“Sure. But not enough to dance in.”
“You were watching me before, too.”
“It was hard not to. I’ve never seen anyone do that.”
“Did you think I was crazy?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Aren’t we all?” she laughed. “I mean, what’s normal, right?”
“I don’t know, but it’s definitely not dancing in a blizzard.”
“And sitting in here watching me was?”
“Touché,” I said, a little embarrassed.
“Don’t sweat it, Jay. Normal is boring.” When the bartender delivered her order, she lifted the teapot and poured the steaming liquid into a brandy snifter that was partially filled with amber liqueur. “Are you staying in Minneapolis?” she asked.
“Just for the night.”
“Same. Must be kismet.”
I didn’t realize then just how prophetic her statement would be. Or how one bad decision would forever change my life and Lilah’s.
WHAT A WEEK! Between Talon’s uncooperative mood, late nights working on the project, being humiliated, and vandalism, I’m looking forward to a chill Saturday morning.
Still in pajamas with a much-needed dose of caffeine cozied between my palms, I head to the couch to watch soccer. The Premiere League season is just getting underway, and Fulham vs. Liverpool is playing. I take a seat in front of the coffee table and, after a few sips of creamy hazelnut, flip on the game and cut into a stack of toaster pancakes. They aren’t the delicious fluffy kind that my mom makes from scratch, but at least I’ll get a good home-cooked meal at my parents’ house this evening.
One thing that comes with being a Sinclair, is that family is everything. Another is that whether three or thirty, I’ll always be their baby.
Knowing this, I haven’t yet told them about the slashed tire from Tuesday or the broken basement window that Freddy discovered yesterday. Both had been a major nuisance, but my parents would have turned the incidents into a five-alarm fire. As much as they fostered my independence, they still worry. I’m waiting to break the news in person so I can assure them I’m fine and there’s no need to call in the guard.
Eduardo warned me about a rash of similar events in nearby neighborhoods. When I told him I’d been hit, he offered his help. Pretty nice, considering I had friend-zoned him. Eduardo’s like that—no hard feelings. He even offered to come over and board up the window, but Freddy had already taken care of that.
“Yasss!” I cheer on a forward pass, pumping my fist in the air as Mitrovic gives Fulham an early lead. That’s the way to set the pace right out of the gate. I bite into a pancake and watch the playback, only to have the commentary interrupted by a brisk knock.
“Who is it?” I ask, fully expecting it to be Miss Carol.
“Stiles.”
Ho-ly shit!I open the door. So much for a chill Saturday; I’m instantly hot. Stiles stands on my threshold in athletic shorts that showcase thick, football-player thighs and a slate-blue T-shirt that reads, “Welcome to the Dojo.” It stretches tight across the wall of his chest and fits snugly around his inked, titanium arms. I’ve never been into big guys before, but the fact that I want to undress him with my teeth only adds to my irritation.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, thanking the gods for the testiness in my voice when I feared it would squeak like a nervous schoolgirl.
Without answering, his dark gaze sweeps over me in one fell swoop—from my uncombed hair to my white racerback tank top, past the smiley-face boyshorts to my bare legs. Only when his curt perusal is complete does his impassive gaze lift to my face.
“Do you always answer the door like this?” he asks with undisguised censure.
“The way I answer my own damn door is my own damn business.” Jeez, this man knows how to push my buttons. “How did you get past the front lock, anyway?”
“A screwdriver.”
“You broke into my house?”
“I was testing your security.”
“I just got that lock fixed. It better still be working.”
