Page 7 of How You See Me (You and Me Duology #2)

Josie

I ’m wrist-deep in sudsy, pink water, humming to myself while rinsing the last of my brushes. I had a great painting session—one of those cozy, life-repairing ones where time slips through my fingers and reconnects my sanity with soul once again.

Until a knock sounds on the door.

I jerk upright and check the clock on the microwave. It’s well past ten.

Okay. Rude .

And spooky.

“That better be Jordan.”

Burglars don’t knock first, do they? Seems counterproductive.

Drying my hands on a towel, I grab the nearest weapon available—my trusty little soup pot—and tiptoe toward the door, low-budget ninja style. I lean my ear against the wood and activate my most gruff accent.

“Who’s there?”

“Your brother. Open up, or I’ll use my key.”

“Go ahead.”

While he fiddles with the lock, I hide the pot behind a couch pillow, popping up as Jordan walks in.

He pauses in the threshold and gives me a suspicious look.

“What are you doing here so late?” I ask, eyebrow raised like I’m not totally relieved it’s him.

“I have news.”

“Ooh, goodie. Is it you-won-the-lottery kind of news or you-bought-the-wrong- chocolate news?”

“Is there such a thing as wrong chocolate?”

“Good point.”

He leads me to the couch and plops down, his expression smug. “I have save-the-day news, obviously. I’m your brother. That’s kind of my thing.”

“Perfect. Because I need a day saved. Do you know someone willing to drive me to Vegas? Wait—you’re not paying someone, are you?”

His eye roll is immediate. “Please. I know better.”

When we lived together, I wouldn’t let him waste a dime of his lifelong savings on me, groceries, or bills. It was a regular argument, and I’m prepared for another if needed. He’s got enough on his plate with tuition and a fixer-upper of a house he and Nora want to move into after their wedding.

“No payments necessary. As it turns out, someone is already making the trip and agreed to let you tag along. They want to leave on Wednesday.”

“Amazing timing. Who is it?”

He pats the cushion beside him. That’s never a good sign.

“Uh oh,” I scoot closer. “Is there a caveat to this deal I’m not going to like? Do I have to sell my soul for the favor? Or worse, did you sell yours?”

He laughs. “Didn’t have to. Friends don’t usually steal your soul for a favor.”

“Which friend?"

Jordan’s cringe tells me all I need to know, and I stop shuffling through mental flashcards of his friends. My lungs freeze for a few skipping heartbeats.

“Oh."

Hayes.

A different collection of memories fly through my thoughts on autopilot.

The time I cuddled up to him in the sterile hospital room he made oddly intimate.

Our dance last fall. The intensity of his sad, caramel eyes.

The contrast between his hard exterior and the way his hands held me with unfathomable care.

The snippets of kindness that presses pause on all that grumpiness.

Whenever he’d stop by to visit Jordan during his recovery, I pretended nothing exchanged between us.

I’m not proud of it, but I don’t recognize myself around him.

And when he didn’t kiss me in that dim restaurant hallway, despite all my green-light signals, I didn’t know whether to be angry or grateful.

After eight months, I still haven’t decided. All I know is that my brain had no right storing every detail of the time we spent together. And I shouldn’t want someone who clearly doesn’t want me.

I’d be lying if I said his rejection didn’t hurt a little. Okay. A lot .

Jordan’s hands fly up like he’s stopping traffic. More like he’s trying to stop me from dramatizing this crazy idea in my head—which I was totally not already doing.

“It's Hayes. Don’t freak out."

“Why would be freaking?” Panic squeezes my throat, and the words squeak on the way out.

“Your usual reaction is to panic first, think second. Plus, you’ve never had a nice thing to say about him."

“Excuse me. Remember that time I said his eyebrows were . . . nicely authoritative?”

Jordan gives me the patented little brother side-eye. “That’s not a compliment. And you always complain that he’s too grumpy.”

“I like grumpy,” I counter, thinking of Hayes’ version. His hot outer layer makes the sweet secret inner layer even more scrumptious. Like a gourmet cinnamon roll baked from scratch with the finest ingredients.

“Since when?”

I continue to ramble, hoping I sound more like myself and more convincing. “Grumpy is broody. Broody is brooding. Brooding is . . . hot. Ever heard of the grumpy/ sunshine trope in romance books?”

He waves a hand. “Not going there. He’s my friend and former superior, and you’re my sister. We are not going there . . .”

Join the club, li’l brother . “Either way, I appreciate you setting it up.”

“No problem.” He leans back, relaxing into the couch, then straightens again. “What the hell?” Reaching behind the pillow, he wags the pot in the air.

I blink.

“You thought I was a burglar, didn’t you?”

“Maybe a polite one.”

He frowns down at me.

