Page 10 of How You See Me (You and Me Duology #2)

Josie

T here’s a ridiculously gorgeous man in my apartment.

Not just any man. The kind who makes simple breathing a chore. Whose presence hums low in your bones. The kind who should come with a warning.

I pretend not to notice the heat coiling in my belly when he moves.

Or the way his silence fills up space louder than most people’s words.

Or how my skin remembers what my mind tries to forget.

I pretend a lot of things where he’s concerned because it’s safer.

He’s Jordan’s best friend and detouring through my life on his way to something greater.

I’m not part of his plan or his world. I’m the bump in the road he avoids.

Still, if I’m going to endure a cross-country trip with the human embodiment of restraint, I’m going to have fun pushing his buttons along the way. Just a little. Nothing cruel—just enough to remind him I’m here. Not some background noise he can tune out.

I give my attention to the mess I left on my bed—hot pink suitcase open like a wound, clothes bleeding out in every direction. I could’ve gone with the boring navy roller. No. I chose the one that screams fun and adventure and all things female just to make him twitch.

If he’s constantly irritated by me, he can’t do the sweet things that knock down my defenses. Constructing and maintaining them to help me forget took too much effort to let them crumble now.

My phone lights up on the bedside table with an incoming text, adding another distraction. I fight back irritation, already knowing who it is and what he wants.

Jordan: Are you ready?

Me: Are you checking up on me?

Jordan: Yep.

Me: Not yet. Got distracted.

Me: In my defense, he was early.

Jordan: No excuse.

Jordan: He’s doing us a favor. The least you could do is not agitate him.

I smirk. Guilty.

Me: I would never. [Smiley face with halo emoji]

Jordan: Yeah, right. Best behavior, remember?

Me: Always.

Jordan: Text me regularly along the way, so I don’t worry.

Me: Yes, Daddy.

Jordan: Too far.

Me: Right. I’ll save that for my hunky chauffeur. [Winky face emoji]

Jordan: Please don’t.

Me: Joking! I have no interest in your friend.

Liar.

My body tells a different story. It hums when he’s near, even when he’s stone silent. He doesn’t flirt or flatter—he doesn’t need to. There’s something maddeningly magnetic about a man who doesn’t play the game.

But I’ve had a year of being single. A full twelve months to patch myself back together after years of shrinking inside to fit inside someone else’s grander life.

I’m not about to ruin all that work for a few persistent butterflies and curious desire.

I should be concentrating on my career. My freedom.

The messy, beautiful work of figuring out who I am.

Not the man currently scrubbing my paint brushes.

But I’d be lying if I said that didn’t add to his appeal.

I toss a few toiletries into the suitcase and zip it up, doing my best not to think about his hands or how he looked when he walked in. So composed on the outside but wound tight inside like he was protecting himself. From what, I’d love to know.

Every resistance, every grouchy complaint, and every secret only pulls me farther in.

No matter the danger, I can’t help but wonder just how far he’ll go to hold the line he’s drawn.

◆◆◆

To make the chore of cramming half my tiny closet into a suitcase less dreadful, I blast my favorite country playlist and let the music carry me through it. It’s chaos, but it’s mine.

The scent of smoke, meat, and something distinctly male smacks me in the face the second I emerge.

I find it all in the kitchen, where three perfectly grilled chicken breasts sit neatly on one of my antique yellow serving dishes.

The broccoli and rice casserole I made steams on the stove beside them.

The man I can’t tear my eyes from leans against the counter. With his tree trunk arms crossed over his chest, his presence radiates heat and tension on every conceivable level.

My feet stay glued to the linoleum. “Wow. You’ve been busy.”

“The raw chicken would’ve gone bad while we’re away. And I can’t be idle.”

“Why does it smell like you grilled it?”

“Because I did.”

“On what?”

“The grill in the commons area out back. ”

“There’s a grill out there?”

My limbs finally remember how to move, and I step into the closet-sized kitchen. Hayes shifts back to give me space. Part of me hates the way he shrinks away like that. The other part—the one I’m trying hard to let win—reminds me why distance is the smartest choice.

I have no reason to swoon over this effort. He didn’t make a romantic dinner for us. He was passing time.

“Thank you. I’d planned on cooking all this for Jordan and Nora, but we never found a night we could get together. I don’t eat much meat—it’s too much work when it’s just me.”

