I don’t know why I’m doing this.
So, so stupid.
I am definitely smarter than this.
My truck rolls to a stop in front of her house.
Apparently I’m not that smart.
With breakfast in tow, I hop out and walk to the front door. Two knocks. Wait thirty seconds. Two more knocks.
Ummm…
Finally I hear the sound of locks clicking and sliding out of the way. The door opens a few inches and an ear-piercing sound fills the air.
“Shit! Sorry, sorry,” she says from the other side of the door.
Something gets pushed aside and the sound stops. The door opens all the way and Brynn’s standing there, sleepy-eyed. Her hair falls to her shoulders and it’s a mess.
“Not a great way to start your first day,” I tell her, stepping inside.
“Come on in, you’re invited.” Her tone is acerbic. Didn’t she just wake up? How can she be ready to spar sixty seconds after she has opened her eyes?
She crosses her arms and stares at me. Sleep is crusted in the corners of her eyes, and it reminds me that she’s human. In my head, I’ve built her up to be some kind of ridiculously attractive, hostile robot.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.” I hold out the food. “My mom sent me with breakfast.”
Her lip curls. “Do you live with your parents?”
My chest warms instantly. Not in a good way. This girl knows just what to say to get a reaction from me. And I give in. Every. Fucking. Time. “No, I do not live with my parents. Obviously you think I’m a hick loser with no ambition.”
She rises on her toes, ready with her response. “You think I’m a bimbo who wants to blow kisses at the camera and post them online.”
Okay. She has me there.
“Correction, that’s what I used to think.” I sigh, setting the containers on the ground between us and extending a hand. “Truce?”
She eyes my hand first, then lifts her gaze to my face. Her features soften, her eyes swim with something I have no name for. My chest warms again, but in a way that’s opposite from before.
“Truce,” she murmurs, placing her hand in mine.
Palm to palm, her grip in mine, she swallows hard and her lower lip trembles. She recovers quickly, taking her hand back and swiping the food from the floor.
“Come on,” she says, turning and walking away.
I watch her make her retreat and think of what I just saw.
How long has it been since she has been touched?
* * *
This is weird.
I’m tasting familiar flavors, in a house I’ve been in before—those handles on the kitchen cabinets and drawers were done by yours truly—but I’m with someone I know nothing about.
And Brynn doesn’t give anything away. I’ve asked her about her family.
