Page 83 of A Wreck, You Make Me

I wring my hands in front of me. “So, uh, we’re all moved in.”

At this, a tic starts up in his jaw, which means I’m getting even more annoying by the second and should probably get away from him this instant.

“But of course, you already know that,” I say, before adding silently,since you knew not to come home until you thought I’d be safely in bed. Then, “So, uh, I just…” I shake my head, clenching my eyes shut for a second. “I’m sorry, but why don’t you have a shirt on?”

At this, he finally deigns to reply. “Because I went running before I got home.”

“Right, okay,” I accept, trying to keep my eyes away from his bare chest, but now it’s even harder because I finally realize he’s sweaty. I wonder why I didn’t notice this before. I mean, he’s glistening with it, his sweat. I notice a drop sliding down the side of his neck and dripping over his collarbone. I guess, I was just so taken with his bare body and all his wonderful muscles that I didn’t take stock of anything else.

“And because it’s always such a pleasure being ogled,” he says, sarcasm thick in his words.

I blush fiercely and duck my head. “I’m sorry. I just?—”

“Is there something you need?” he asks, and I look up.

Only to realize he’s moved away from the counter and is now closer to me. “Not really. I just?—”

“So is there something I can help you find?” he asks, cutting me off and walking closer.

I swallow, taking a step back. “N-no. They all showed me where everything is. You know, Callie and Ledger and uh, everyone else.”

He keeps our gazes locked as he keeps advancing on me, not by one step or even two. He just keeps coming at me as he goes, “Because see, I’m not really the help or even remotely interested in playing host to you. But I can make an exception tonight, given this is your first night under my roof.”

I keep going back until my spine thumps against the opposite wall, just under the stairs. “Are you r-referring to the first night we met?”

The night of his engagement, when he found me hiding behind a tree, drinking stolen champagne. The night I really was the help, and he was the star of the party with the love of his life by his side.

He stops a few inches away from me, his eyes taking me in. “That was the first time you spoke to me. We met each other a long time ago though, didn’t we?”

I swallow and plaster my hands on the wall. “Yes.”

He narrows his eyes and keeps going, “Maybe even longer than I realized.”

My heart constricts in my chest at the reminder of all the lies I’ve told him and all the things I’ve omitted. At this urge to tell him exactly when we met, or rather, when I saw him for the first time. It was in this house, through the window of the same bedroom I’m staying in. Because it’s not justaroom, it’s his. He gave it up for me. Just one of the things I need to talk to him about tonight.

But for some reason, it’s really hard to say anything useful so I ask, “H-have you eaten?”

His only response is to keep staring at me like my question doesn’t deserve an answer.

I swallow. “There’s tons of dinner in the fridge. Callie?—”

“I’m not hungry,” he clips.

“But you just went for a run, and you’re training so hard for your season?—”

“Get to the fucking point,” he orders then.

Right. Right.

He’s right. I came here for a reason, and there’s no use dragging this out. So I swallow again. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“And yet here you are,” he says.

“I—”

“So clearly I’m not doing a good job of sending the message,”

“I know what you said,” I say. Then, correct myself, “As in, Irememberwhat you said. That n-night.”