“That’s why I like the mess hall on base.” He wipes his hands with a towel, muscles flexing beneath his sleeves, playing wildly unfair games with my concentration. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving. I haven’t burned that many calories in a long time.”

“Since when is packing a workout?”

“Since I do it while dancing. You should try it sometime.” I picture his bulky, six-three frame, dancing around the room to a steel guitar. I’d laugh if the idea wasn’t so sexy.

His raised brow tells me he knows exactly what I’m imagining, yet he doesn’t address it. “I heard the music blaring.”

“You’re not a fan of fun, are you?”

“Not during a mission. "

“A mission?”

I lean a hip against the counter, studying him.

A sadness I know all too well flickers in his eyes and deepens the lines across his forehead.

I shouldn’t push, and Jordan warned me not to pry.

Still, I’m curious what or who broke his heart.

I want to be careful with that fractured place inside him, not poke more holes in it.

A beat of uncontented silence passes before I rescue us both.

“Did you hear that?” I slap a hand to my stomach, pretending it let out an audible growl. “Must be time to eat. Mind grabbing two plates behind you?”

He nods and moves to the cabinet, his spell broken enough for us to get back to the awkwardness and ignore the pain.

“This is amazing, truly,” I say, stabbing a fork into a chicken breast and dropping it onto my plate.

We settle onto the stools at the counter instead of the intimate table for two by the windows. This option feels less intentional and gives Hayes more room.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks suddenly after a few minutes of unbearable nothing. It takes a lot of effort for me to let the quiet linger.

“Sure.”

“Why not fly to Vegas and save yourself the hassle?”

“And you?”

He scoops a bite of casserole, his expression unreadable. “And me what? ”

“Save you the hassle of playing chauffeur.” I grin, and to my surprise, he gives me one in return. Barely, but I’m counting it.

“There is that.”

I take a deep breath. “My parents died in a car crash when I was fifteen. You probably already knew that.”

“I did. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” My fingers tighten around my fork as I find the will to continue.

“My dad fell asleep at the wheel after picking Mom up from her shift late one night and ran the car off the road. He had more injuries than her, so she tried to drive them to the hospital, thinking it would be quicker. They never made it.”

The fork slips from my hand, and I jump when it clangs against the porcelain plate. Fright is an easier emotion to endure than grief, so I take a moment to embrace my sprinting heart.

“Since then,” I continue to keep the pity in his eyes from ripping me in two, “I’ve had a fear of driving. Jordan’s accident only reinforced it. He almost died, too.”

“I remember,” he says, the declaration trailing off.

“Of course, you do. And I never properly thanked you for staying with him until I got there. Then, you stayed with me when you didn’t have to.”

His voice lowers. “He’s my brother. My friend. And I knew he’d worry about you more than himself. He’d have done the same for me.”

I nod, knowing it’s true. Jordan always had a soft spot in his heart for Hayes, and I hope I learn why on this trip.

“As for flying, I used to. My ex and I would travel all over the country for his family’s business, and I’d fly home to visit Jordan.” I swallow down the fear and memories trying to steal my voice. “About two years ago, I was on a flight to Miami to meet Ryder there.”

“That’s your ex?”

“Yeah. The landing gear failed at the last second, and we skidded to a stop off the runway.” I take a sip of water to soothe my scratchy throat, remembering how I choked on smoke and fumes while screams rang out around me. “Not everyone survived.”

Hayes listens to every word, and his hand glides down my back, gentle and supporting. No interruptions, no impatience. He doesn’t try to fix anything. Just stays.

“I’m okay.” I put on a smile. “I promise I’m not as crazy as I sound.”

He stares me down with dark, doubtful eyes, teasing to take my mind off the memories.

I wish I could find the lingering glance amusing to keep my body from melting.

But muscles liquefy. Taut nerves loosen and fizzle out.

My blood turns to lava. It’s pathetic how little he has to do to get a rise out of me.

“Would you like more evidence before we start cohabitating?” I manage to keep the friendly banter going. That’s easier. Safer.

“Not necessary.” He digs into the casserole again. “But I heard you have some other fears. Should I know about those? ”

“You’re going to regret asking that.” I nibble on a little stalk of broccoli to give him time to backtrack, but he waits, patient and annoyingly steady. Just once, I’d like him to quiver for me.

“You already know about my public restroom phobia.” I hold up a finger when his mouth drops open to ask the question everyone has. “I don’t know where it came from. I just don’t like them. The confined space, the germs, the unknowns, the movies.”