Page 12 of How You See Me (You and Me Duology #2)

Hayes

W hat have I done?

I’m staring down the hallway where Josie disappeared into a room, humming like she’s not a walking contradiction.

One touch. That’s all it took for me to fold.

I already know she’ll get what she wants.

And yeah, technically, I can accomplish something on Ava’s list at Dollywood.

Win-win. But it doesn’t sit right. If I’m already giving in to her this easily, how the hell am I supposed to last a week without giving it all away?

Josie jogs across the hall in a blur, carrying a pile of clothes.

“Have any instructions for cleaning up?” I call before the door closes.

She pokes her head out, and I point toward the chaos she calls creativity.

“Not really. There’s some paint thinner under the sink if the palette’s crusty. You’re the best.”

Not helping.

She disappears again.

I work fast, scrubbing at our dinner dishes with too much force, jaw clenched, trying not to think about her potentially naked in the next room.

Nope. Not thinking about her impeccable skin.

For something safer, I head to the mess of brushes, palettes, and a thousand little bottles of paint that all look the same to me. It takes over ten minutes to organize it. She’ll probably think I went overboard but the disarray and dysfunction were making my eye twitch.

Lost with nothing to do, I drift toward the open pantry door. I should leave it be, but the closet is another nightmare. A hybrid food stash/art bunker/coat rack hellscape. No rhyme, no reason, and absolutely no order.

I go to close the door, but something uncharacteristic stands out among the madness—strange black markings on the cereal boxes. Flowers growing out of mascots and block lettering. Tiny scarves drawn around cartoon necks. Each one altered, personalized, and perfected.

I pull down a box, then another. She didn’t doodle on one or two. She’s transformed every damn thing. Even the boring box of brown sugar. It’s not boring anymore.

Curiosity gets the best of me. I dig through the recycling bin, and sure enough—smiling snakes where green beans should be. Coins instead of carrots. Everything is touched by her marker, her imagination, her hands .

Can she be any more . . . adorable?

The bedroom door opens, and I drop the empty carrot can. She emerges still barefoot, but now wearing pink cotton shorts and a polka-dotted tank top that hugs every curve.

She waves, totally unaware of the grenade she tossed into my bloodstream, and tiptoes to the bathroom.

Yeah. She’s more than adorable. Yet another reason why I can’t act on the things she makes pop into my thoughts. She’s pure sunshine covered in sugar, and I’ve been trained to walk through fire—not bask in its glow.

“Here you go.” She drops a large navy suitcase in the hall like an exclamation mark.

“That's your bag?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“It’s . . .” I glance down at it, wondering if it will change colors in the light or blast music when it rolls.

“It’s what?”

“Plain.”

“It’s luggage. What did you expect?” Amusement shifts her pretty lips. “Sparkling hot pink?”

“That’s exactly what I expected.”

Pivoting, she disappears inside her room. “I originally packed it all in this one just to mess with you,” she calls, soon returning with a hot pink suitcase that must have been decorated with a confetti cannon and glitter.

“I hate it.”

“I knew you would.”

“But it fits you. ”

“Like the color yellow?”

“Don’t ever dim yourself for someone else, Josie.” The words fall out before I realize they’re coming. “Including me.”

Her smile falters at the corners, and I wonder if too many people have tried to tone her down, rein her in, make her less.

“What if I annoy them with my energy and never-ending questions?”

“Screw them. That’s their problem.”

“Hmm. Will you remember that when it’s you I’m annoying?”

I exhale sharply, thinking of all the ways she could push my buttons over the next week. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you."

“What else do you need to do?”

“Not much. Five more minutes.”

Why do I not believe her?

“Want me to grab anything from the kitchen? Snacks or drinks or—”

“There’s a canvas bag in the closet already packed.”

“Really?”

She hears my unfiltered skepticism and smirks. “Are you surprised I thought to prepare something, Sergeant?”

“Hayes. And yes, I am.”

Her hands come up to rest on her hips. “I may be scatterbrained and non-military in my daily routines, but I’m not completely hopeless.”

“You’re right. I take it back. ”

“No. You don’t get to do that.” She jabs at the space between us. “If you want me to keep shining, I want you to speak your mind. This trip will be a lot easier if you tell me what you’re thinking. Open line of communication.”

Not going to happen. There are some thoughts that should never be voiced, but I can be myself, which is what she’s asking. I think.

“Okay.”

Satisfied with her victory, she grins. “Are you sure? No take backs.”

“I can handle your full glow.”

“You say that now.”

