I hesitate, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.I've got the Prius. I'll be fine.
K. There's leftover stir fry stuff if you want to cook. I'm out with Tyler tonight.
Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.
That's like nothing, Tobes. No, I will not be doing that. I will however be having loads of fun and getting railed thank you very much.
I snort and pocket the phone.
Margaret's office. Budget meeting. Then home, where I can collapse on the couch and try to process the last twenty-four hours without Robin's commentary track.
I push myself up, grab my bag, and head for the administrative wing.
The conversation with Margaret is exactly as painful as expected. She has "concerns" about the "appropriateness" of the story hour refreshments. I point out that Robin donates his time and ingredients. She suggests that "simpler options" might be "more equitable." I resist the urge to ask if she's ever actually watched a five-year-old's face light up at a rainbow cupcake.
We reach a stalemate. I'll live to fight another day.
By the time I escape, it's nearly six and I'm dead on my feet. The drive home is a blur, my brain finally quiet for the first time all day.
I stop at the grocery store on autopilot. We're out of vegetables, and if Robin's not cooking tonight, that means I'm on dinner duty. I grab what I need without really seeing it — carrots, broccoli, snap peas, the good soy sauce that's overpriced but worth it.
The drive back to the apartment is short, my mind wandering back to unreliable narrators and golden eyes and the question I can't stop asking myself:
What does Knox see when he looks at me?
I'm still thinking about it when I pull into my parking spot, gather my bags, and head for the building entrance.
Chapter 6
Knox
This is stupid.
I'm sitting in an apartment complex parking lot on my bike like some kind of stalker, watching the entrance to building C like Toby might materialize if I stare hard enough. It's been twenty minutes. Maybe longer. Any reasonable person would have left by now.
But I can't stop thinking about Robin's hands in Toby's hair. The casual way he touched him, over and over, like he had every right. The way he fixed Toby's collar. The way he called himourToby.
Our.
My lion has been pacing since we left the garage. Restless, agitated, replaying every moment of Robin's performance on a loop. Because that's what it was—a performance. I could smell the satisfaction rolling off him every time I tensed. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Doesn't make it easier.
I should leave. Toby's not even here. He's at work, doing whatever librarians do. He won't be home for hours, probably, and I'm just sitting here like an idiot, breathing in exhaust fumes and thinking about a human I barely know.
A human who smells like sunshine and wears cardigans with cartoon animals and walked two miles in a storm.
A human who told me my eyes were pretty.
I'm going to leave. Right now. I'm going to start this bike and drive back to the club and pretend this never happened.
A silver Prius pulls into the lot.
It's well-maintained, practical. The driver is struggling with something in the passenger seat, reaching across, and even from here I can see the glasses sliding down his nose.
Toby.
He climbs out with multiple grocery bags looped over his arms, balancing precariously as he tries to grab more from the back seat. His hair is slightly mussed, probably from a long day, and he looks tired.
