Page 8 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

TAYLOR

I’m only home for an hour when the music across the hall starts blaring. It’s hard to tell whether the pounding is coming from the speakers or my head.

I wasn’t lying when I told Eric I hadn’t heard the conversation between Bryan and Rhett. I hadn’t even spoken to the kid before the incident this afternoon, although this was the second day he’d spent his lunch period in the library.

Plenty of students do that, but most are at tables with friends, whispering in hushed tones as they pretend to do homework.

I had no idea Rhett was Eric’s nephew, but it made me sad to see him alone both days.

Skylark is great, but it can be challenging for a new kid to find their place, especially as a freshman.

The school’s hockey culture is generally inclusive, largely due to my brother’s coaching style and values. Being part of the program will help a kid like Rhett feel like he belongs. For that reason, I probably would have let him out of volunteering tomorrow so he could skate with the team.

I’m also a pushover that way, and the way Eric looked at me with such intensity made me keep the offer to myself.

Rhett didn’t mean to hurt me, and I truly believe he hadn’t wanted to hit Bryan either.

The book would have landed on the floor without incident if I hadn’t taken two steps to the left at just the right moment, but I appreciate Eric wanting his nephew to take responsibility.

It’s what my parents would have done with Toby or Elise.

I take the bag of frozen peas off my cheek, which still hurts like hell. But there’s a decent chance part of my lingering headache stems from grinding my teeth to nubs when I walked into that conference room and realized Eric was making the joke about Colonel Mustard.

He’s last on the list of people I expected to see at the high school.

Even more disorienting is the fact that he’s obviously going to be in town for a while.

I have no clue why he’s acting as guardian for his nephew, but the whole thing goes against my preconceived—or at least quickly conceived—notion about the type of man he is.

That bothers me. A lot. But not as much as the music that’s practically shaking the paint off my walls. Normally, I’d keep my mouth shut. I’m known for keeping my mouth shut, but I can’t take the music. Not tonight.

I march across the hall and rap on the door before my courage deserts me, which could be any moment.

The music stops, but no one answers. I knock again because I’ve come all this way—figuratively anyway. When the door finally opens, I’m shocked to see Rhett Anderson standing on the other side.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“What are you doing here?” a voice calls from the end of the hall.

Rhett pokes his head out as I turn. Eric walks toward us wearing loose joggers, a baggy sweatshirt, and a black beanie with some emblem stitched on the front.

Heat pools low in my belly, which is a stupid and ridiculous reaction.

My pulse kicks up a notch, and I have to consciously tell myself to breathe normally.

I don't want to notice how broad his shoulders look or the way his dark hair grazes the sweatshirt's collar or the sheen of sweat on his neck.

His casual clothes somehow make him look even more attractive, all rumpled and approachable.

My mouth goes dry as I watch him move with that easy, athletic grace, and I have to swallow hard before I can trust my voice.

I definitely don't want to think about flicking out my tongue to taste the salt on his skin or imagine what those big hands would feel like tangled in my hair.

“I’m here because the music is too loud.” Awesome. I sound like I’m auditioning for The Golden Girls reboot.

“Dude, I told you to keep it at a respectable volume.” Those dreamy brown eyes roll toward the ceiling. “We’ve been lectured by every tenant in the building.”

“I wouldn’t call this a lecture.” I pause as the reality of the situation catches up to my discombobulated brain. “Wait. You’re tenants in this building?”

Eric shrugs. “Your dad offered us the apartment. Toby helped arrange it.”

Would have been nice if my father or brother had mentioned it to me. Not that Dad owes me an explanation. He owns several rental properties around town. Why did mine have to be the one with a vacancy when Eric Anderson came to town?

“Seriously, Rhett, no more cranking the volume, even when I’m not home.”

“Fine,” the kid mumbles, glancing at me before his gaze drops to the floor. “Sorry again. Your eye looks worse.”

“Black eyes look worse before they get better.” I keep my tone gentle. “It hurts a little less.” That’s a lie, but I’m glad I told it when he breathes out a relieved sigh.

“Hey, buddy, check on dinner, okay? If the cheese is bubbling, you can turn off the oven.”

As Rhett disappears into the apartment, I register the delicious scent wafting from inside .

“Dinner smells good,” I tell Eric, like this might be news to him.

It can’t be more than twenty degrees outside, but the ends of his hair are damp, and his cheeks are flushed from either cold or exertion, or a combination of both. The combo looks good on him.