◆◆◆

Josie is MIA. I’ve already loaded her suitcase, supplies, and easel into the van, and I’ve been leaning against the van long enough for my leg to cramp.

With nothing else to do, I text Jordan.

Me: Leaving soon.

Jordan: I heard. Also heard she wasn’t ready when you got there. Sorry. She’ s never on time.

Me: No problem. She told me she’d be out in 5 minutes. How long is that in Josie time?

Jordan: 20 easy.

Me: Great.

Jordan: I’ll call her and light a fire.

Me: Not necessary. I can be patient.

Jordan: Since when?

Me: Shut up.

Jordan: Calling her. Hang tight.

Me: Goes along with being patient, which I can do.

Jordan: Ha.

My blood pressure ticks up a notch with every passing minute, despite my desire to go with the flow. The sun may be on the descent, but it’s still roasting my back and adding to my mounting irritation.

This entire trip will be a constant test of control. Mine. Hers. Whatever the hell sparked between us that we’ve silently agreed to ignore.

“I’m coming. I’m coming,” Josie shouts, barreling out the door with a large, colorful bag draped over her shoulder.

Locating me in the parking lot, she stops in the middle of the road.

“What are you doing?”

She points at the van behind me. “That’s yours?”

“Is there a problem?”

Her head shakes slowly, eyes glassy. Is she crying? I swear. She’s going to give me a heart attack. I’m only thirty-three. That’s too young.

“Why are you standing there and not getting in?”

“I’m in love.”

Excuse me? My pulse falters. Love ? I can’t feel my arms. That’s a sign of a cardiac arrest, right?

She jogs closer, stopping by the back bumper with that love she mentioned shining bright. But she’s not looking at me. It’s the van she’s caressing, talking to sweetly like it’s a long-lost lover .

Thank God.

I give a minute or three to my racing heart. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t believe this hippie van is yours. It’s like a watercolor painting of a basket of tangerines or a sunset. I love it, but it’s sooooo not you."

Heard that before.

“Is that an example of the open communication you were talking about?”

“Shut up.” Peering through a back window, she gasps. “There are beads on the ceiling. Did you know that?”

“I did.”

“And you kept them?” Her hand slaps over her chest as if I left them for her. Maybe I did. “Open the door.”

I do as I’m told, and she crawls in the back to examine the tiny space.

“I can’t wait to camp out under the stars with the doors open. It’ll be so ro—” She cuts herself off and redirects. “ Road trip awesome.”

“Road trip awesome?”

That’s not what she was going to say, and there will be no ro mance on this awesome road trip.

“Ready?” I urge. “You can ride back there if you want.”

“Nah.” She scoots back to the door and hops out. “I prefer to sit up front and ask you a hundred questions.”

“Great.”

“You know, if you’d tweak your tone, that might sound a bit more positive.” She points a finger at me. “Then, you might actually start to feel it. ”

“Oh, I feel it exactly how it sounded.”

“No doubt. Another thing we’ll work on. This is a team building exercise now.”

“Great.”

◆◆◆

We’re not ten minutes on the highway heading west when she starts in on the questions, and I don’t know where my opinion falls on the matter.

I was half enjoying the silence and half missing her random chatter.

She’s cross-legged in the passenger seat, sandals kicked off and hair blowing out the open window.

“Let’s start with the most important question.” She twists her long curls into a bun.

“That makes me nervous.”

“Don’t be. We’ll be living together for the next week. It’s better to get everything out in the open.”

“Why not leave some things for discovery along the way?”

“Mmm. I like that, but there are a few things I have to know up front.”

I try gauging if she’s being serious, but her body language gives me no clues. “What is it?”

“Don’t freak out.” She rotates fully toward me, bright smile locked and loaded, and my freak out is definitely looming. “Do you like cake or ice cream best?”

Of course, she’s not being serious. That’s her ammo—disarm with fun. I wonder if she’s ever been serious about anything—other than Jordan and her fears .

“Definitely ice cream."

“I’m a cake girl, myself. Red velvet with rainbow sprinkles baked in. It’s impossible to find, so I special order it sometimes.”

“To eat by yourself?”

One slender shoulder lifts and lowers. “I shared with Jordan before he moved out.”

“What about before you moved here?” I ask casually, fishing for more information about her life and testing her commitment to being open with each other.

She doesn’t even hesitate. “No. My friend is too New York chic to eat something so unrefined. Speaking of Grant, I should text him and let him know I’m on my way.”

“Why didn’t you ride with him?”

Her thumbs fly across her phonescreen. “He’s on his honeymoon. We’re meeting there.” She sets the phone down, not missing a beat. “Question number two. Sunrise or sunset?”