it’s hard to deny him.
Before he can walk away, I grab his arm. “I have. . . uh. . . .” I don’t know how to phrase it, and by the look on his face, he gathers that much.
“What now?” He has that fiery angry look I know so well. “Last time you had that look on your face you left me with her for two days.”
“We’re supposed to have brunch with my parents,” I blurt out, then take off around the corner and upstairs to his room before he can say any more. Or worse, tell me he’s not going.
We’re in a car, one paranoid, her eyes on the million-dollar homes sprawling over the hills, anticipating, obsessing over what today might bring. One driving, annoyed, fidgeting, sighing, flipping a lighter around in the palm of his hand. There’s another in the back seat, her eyes focused on the laces of her boots. She’s not speaking; she’s thinking, untying, tying again and repeating the process.
None of us know what to expect today, but we’re going to brunch at my parents’ house. I’ve also never understood the meaning of brunch and neither does Tiller when he asks, “What exactly is brunch?”
Laughing lightly, I twist my head to glance at him. His eyes are hidden behind blackness. “It’s apparently breakfast and lunch combined.”
His head tips and I think his brows are furrowing, but I can’t tell for sure. “Why not just have lunch?”
“Because eleven is too early for lunch?”
Tiller shifts restlessly in the driver seat. “Fuckin’ rich people.”
“You, my friend, make more than my parents.”
He grunts, staring out the windshield. I want to laugh when I look over at him, I notice what he put on when I told him to get dressed. He’s wearing a black and white S3 Clothing T-shirt, gray board shorts and flip flops. Oh, and blacked-out sunglasses. That’s acceptable for brunch, right?
It’s when we pull up to the main gate at my parents’ home, perched on the top of the hill—it’s no Sawyer mansion, but still, it’s definitely extravagant—that the nerves hit me. “Who thought this would be a good idea?”
“Willa,” Tiller notes, pulling through the gate. “She’s fired.”
River realizes where we are and groans. “Why are we here?”
Tiller rolls his head to me. “See? Even the kid gets it.”