“Also, did you go running in the dark?”

He pulls out a headlamp from the front pocket of his sweatshirt. “I was safe but appreciate your concern.”

“I’m not concerned about you .” I shake my head. “I’m concerned about Rhett’s hearing with that music.” I’m for sure giving off Golden Girls vibes but can’t seem to stop myself.

He grimaces. “You and the rest of the neighbors. Trust me, I’m working on it. Sorry about your headache. And your face.”

I choke out a sputtering laugh. “Did you just apologize for my face?”

“It was a joke,” he says, then he reaches out and touches the tip of one finger to my cheek.

“It was an accident.” I swat his hand away, because even that casual touch makes my stomach dip and swoop like I’m on a rollercoaster.

“How many times have you said those words today?”

“A few.” A lot . “Enjoy your dinner.”

“It’s a white chicken lasagna with spinach,” he says.

“Your frozen food game is better than mine,” I tell him.

“It’s from scratch,” he answers, looking adorably offended that I’d think otherwise.

My stomach growls, earning a smirk. “Do you think a guy like me survives on protein shakes and arrogance?”

“No.” Yes .

Cooking is right up there with taking care of his nephew on the list of last things I’d expect from Eric Anderson. Can I please go back to believing he’s a meatstick manwhore? These domestic god vibes are sending my ovaries into overdrive .

“I’m just surprised. Enjoy your homemade dinner,” I amend.

He studies me for a moment. “We have plenty if you want to stay?”

“No.” The word comes out harsher than I mean.

He frowns and rubs a hand over the five o’clock shadow covering his jaw.

The scratchy sound does funny things to my insides.

The kind that make me want to head back to my apartment and take a cold shower.

Or put the battery operated toy Molly gifted me for Christmas last year—the one collecting dust in my nightstand—to good use.

At least I manage not to say all that out loud before I turn and scurry back across the hall, slamming the door behind me.

My phone pings a moment later, and I pick it up from the table.

Toby: Anderson says his nephew can’t do practice bc he has to volunteer for you. Killing me, Tink. 3 of my best players out with injuries and another on academic probation. I’ve seen film. Rhett can skate. Give a guy a break?

Not a peep asking why Rhett is volunteering. Typical for Toby. Nothing matters to my brother other than his job and hockey.

Me: WWMD

What would Marty do? It’s a running joke in our family.

Toby: Marty doesn’t have players dropping like flies.

One-track mind dog-with-a-bone—that’s my brother. Three bubbles appear, and I wonder if he’s going to ask if I’m doing okay. Has Eric even shared the details of the situation with Toby?

I hope not, because knowing my brother, he’d blame me for not having quick enough reflexes to deflect the flying book.

Toby: FWIW, is the kid a decent human? We got a helluva team this season. I don’t care how fast he skates or what kind of shots he can make. I’m not sacrificing my hockey fam.

There you have it, the hockey fam. Priorities.

Me: He’s a good kid.

I’m not qualified to make that assessment, but I can tell he’s a kid who’s been through stuff. So he gets the benefit of the doubt.

Me: We’re cutting out snowflakes tomorrow, and I need help.

He likes my text, and a moment later his reply appears.

Toby: Don’t run with scissors, T. Or walk fast.

I text my brother often enough that the middle finger emoji is in my top five, and I quickly shoot it back to him, then toss my phone onto the sofa next to me.

My head still hurts, although maybe not as much, but I’m tired. Physically and emotionally.

I pick up the script that’s sitting on the coffee table. My plan tonight was to eat dinner and then study my audition piece. Tryouts are Tuesday evening, and rehearsals begin Wednesday.

I haven’t told Bryan I’m auditioning because I don’t want him to be disappointed if I wimp out.

I’m not sure I can handle even reading a monologue out loud in front of people, let alone perform one.

Not when every time I think about being on stage with the spotlight shining in my eyes, the memory of that puke-and-pee disaster fills my mind, and anxiety floods my system.

I’m fairly confident I won’t lose my bladder function as an adult, but there’s truly no telling.

Bryan Connor isn’t like my brother's hockey bros with their washboard abs and easy swagger. His hands are made for turning pages, not throwing punches against the boards. And when he talks about classic literature, his whole face lights up with the kind of passion I recognize in myself when I’m lost in the pages of a perfectly crafted story.