“Is your sister younger or older?”
I pause mid-chew, weighing the question carefully, then decide answering is harmless enough. “Younger.”
A genuine smile crosses my face as I think about Kayla. I haven’t seen her in years, but Stacey showed me pictures. WhileI don’t know what her personality is like now, I like to think she grew up better than me. Stronger. Happier.
“Hmm.” Roan picks up his beer, and I watch, mesmerized, as he twists the cap off with one clean flick of his wrist before lifting the bottle straight to his mouth.
My brain short-circuits.
There’s something raw and animal about the way he drinks. The long stretch of his throat. The bob of his Adam’s apple with each swallow. The easy, unthinking confidence in the motion that sends a pulse of want through me and scatters my thoughts like leaves in the wind.
Then he lowers the bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand—another devastatingly simple gesture that shouldn’t be hot but absolutely is. “What does she look like? Blonde hair like you?”
“No.” The words come easily, slipping past my defenses. “She actually has dark hair, like Mom did. But we both have blue eyes.”
“Your mom is dead?”
My gaze snaps to his, suspicion flaring. “How did you know that?”
“You said your sister has dark hair like your momdid.I’m assuming she’s gone if you’re referring to her in past tense.”
Right. Right. Fuck. I need to get my shit together. This isn’t going as planned at all.
Abort mission. Retreat. Now.
I shoot to my feet. “I’m done eating. Thanks for the meal.” I grab my half-full plate and practically throw it in the sink, already backing out of the kitchen.
“Running away?” His voice is soft, knowing, and it stops me in my tracks.
“No, it’s just really late, and I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow.” The excuse sounds weak even to my own ears, but I don’t wait for his response.
I flee.
It isn’t until I’m lying in my bed that I realize I never asked him about his bedroom and study. Never even mentioned it. Which was literally the whole point of the dinner.
“Damn it,” I mutter, then freeze when I hear his footsteps climbing up the stairs.
They stop outside my bedroom, right on schedule. But tonight there’s something different—a light tap, not quite a knock, but intentional.
“Katina.” His voice filters through the door, low and warm. “Thank you for the meal. I enjoyed it.”
Then his footsteps retreat. His bedroom door opens. Closes.
Silence.
I lie there for a long moment, letting my pulse settle before finally dragging myself off the bed. My throat feels tight, so I take a steadying breath, then rummage through the nightstand for my pill.
Across the room, the little desk still holds the half-full bottle of water from last night. I grab it, tip it back, and the pill goes down with a single swallow.
Tomorrow I’ll try again.
Maybe.
15
KATIE
Despite the warning bells clanging in my head, I decide to make dinner again tonight.
