“I’m sorry, Blaire.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Tell me about them.”
A shadow falls across her face. The vaguest grin touches her lips as she stares out the French doors. “They were amazing,” she says softly. “The backbone of our family. They took care of us—all of us. My brothers and me. Nana. Peck. Any kid we’d drag over to the house who needed a meal or shoes.”
I sit quietly and watch her wrestle with her memories. A softness settles over her face, her posture relaxing too, before she seems to catch herself.
She stands and stretches before bending over to pick up our food containers.
I jump to my feet. “What are you doing?” I take the two white boxes away from her.
“I’m trying to pick up our mess.”
Her eyes plead with me to go along with her redirection. Even though I want to press for more—to see more of her in an unguarded, or less guarded, state—I don’t. But I don’t give her the boxes back either.
“I’ll do that,” I tell her.
“Come on, Holt. Let me help.”
“You’re my guest.”
“It’s not going to hurt to let me pick up my trash, for crying out loud.”
“For crying out loud,” I say, mocking her. “You really have a problem not getting your way, don’t you?”
She starts to object and then stops. A laugh topples past her lips. “Yes. I do.”
“Well, good. That will make this all the more fun.”
I walk a wide berth around her and head to the kitchen. Her feet slap against the hardwood as she chases me through the living room and down the hallway into the kitchen.
“This isn’t how this works,” she says, a laugh in her voice.
I toss the containers into the trash can. “Is it not?”
“No.” She brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “You’re supposed to let me have my way. I’m the guest. That’s how it works.”
“Not here, pretty girl.”
Her cheeks flush the faintest shade of pink as she gazes up at me. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
“That I am.” I dip my head toward her as I walk around her again. I’m too close to kissing her already and need to put a bit of distance between us. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.” Her frustration at not getting kissed is evident. “What are you doing?”
“Working,” I say as I place our tea glasses from earlier into the dishwasher. “You can hang out by the pool. You can’t see it very well now, but the pool is pretty damn nice.”
“It won’t be weird for you to have me here when you aren’t?”
I grin to myself. “I don’t know. Are you going to rob me?”
“No,” she exclaims.
“Are you going to go through my underwear drawer?”
“Wasn’t on the agenda.”
