“Seems that way.”
Michaels presses Play and fiddles with some knobs. A rock guitar riff blares from the single speaker, and I recognize Bryan Adams’s throaty vocals singing “Summer of ’69.”
He grins and plays a little air guitar, dancing around the living room like an idiot. I roll my eyes and continue mixing the stir-fry, but as he gets more and more into the tune, I can’t help but watch him. I get it now. Brantley Michaels is exuberance personified. Every emotion he feels is big, and he wears it loudly, whether he means to or not. Without many words, I know how much he loves Fi. I know how much he cravesacceptance. And when he failed at hockey, I knew exactly when he hit his lowest point as I sat there bandaging up his cut hand. I hit him that night—literally hit the guy while he was down.
I’m an asshole.
But he was in the wrong too, right? He let those guys provoke him. He didn’t think about what his actions would do to me or the pub—the property damages, our reputation, not to mention, what if someone had gotten seriously injured?
I guess we’re both assholes.
Maybe we’re not so different.
Michaels is still prancing around, jumping on the furniture as the song winds down, and I watch the way he moves, the muscles in his back bunching and shifting, his grin wide and hazel eyes shining.
Fi walks up beside me. She’s in shorts and an oversized T-shirt, and she smells delicious. She smiles at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. We turn back to Michaels, who’s now on his back, air-guitaring across the floor like Marty McFly.
“He’s…something special, huh?”
Fi giggles, and I feel her glance at me, but I keep my gaze on Michaels. “Don’t sound so surprised, Seb.”
“What?” I ask. I shiver when her shoulder brushes mine.
“B has a way of growing on you. He’s easy to love.”
“I didn’t say I love him.”
She shrugs. “You didn’t have to.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FIONA
The fire pops loudly, and I jump, my knee hitting the crooked stack of books next to me, which teeter and fall into my lap. I carefully restack them, rub my hands together, and wrap my flannel tightly around my shoulders. I’m freezing despite my fleece-lined skinny jeans and tall patterned wool socks, which I’ve pulled up to mid-calf over my pants.
I set down the book I’ve been perusing and stare at the books I’ve gone through. They were all my dad’s, and most of them are well-loved fantasy and sci-fi novels from the seventies and eighties with dog-eared pages and colorfully illustrated covers.
It’s been almost a week since we got here. After a few days, I resigned myself to the fact that the boys weren’t going to abandon me, even after I accidentally pitted them against each other.
They’ve kind of sort of been getting along now. Despite the initial bloodshed, Brantley has insisted on helping Seb while he cooks, and I’m impressed with how tolerant Seb is with him. Sometimes, I think he even likes him. I smile thinking back to our dinner together last night.
“Pass the ketchup,”B says.
Seb’s head snaps up. “You’renotputting ketchup on salmon, Stitch. Who even put that out?” He grabs the ketchup bottle and returns it to the kitchen.
“But I’ve always eaten salmon with ketchup.”
For once, Seb seems speechless. And horrified. He sits back down and places his plate on his lap.
There’s no dining space in this little cabin, so we’ve been eating our dinners on a blanket on the floor in front of the fireplace.
I wipe my mouth on a paper towel. “Maybe you could try it without ketchup tonight, B.”
He glances between us. “Yeah, I guess I can. I don’t really like fish that much.”
“Probably because you smother it in ketchup,” Seb mutters under his breath.
B glares at him and makes a big show of cutting off a piece of the pink fish and popping it into his mouth.