“What? It was the first weapon I saw.”

“That kind of decision-making is why I’m glad Hayes is going with you.” He tosses the pot onto the coffee table.

“Whatever. Wait. He doesn’t have a girlfriend, does he?” The question serves two purposes, but I only mention the one I’m comfortable with. “I don’t want to get caught between him and some jealous woman, making him even crankier.”

His gaze narrows on me, watching for my cues way too closely. There’s no hiding anything from him. “No girlfriend.”

“Good. I mean, okay. Whatever. Why is he traveling?”

“It’s a long story, and I don’t know much about it. Something for his sister. ”

My heart does a weird, swoony flip. There’s nothing sexier than a man who loves his family. Gets me every time.

“You probably shouldn’t mention you know that. He’s a private person.”

“Locked in the vault.”

He arches an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“Are you sure he agrees with this?” I try not to think about the main issue with this plan—me and Hayes alone 24/7 for days on end.

I wish I knew how I felt about it. The butterflies I listen to the most are a dizzying mess and no help.

“It seems odd. He doesn’t strike me as the road-trip-with-a-chatty-girl type. ”

“He’s probably used to it. He has four younger sisters.”

“If you say so.”

“For once, Jo Jo, I need you to be a little less dysfunctional.”

I feign offense. “What are you talking about? I’m always—”

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence. We both know you procrastinate like your life depends on it and wouldn’t recognize order if it slapped you in the face.”

“That’s not true.” But my eyes travel around the room at all the evidence supporting Jordan’s accusation—clothes, paint, and food containers strewn about.

The shoes I wore earlier kicked off by the back door.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior.

” I toss him a cheeky salute. “Wouldn’t want to make the broody sergeant any broodier.

I’ll be a whisper in the wind. Practically invisible. ”

“Impossible,” he scoffs. “Whatever you do, you’re a rainbow and impossible to ignore.”

A laugh bubbles up to meet his, but it catches in my throat.

I want Jordan to be right. I want to believe that I’m not a nuisance. That I’m more than extra cargo on someone else’s trip. More than anything, I want Hayes to see me —not just as his best friend’s sister or a passenger who fills the awkward silence.

The way he did during our almost kiss and in that hospital room. He didn’t just tolerate me. He listened and absorbed every flicker of my emotions and felt them himself. I could sense it in his body.

Something tells me, when he chooses to love, he doesn’t do it halfway. He’s all power and fire wound up in tight control.

And Lord help me. I want to stand in the center of that storm and feel it crash into me. I want to unravel him and know how it feels to be the one he lets go for.

◆◆◆

Sprawled across my bed and the clothes I need to pack, I force my fingers to text Hayes. Not because I’ve been thinking about him non-stop or imagining his infuriatingly sexy scowl since Jordan left last night. Nope. I’m simply seeking details on the trip .

Me: Thank you for letting me hitch a ride. This is Josie Jones, BTW.

Hayes: No problem.

Okay. Not the best conversation starter.

Me: Is there anything I can do to help get ready?

Hayes: No. I’ll pick you up at 16:00.

Me: That’s 4 pm, right?

I giggle. I run on military time, too, thanks to Jordan, but it’s fun to imagine how that dumb blonde comment might get him all riled up.

Hayes: Yes.

Me: Are you going to be this talkative the whole drive?

Jordan warned me to behave, but I can’t help myself. We haven’t left yet, and Hayes’ cranky pants are already showing . . . however hot those pants may be with him in them.

Hayes: Yes.

Me: That’s OK. I talk enough for two people anyway.

A snicker pops out of me, but quickly remind myself that he’s doing me a favor. I shouldn’t be poking the bear. The typing dots appear. Then vanish. Then come back.

My lungs stop taking in air as I wait for his response.

Hayes: Great.

Me: Is that sarcasm? I promise not to be annoying .

Hayes: I’m easily annoyed.

I laugh out loud. Wait—was that a joke? Or a warning?

Me: Best behavior. Scout’s honor.

Hayes: You were a Girl Scout?

Me: Ha. No. I was too easily distracted.

Hayes: Great.

Me: Is that your answer to everything?

Hayes: No.

Me: Just your second favorite answer behind “ no”?

Hayes: I do like that one. You’ll probably hear it a lot.

Me: Doubt it. I’ll get you out of those grumpy pants soon enough.

Shocked by how that sounded, I go to erase it, accidentally hitting the SEND button instead.

No no no no. Shiitake .

My fingers work quickly to type a follow up.

Me: Ignore! That came out wrong.

Hayes: I like my pants. Probably best if I keep them on. Don’t you think?

Mortification dissolves into laughter, warm and fuzzy. It’s good to know he has a sense of humor buried beneath that crustiness. There’s hope for him yet.

Me: Agreed