He’s shaking the cast-iron skillet over the stovetop, but the way his head whips toward me—he heard.
And he’s not happy.
“Who are the mothers?” I ask, but my phone screen flashes. She’s hung up.
“Rude,” I mutter.
Not too surprising though.
She’s Davis’s sister.
It’s probably hereditary.
“What’s with your family tree?” I ask.
He scowls and takes a massive bite out of his sandwich while he keeps shaking the skillet.
Mr. No Expressions is very expressiony today.
Fascinating.
Also—how freaking strong does he have to be to do that with a cast-iron skillet?
He’s not bulky.
But he’s clearly strong.
And I’m getting a stirring down south that I don’t appreciate, which is made worse when I check out his ass again, and then remember how it felt when he kissed me, and then how it felt to cling to him on the motorcycle ride up the mountain to get here.
He’s on the bad list.
But maybe not as high up as he was when we started the day.
“What’s with your family tree?” I repeat.
“You like your friends in town?” he says.
“Very much.”
“For their sake, you don’t want to know.”
13
Davis
“You thinkI can’t keep a secret?” Sloane asks as her phone rings again.
“I have trust issues.”
“That’s the lamest—ugh.”
She’s staring at her phone.
I watch her.
“It’s my grandmother,” she grumbles.
“Answer it.”
