“Exactly!” I hear Sab’s fist connect with the steering wheel. Of the two of us, he’s the most dramatic when he’s pissed off.He shouts and thumps things.
Me? I fester. Stubborn, remember? Why fix something with a five-second tantrum when you can stew on it for a lifetime? “I’m not hung up on Grey.”
Sab says nothing, which is as dangerous as it is uncharacteristic.
“Or the hot lodger.”
Sab snorts, the barest hint of a laugh. Then he sighs, still serious enough for me to forget I’m standing on my wet doorstep with no shoes on. “Je m'inquiète pour toi. I know you’ve been through a lot, but don’t you think it’s time you made room for something more than empty fucks that never go anywhere?”
He’s had all day to say this shit. Now he’s doing it as he drives away from me. It’s very us—veryme, and guilt pinches my heart, even though I know Sab well enough to suspect being concerned for my love life isn’t the only thing winding him up. “If it’s any consolation, I had dinner with Bhodi before I saw his dick through the window.”
“You did what?”
“I had food. He was hungry. I shared it.”
I leave out the part about dragging Bhodi into my house without asking him if he wanted to come in. Or how right it felt that he didn’t protest and stayed all evening, and that I woke at the crack of dawn to sneak a bag of groceries onto his doorstep.But what I do share is enough to bemuse Sab enough that he’s lost for words again.
Mostly, anyway. “You had date night and sent him home to have a wank by himself. That’s a zero-star rating on your personality.”
“It wasn’t date night, you fuckwit. How many times do I have to tell you I’m never hooking up with my tenant?”
“You can tell me as much as you like, doesn’t mean you won’t hook up with him.”
I grab the phone and detonate in a flurry of French curses that have Sab laughing and hanging up on me before I’m done. The fucker. I mean, I’ll take it if it means he’s driving home with a smile on his face, but I could still reach through the phone and throttle him.
“That sounded lairy.”
I spin around. Bhodi’s by the gate, resting his elbows on it as if he’s been there all night. Or for the entirety of a conversation that should’ve happened in my house with the door shut.
Fuck.I scrutinise him for signs of offence, but I find nothing but his easy smile, and the fact he’s not wearing gym gear anymore. He’s in jeans that hang from his trim hips and a faded Vans tee hiding his chest from me.
He came home and I didn’t notice.
It should feel like progress.
It doesn’t.
“My brother.” I test the waters. “He likes winding me up to deflect from his own shit.”
A beat passes. Then Bhodi grins. “You could tell me you were proposing marriage to Father Christmas and I’d believe you. I don’t speak French.”
Relief washes over me. “You’re not missing much when it comes to conversing with my brother. He’s a pain in the arse.”
“But you love him.”
“How can you tell?”
“You’re smiling.”
“Not on purpose.” Unbidden, my gaze sweeps him again. “Where’s your coat?”
“Where are your shoes?”
He has me there, but in the short space of time I’ve known Bhodi, he hasn’t ventured out of the annex for any reason other than to leave the property, and he doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere right now.
I feel drawn to him, and I let it happen, my wet socks squelching on the puddled steps as I join him at the gate. “What are you doing out here in the rain?”
Bhodi’s smile shifts to one that’s almost shy. “I was making dinner for the first time in a hundred years and I was going to ask if you wanted some.”
