Page 34

Shit.
A low movement catches my eye and I look down—Cousin It is staring coolly up at me. He’s not wagging his tail, and his eyes are mocking. I can almost hear him telepathically calling me a pussy.
“Shut up,” I snarl.
He turns from me in disgust and trots away.
I push my hand through my hair, take a breath, and knock twice. It’s a soft enough not to reach any of the twelve ears one floor up, but it’s decisive; women respond to confidence. The door opens faster than I anticipated—and only just far enough to frame Chelsea’s face. Her eyes are red-rimmed and wet.
I put my hand on the frame, leaning in. “Are you okay?”
Her chin rises, all stoic with attempted indifference, but she’s as bad at it as her foul-mouthed, car-stealing nephew is. “I’m fine.”
Then she shuts the door in my face. She doesn’t slam it—but I get the feeling she really wants to.
I knock again.
And again it opens—same width, same expression staring at me.
“I acted like an asshole to you.” I thought it best to skip the formalities and get right to the point.
This time her eyes travel up and down, gauging my sincerity. Her beautiful mouth remains in that firm fuck-you line. “Agreed.”
And closed goes the door.
When I knock again and the door cracks open again, I wedge my foot in there good to keep it open. “I’m sorry, Chelsea.”
Can she hear the strain? The regret that sounds absolutely nothing fucking like me? Does she know this new voice is reserved only for her?
Of course she doesn’t, idiot—’cause you haven’t told her.
“I was angry that he—that anyone—would try to hurt you. I took it out on you, and I was wrong.”
Chelsea blinks and her countenance thaws a couple of degrees, but it’s still chilly. She shrugs—and I almost laugh. Because I see exactly where Riley gets it from.
“Just forget it, Jake. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” I press my face into the crevice between the frame and the door, feeling like a fucking moron but laying it all on the line. “And part of the reason I was pissed, even before you left with them, was because . . . I was jealous.”
Her jaw drops. “You were?”
I nod. “Can I come in? I feel like a jackass talking through the crack.”
“Oh.” She moves back, opening the door wide. “Sure.”
I step inside and close the door behind me, and I’m surrounded by all things her—her scent in the air, her clothes lying across the corner chair, the jewelry that’s graced her delicate neck on the dresser, a framed picture of her in a graduation gown flanked by her brother and sister-in-law on the nightstand, and her sketchbook open on the bed. The sensory overload of these intimate sights and scents literally makes me weak in the knees.
She stands in front of me, waiting. She’s changed her clothes—gone are the sexy halter and skintight jeans. In their place is an even sexier royal-blue LA Dodgers jersey and tiny white cotton shorts. Her face is flawlessly makeup free, framed by soft auburn waves. My hand twitches with the insane impulse to run my fingers through those waves—to count every shiny shade of color I find.
“You’re sure you’re all right?” I ask.
She unfolds her arms and nods. “Yeah. I’ve dealt with overeager guys before.” She sits on the bottom of the bed, toying with the blanket. “I just never expected Lucas to be one of them.”
I don’t want to ask, but the masochist inside me needs to know. “Was he . . . like . . . a boyfriend?”
“No, it was never like that. We were . . . friends. Casual, you know?”
Yes, yes I do.
She shakes her head. “They texted me from the airport after they landed—a surprise. But as soon as they got here, I knew it was a mistake. How much everything—the way I look at things, my idea of a good time—all of it’s changed.” Her eyes crinkle with grief. Grief for her brother, for the carefree girl she used to be. “I guess responsibility will do that to you.”
I sit down on the bed beside her. “I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry your brother died. I’m sorry you had to grow up overnight. I’m sorry you’re carrying the weight of six worlds on your slender shoulders.
My hand travels to her knee to give comfort, but when my palm makes contact with her warm skin, it changes into something else.
And she feels it too.
Her thick lashes flare a bit, her eyes meeting mine. She leans my way—inching closer.
“Why were you jealous of Lucas, Jake?” Her tongue peeks out, wetting her bottom lip. I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it—but I can’t notice anything else. “I mean, he’s still a boy, mooching off his parents, partying every night. You have an actual life; you have an amazing career.”
“But he had you.” I don’t even think before I speak, because something about Chelsea McQuaid makes me want to . . . give. More. I reach across with my other hand and cup her cheek. The silky strands of her hair dance across my fingers. “At least for tonight, he did. How could I not be jealous?”
Chelsea leans closer and I dip my head, until we’re just centimeters apart. So close I can taste the sweet mint of her breath.
“Is that what you want?” she asks quietly. “Do you want me?”
I lose myself in those clear blue eyes. Endless and cerulean, like tropical seas. And my voice is barely a whisper. “All the time. I can’t remember not wanting you anymore.”